6. Chapter 5 #2
I killed the engine and helped Honey off the bike. Her legs wobbled slightly as she found her footing, and I steadied her with a hand on her waist. "You good?" I asked, scanning the alley behind us one more time.
"Yeah." She pushed her windblown hair from her face. Normally I’d insist she wear a helmet, but when she’d indicated this was her first bike ride, I knew she had to do it with the wind in her hair. Just this once. And I was careful. "Where are we?"
I didn't answer right away, instead taking her hand and leading her to a rusted metal door with three separate locks. Each one opened with a different key from the ring I kept separate from my regular keys. The final lock required a four digit code that I shielded with my body as I punched it in.
"My place," I said finally, pushing the door open and ushering her inside. "Real one. Not the clubhouse."
I flipped a switch, and overhead lights flickered to life, revealing a cavernous space that bore no resemblance to the decrepit exterior. Honey gasped softly beside me.
"Jack, this is..."
The warehouse had been converted into a combination garage and living space.
The main floor housed six vintage motorcycles in various states of restoration, surrounded by gleaming tool chests and pegboards hung with meticulously organized tools.
The far wall was a massive workbench beneath a wall of spare parts.
To the right, a spiral staircase led to a lofted living area with a kitchen, a bed, and a small sitting area with a massive TV I never turned on.
But it was the personal touches that seemed to catch Honey's attention. Framed photographs hung on one wall. Old license plates from every state I'd ridden through formed a collage near the stairs.
"It's amazing," she breathed, stepping further into the space. "How long have you had it?"
"Bought it ten years ago when I took the president's patch. Needed somewhere that wasn't connected to the club." I locked the door behind us, engaging the deadbolt and security system with practiced movements. "Somewhere I could just be Jack."
Honey moved toward the motorcycles, her fingers hovering just above the polished chrome of a '48 Panhead. "Can I?"
I nodded, watching her gently trace the curve of the handlebars. There was something captivating about seeing her here, in this space I'd never shared with anyone but Ghost. The way she moved carefully, respectfully, through my sanctuary.
"Built my first bike when I was fourteen," I said, surprising myself with the admission. I rarely talked about my past, especially the early years. "Cobbled together from parts I scrounged from junkyards. Ugly as shit, but she ran."
Honey smiled, glancing back at me. "Fourteen? That's impressive."
I shrugged, moving to stand beside her. "Didn't have much else to do. Dad was gone most of the time. Long haul trucker. Mom worked double shifts at the hospital. Left me with a lot of time to tinker."
Her eyes widened slightly at this glimpse into my childhood.
I wasn't sure why I was telling her this shit.
Maybe it was being here, in this space that held so many pieces of me.
Or maybe it was the way she looked at me, not with fear or the calculated interest of women who wanted to fuck the club president, but with genuine curiosity.
"That one there," I said, pointing to a heavily modified Softail in the corner, "That's what I was riding the night I was accepted to prospect for the club. Twenty-four years old, thinking I was hot shit because I’d been an Army Ranger."
She moved toward the wall of photographs, stopping in front of one showing a much younger version of myself with a tight group of men in leather cuts. I watched her carefully, noting how her eyes lingered on certain images.
"Is that your family?" she asked, pointing to a faded photo I kept half hidden behind a newer one.
I tensed but moved closer, my body automatically positioning itself between her and the door, a habit so ingrained I rarely noticed it anymore.
"Yeah. Me, my dad, mom. Before things went to shit.
" In the photo, I couldn't have been more than ten, still skinny and wild-haired, grinning beside my father's rig.
My mother looked tired even then, but she was smiling.
"What happened?" Honey asked softly, looking up at me.
I hesitated. I didn't talk about this shit.
Not to anyone. But somehow, standing here with Honey in my sanctuary, the words came easier than expected.
"Dad got hooked on amphetamines. Started running drugs along with his regular hauls to make extra cash.
Got himself killed when I was fifteen. Shot over a bad deal.
" I kept my voice flat, detached. "Mom never recovered.
