The Biker’s Obsession

Chapter 1 Sparrow

SPARROW

The engine coughs twice, shudders like it's having a seizure, and dies.

I coast to the shoulder with my heart hammering against my ribs, hands locked on the steering wheel so tight my knuckles have gone white. The car rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust, and I sit there for a long moment, staring at the building ahead of me through the dirty windshield.

Motorcycles. At least twenty of them, lined up in neat rows outside what looks like a converted warehouse with a bar attached.

A hand-painted sign hangs over the entrance: a raven with crossed wrenches beneath it, and the words IRON SAINTS in bold letters.

Men in leather mill around outside, smoking cigarettes, their laughter carrying across the distance.

My mother's voice echoes in my head. Stay away from men like that, Sparrow. They're dangerous. They'll hurt you.

I almost laugh. The irony is so thick I could choke on it.

My mother warned me about bikers and tattoos and men who looked like trouble, and I ended up with Garrett Ashworth.

Senator's son. Trust fund. Charming smile that made everyone believe every word out of his lying mouth, right up until his fist connected with my face.

I try the ignition again. Nothing. The engine doesn't even attempt to turn over. "Come on," I whisper, turning the key a third time. "Please. Please, please, please."

Nothing.

I check my phone. No service. Of course, there's no service. I'm in the middle of nowhere, my car is dead, and the only sign of civilization is a bar full of the exact kind of men I should be avoiding.

But I've been avoiding danger for six months now. Running from it. Hiding from it. And where has that gotten me? Broke, exhausted, and stranded on the side of a dusty road with nothing but the clothes on my back and a duffel bag full of everything I own.

I grab my bag from the passenger seat. Never leave it in the car. That's the rule I made for myself when I started running. Everything important stays with me at all times, because you never know when you'll have to disappear again.

The afternoon sun hits me like a wall when I step outside.

It's brutally hot, the kind of heat that shimmers off the asphalt and makes the air feel thick in your lungs.

By the time I've walked the two hundred yards to the gravel parking lot, I'm sweating through my tank top and my hair is sticking to the back of my neck.

The bass thump of music hits me first, then the smell of cigarettes and motor oil and something cooking. Burgers, maybe. My stomach growls. I can't remember the last time I ate something that didn't come out of a vending machine.

I push open the door and every head in the place turns to look at me.

The music keeps playing, but everything else stops.

Twenty men, maybe more, all staring at the five-foot-four blonde who just walked into their territory like she belongs here.

Some of them look amused. Some of them look interested in ways that make my skin crawl.

A few of them look like they're already calculating how much trouble I'm going to cause.

I scan the room for a payphone, a landline, anything. My brightest smile slides into place automatically, the one I've perfected over two years of pretending everything is fine when nothing is fine, when everything is broken and burning and I'm just trying to survive until tomorrow.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected. "My car died out on the road. Can I borrow a phone?"

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. A few snickers. One man starts to rise from his seat, a grin spreading across his face that I don't like at all.

"Sit down, Whiskey."

The voice comes from the back of the bar. Low and commanding, the kind of voice that expects to be obeyed without question. The kind of voice that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my heart skip a beat.

The crowd parts like water, and I see him.

He's massive. That's the first thing I notice.

A wall of a man, easily six-four, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light and arms covered in tattoos.

His hair is dark, cropped short, and there's a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that should make him look dangerous.

It does make him look dangerous. But that's not what catches my attention.

It's the patch on his leather vest. President, it says, in bold letters beneath the raven insignia.

He walks toward me, and the room goes even quieter. Every step he takes is deliberate, controlled, like a predator who knows exactly how much power he holds and doesn't need to prove it to anyone. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Steel gray. Cold as winter. They sweep over me once, twice, cataloguing everything, and then they land on my split lip. The bruise on my wrist that I forgot to cover this morning. The fading marks on my collarbone that are just barely visible above the neckline of my tank top.

Something shifts in his expression. Not pity. Not even sympathy. Something darker. Something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

"Who did that to you?"

The question lands like a punch. Direct. No preamble. No polite small talk or easing into it. Just straight to the point, like he already knows the answer and he's daring me to lie.

I touch my lip automatically, the defensive excuse ready on my tongue. "I fell. Clumsy, you know how it is."

He doesn't blink. "Try again."

I stare at him, caught between the truth and survival. My instincts are screaming at me to run, to get out of here, to find another way. But my feet won't move. Something about the way he's looking at me, the intensity of those gray eyes, pins me in place.

"Does it matter?" I finally say. "I just need a phone."

He studies me for another long moment. Those eyes take in every bruise, every shadow, every flinch I'm trying to hide. I feel stripped bare under that gaze, like he can see straight through the smile I'm wearing to the terrified girl underneath.

"Gears," he says, without looking away from me. "Get her keys. Bring her car in."

"I just need—" I start.

"You need to eat," he cuts me off. His voice is flat, brooking no argument. "You need your car fixed. And you need to tell me who put those marks on you." He turns and walks toward a door at the back of the bar, clearly expecting me to follow. "Kitchen's through here. You're staying for dinner."

It's not a question. It's not even really an invitation. It's a command, issued by a man who's clearly used to having his commands obeyed without question.

I should argue. I should insist on the phone, call a tow truck, get the hell out of here before I get in any deeper than I already am.

Instead, I follow him.

The kitchen is surprisingly clean. Industrial appliances, a large prep table, and the smell of chili simmering on the stove. An older woman with gray-streaked hair and kind eyes presides over it all, stirring a pot with one hand while she sizes me up with a shrewd gaze.

The man deposits me at the table like I'm something fragile and precious, pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. I drop into it, clutching my bag in my lap, and watch as he settles into the seat across from me.

He doesn't eat. He just watches me with those unreadable eyes while the woman loads a plate with chili and cornbread and sets it in front of me.

"Eat," she says, her voice warm but firm. "You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."

She's not wrong. I pick up the spoon and take a bite, and the flavor explodes on my tongue. It's good. Really good. Homemade, the kind of food that takes hours to make and tastes like love and care and all the things I haven't had in longer than I can remember.

I have to blink back tears, which is ridiculous. It's just chili.

"I'm Sparrow," I offer, because the silence is unbearable and I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut when I'm nervous.

It's a habit Garrett hated, which is exactly why I lean into it now.

"Thanks for the food. And the help with my car.

I really do just need a phone, though. I can call a tow truck and be out of your hair in—"

"I know," the man interrupts, his voice cutting clean through my rambling.

I blink at him, confusion knotting my brow. "You know what?"

"Your name." He tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same unreadable intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Sparrow Delaney. Twenty-four. Ohio plates, expired by two months. No wants, no warrants." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "Running from something, not to something."

My spoon clatters against the bowl with a sharp crack that makes me flinch. "You ran my plates."

"I run everyone who comes through those doors," he says, matter-of-fact, like it's the most natural thing in the world to investigate every stranger who walks in looking for help.

Heat crawls up my neck. "And if I'd had warrants?"

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's gone so fast I'm not sure I didn't imagine it. "Then you'd still be eating dinner. We don't turn away hungry women."

I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with any of this. The kindness, the food, the way he's looking at me like he can see everything I'm trying to hide.

The woman brings me tea without asking. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms, and have to fight back another wave of tears. What is wrong with me? I don't cry. I haven't cried in months. I've been too busy surviving to waste energy on tears.

But something about this place, these people, the simple act of someone handing me a cup of tea like I matter, is cracking something open inside me that I've kept locked up tight for a very long time.