Page 6 of Sparrow

“You know why,” he said without a hint of remorse, only impatience.

The club.The stupid fucking club. She’d had it with the Roughneck Riders. Hell, with bikers in general.

On good days, or maybe they were bad days—hard to tell the difference anymore—her mind wandered to when she’d strayed away from the Roughneck Riders. Perhaps this was her penance for her disloyalty—who the fuck knew. Jacob sure as shit wasn’t worth it. His Montana, Odin’s Fury ass punching walls hissy fit having ass—ugh—they were all frustrating as fucking hell. Fucking bikers—fucking men.

In a huff, she tossed the pills onto the counter. “I don’twantthat shit here. We’ve talked about this. We agreed. No club business here. Especially after what happened.” Two years ago when he overdosed.

Frothing at the mouth. His body shaking. The sound of his head thunking against the back door of her car while he seized in the backseat on the way to the hospital still haunted her. She heard it sometimes if it got too quiet in her car.

It’d been the scariest moment of her life. She thought she’d lose him. Yet, somehow, he survived it.

After he came home from the hospital, they didn’t talk about what’d happened. The club gave him a few weeks’ break from runs and jobs. He did a few days of rehab or detox. She wasn’t sure—probably because it didn’t last all that long. She thought things were going to turn around. She’d been a fucking idiot.

The club. The fucking club. He got a new sponsor. She didn’t think anyone would be worse than Tut. However, as soon as he started with the VP of the Roughneck Riders, he got Pipes using again in days.Days. He gave up sobriety like it was nothing for the club.

For a brief moment, his gaze shot to the baggie, watching it slide on the counter toward the sink. Then he lifted his eyes toward her, and they were glacial, and not in the good way. So cold she practically shivered. “I don’t give a tiny rat’s ass what youwantwhen it comes to that shit.”

He tossed his toothbrush into the sink and stalked toward her. The look in his bloodshot eyes, menacing and filled with rage, had her second-guessing her actions. Shocked, she backed out of the doorway and into the small bedroom. She’d never seen that look before—not on him. With their increased fighting as of late, she wasn’t sure what he’d do.

“You got me in the fucking door, but if you think you can dictate what I do, you don’t understand your place,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Pulling his hand back, he struck her. It happened in slow motion. Crippled by disbelief, her eyes widened as his hand flew toward her, and the back of it slapped her cheek. The sting plumed through her face, and the force knocked her off balance, so much so, she stumbled to the floor.

With her fingertips touching her heated, most likely, red cheek, she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Cowering on her knees at the foot of their bed, she blinked, unable to move or speak.What had just happened?Shock stole her voice.

“This.” He held up the baggie she hadn’t realized he’d snatched off the counter. He jutted his index finger at her. “Isfuckingclub business. That makes it none ofyourgoddamn business.” His jaw ticked while he stood over her. “I need to do this to earn my bones. You think we’re gonna survive living off your pathetic waitress salary?” He snorted before he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have to explain this shit to you. You’re supposed to know this life, club daughter.” He sneered down at her as he mocked her with that last bit. “Remember what the fuck you are. Property of Roughneck Riders.”

Pure hatred reflected in his eyes as he glared down at her, chest heaving. With white knuckles, he gripped the baggie and his nostrils flared. Alarm bells rang in her head as she stayed down, pinned by his gaze. In silence, save for the sound of the two of them breathing heavily, they stared at each other.

Remember what she was? Oh, she knew who she was. She was Donald “Ducky” Oliveira’s daughter. His “menina.” It was the only reason she put up with Pipes’ shit—though she was approaching her breaking point—at break neck speed.

Pulling her knees to her chest, watching him, doing her best to protect herself by curling into a tight ball while her cheek throbbed, she weighed her options. There had to be a way to get out of this and keep her ties to the club. Though now that he had his patch, had been voted in and earned his colors, she may have shot herself in the fucking foot.

“Don’t make me do that again.” His voice was raspy and low, and it was all she could do to bite back a retort so he wouldn’t. She hadn’t made him do shit, but this was not the time to argue that fact. If she clapped back, if she ran off at the mouth, the look in his eyes told her he was unpredictable. A slap from a biker was the least of her worries.

While he’d lost substantial muscle mass since she’d known him, he wasn’t a slouch. He could pack a punch. She’d seen him in the ring for the club sponsored fights. He knew how to hurt someone when he wanted to—and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of his want to hurt.

Then, like a light switch went off, his expression softened. His tight mouth released, his eyes warmed, and he sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lowering his hand, he gazed upon her with remorse, which filled her with dread and hesitance. When his shoulders slumped, he reached for her. Hyper aware of everything he did, she flinched. He’d laid a hand on her shoulder, but didn’t seem to notice her reaction.

Disbelief swirled with the anger inside, both fought to be the dominant emotion in the wake of what’d just happened. Fear mingled in for good measure and she was the perfect cocktail for frozen in place, unsure how to respond.

“There’s a lot of stress at the club right now.” The admission sounded like a burden he’d carried for some time. “I just want to keep earning so we can start a life. Things will calm down.” His voice had lost its bite. “And when they do…”

Bending down on one knee beside her, he reached for her face. She winced, turning away. She’d never expected him to be a man who’d hit a woman. At least the Pipes she knew before all this wouldn’t. The man she knew before she introduced him to the club—he’d been sweet and funny. This new Pipes—addict Pipes—patched member of the Roughneck Riders Pipes, he wasn’t someone to fuck with and didn’t smile. He’d just set a precedent so she didn’t know what to expect from him. Nothing was out of the question anymore.

Trailing his fingertips along her heated cheek, the one he’d struck, he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered before cupping her face and pulling her toward him.

She closed her eyes in the face of his apology. She’d seen enough movies “for women” on cable television to know that’s what they all say. She felt like such a cliché.

Resting his forehead against hers, Pipes inhaled audibly. “You know I’m not that kind of guy. I’m just under a lot of pressure. It’s been a year of this shit, and it’s only getting harder. With the shit going down…” he trailed off and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It won’t happen again.”

Swallowing hard, she tried to process his apology and his promise. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that once the hitting started, it’d happen again. She’d seen it plenty of times at the clubhouse, but that begged the question, was that part of being a woman of the club? Hell, even her own parents got physical every now and then.

Overwhelmed with the shame of being hit, and his presence, the way he held her, the sincerity in his words. The knowledge about this lifestyle that she desperately wanted to stay a part of so she had something, justone thingthat kept her close to her father, it was too much. She just didn’t want to deal with it.

Placing her hands on his wrists, she nodded against his forehead. What else was she going to do, call him a liar? When he pulled away, his hands fell from her face.

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