Drank herself to death three years later. "
Honey's hand found mine, her fingers slipping between my own. The simple contact grounded me, pulling me back from memories I usually kept locked away. "I'm so sorry," she said, and I knew she meant it.
I squeezed her hand once before releasing it, moving toward the workbench. "Club became my family after that. Ghost got me in. Vouched for me. He was already patched by then since he left the service before I did."
"How did you become president?" She followed me, maintaining a respectful distance but staying close.
The corner of my mouth quirked up. "Outlasted everyone else other than Ghost and he didn’t want it.
" When she gave me a look that said she wasn't buying my oversimplification, I added, "Previous president, Dutch, he was old school.
Believed in the brotherhood above all else.
He saw something in me, started grooming me to take over when his MS got too bad. Handed me the gavel ten years ago."
"And that's when you got your nickname? Bloody Jack?"
My jaw clenched automatically. I'd known this question was coming, but it still hit a nerve.
"No. That came later." I turned toward her fully, letting her see the darkness that lived behind my eyes.
"Earned that the night I walked in on half the club participating in something that crossed every line I have.
Young women, girls really, being used against their will at a party.
Took care of it. Permanently." I didn't elaborate, didn't need to. The cold fury in my voice said enough.
Honey's eyes widened, but she didn't back away like I'd half expected. Instead, she nodded slowly, processing. "That's why they respect you," she said. "You have a code."
"Everyone's got a code, darlin'. Mine just includes not hurting women and children.
" I moved past her to check the security monitors I'd installed near the door, scanning each screen carefully. All clear, but I couldn't shake the uneasiness that had followed me since Ghost told me about Flowerz. I knew the score. This life was one great big fucking hazard light. Honey… didn’t. At least, not yet. I also hadn’t locked her down and I had the sinking feeling there in lied my problem.
What was I going to do if I wanted her more than she wanted me?
I felt Honey watching me as I checked the perimeter even here, in my most secure space. When I turned back to her, she'd moved to examine the Panhead again, giving me the moment I needed without comment.
"Want to learn sit on it?" I asked, nodding toward the bike.
Her smile lit something warm in my chest. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I moved around the Panhead and helped her sit, running my hand along its frame as I continued talking.
"My code's pretty simple. I protect what's mine.
I keep my word. And I don't allow innocent people to get hurt, especially women and kids.
" I glanced up at Honey, who watched me intently.
"In this life, you gotta draw lines somewhere. Those are mine."
"Is that unusual?" Honey asked, her head tilted slightly. "For someone to refuse to hurt innocents. In your world, I mean."
I considered her question, appreciating that she wasn't making snap judgments.
"Not the protection part. That's universal.
But some MCs don't draw the same lines I do.
Some are involved in trafficking. Forced prostitution.
" My jaw tightened at the thought. "The night I earned my name, half the club was participating in that shit.
I killed thirteen men. Some of 'em had been my brothers for years. "
Honey's eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. "That must have been hard. Turning on men you considered family."
Her insight caught me off guard. Most people focused on the violence of what I'd done, not the emotional cost. "Yeah," I admitted quietly. "But some lines can't be uncrossed. Once they stepped over that one I didn’t have much of a choice if I intended for that to be the hard line in the sand."
"You couldn't trust them anymore," she finished for me. "If they'd violate that moral code, what else would they do?"
I nodded, studying her with new appreciation. "Exactly. Trust is everything in an MC. Brotherhood only works if there are boundaries everyone respects."
She moved closer to the bike, her fingers tracing the curve of the fuel tank. "So when you took over as president?"
"I cleaned house. Anyone who stayed had to live by my code. No exceptions." I came around to her side of the bike. "Been that way ever since. We've done a lot of shit. Some of it bloody, some of it illegal. But we don't hurt innocents. Ever."
"That's why Wren respects you so much," Honey said. "She told me you're the reason the club takes in strays. Kids like her who had nowhere else to go."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "Ghost does most of that. I just don't stand in the way."
She climbed off the bike, running her hand over the seat gently. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” Her smile was soft and beautiful and I knew I could stare at her for days. “The place as well as your past.”