Page 33 of Sparrow

A white beam of sunlight shown through the open door of the clubhouse, only to be blocked by the muscled figure wiping his nose and sniffling as he sauntered in. His ear length, greasy, blond hair was slicked back. An assortment of ink spread over his arms and disappeared under the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Pipes.

The tweaker’s gaze landed on Dash, who stood off by the bar, and his expression contorted.

Romeo cut off the druggie’s purposeful steps as he headed toward the bar. Once in his path, the younger man delivered an uppercut. His fist caught the unsuspecting Pipes off guard, and it landed under his chin. The force of it lifted the man off his feet and sent him sprawling backward on his ass.

“You will never put your fucking hands onmywoman again.” Romeo stood over him long enough to say that before he fell to his knees and let loose a fury of punches.

Pipes did his best to cover his face, and once he planted his feet, he bucked upward. The move launched Romeo off him. Unprepared for it, he fell backward. Taking only seconds, he scrambled to his feet and brought his hands up, assuming a fighter’s stance.

At a lean six foot four, the younger biker had a lot of reach. With about twenty pounds of muscle on his opponent, Romeo considered his odds pretty good, except Pipes was fucked up on who knows what, and that always made a man unpredictable.

With blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Pipes squared off. The two men glared at one another and circled. Each studied the other, waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

The club around them formed a circle and Romeo could have sworn he heard Teller calling for bets. His uncle never missed an opportunity. Were it not his fight, and Sparrow the cause of it, Romeo might have found it amusing.

“It was you,” Pipes growled before he spat blood on the floor.

“You want to fucking hit someone, hit a man, keep your pussy hands off her,” Romeo snarled before using his right fist to jab. He kept his left up toward his face to block any advance from Pipes.

Unfortunately, that left his midsection open. Apparently, Pipes fought as much as he did, so he slipped out of the line of the jab, and fired off a few punches to Romeo’s ribs. The air knocked from his lungs, Romeo stepped back, gasping to collect himself.

A high-pitched whistle sounded over the men clamoring around them, cheering them on. “Enough!” Bowie hollered.

Both men kept their fists up in a semi-crouch, prepared for the other to strike, while their club brothers parted to make a lane for the Ohio chapter president. It was his house, so his rules.

“It’s safe to say it was one of you two,” Bowie wheezed once he was through the men.

With chests heaving, neither man looked at him. Each stared the other in the eye with hate-filled glares. Romeo needed just a few more rounds with him. No one touched what was his.

“Stand down, Romeo,” Tex called from behind him. No father tone there. That was straight-up VP talking. His father had pulled rank.

“Drop ’em, Pipes,” Bowie ordered.

Romeo’s eye twitched. He wasn’t about to lower his fists until his opponent did the same. By beating Sparrow, Pipes had proven he wasn’t honorable. He stuck to no code. He was a junkie and wasn’t fit to wear the same patch as Romeo. He wasn’t Odin’s Fury.

After a moment’s hesitation, Pipes brought his hands down. Romeo did the same, and the two men turned to their respective presidents.

Chapter 21

Sparrow

Men screaming, cheering, and calling for bets drew Sparrow’s attention. Holding a towel filled with ice on her cheekbone, she cautiously swung the kitchen door open. A circle of bikers shouted with fists in the air. Some clutched money, but all of them blocked her view of the true excitement. Knowing the club, two assholes were probably fighting over which superhero could kick the other’s ass. They were twelve-year-olds sometimes.

Taking tentative steps, she stood behind the bar, prepared to climb on it for a better view. She knew better than to try to push forward when there was a fight. Excited bikers, sometimes drunk or otherwise impaired, had little regard for who was beside them. She’d been hit enough that night, thank you very much.

After the high-pitched whistle cut through the voices, she plugged her one ear. That shit hurt. Wincing, she glanced around at the now eerily quiet clubhouse. The words to Garth Brooks’I Got Friends in Low Placeswere far too clear.

Finding her footing on the bar, she looked over the heads of the men to see they’d formed a circle, as expected, around…

“Fuck,” she hissed. This wouldn’t be good. There was no fucking way in hell this would turn out right.

“This shit is being settled tonight.” Bowie’s voice filled the room as she scrambled off the bar.

In his attempt to protect her, he’d kill her and God knows who else. Pipes was crazy when he got high. Bowie had to know that. She half suspected it was part of the appeal to patch him in. Sane men didn’t do what motorcycle clubs needed to be done.

Attempting “excuse me’s” would not work. These men were focused on their president, and nothing else mattered. So, she had to push through, shove, and snake her way around them.

---