Chapter 2 Jett
JETT
Idon't sleep.
Can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her bruised wrist. The split in her lip. The way she flinched when Whiskey laughed too loud, her shoulders drawing up like she was bracing for a blow.
Someone broke this woman. Systematically. Carefully. Over a long period of time.
And I want to break them right back.
I stand in the shadows of the back lot, watching her window until the light goes out.
It takes a while. She's restless up there, moving around, probably trying to convince herself she's safe enough to sleep.
When she finally appears at the window and presses her hand to the glass, something cracks open in my chest.
I nod at her. A promise. I'm here. Go to sleep.
She does. The light stays off.
I smoke three more cigarettes before I finally head inside.
My office is at the back of the clubhouse, a cramped room with a desk piled high with paperwork I should have dealt with weeks ago. I ignore all of it and pull up the file I've already started on my laptop.
Sparrow Delaney.
The basics came in fast. Address in Ohio, but it's old. Her parents are still there, still married, worried sick about their daughter who dropped off the map six months ago. Employment history is spotty. Short-term jobs, cash work, nothing that leaves a paper trail. Smart. Paranoid. Hunted.
She stopped using credit cards eighteen months ago, every transaction carefully switched to cash only. Around the same time the bruises probably started showing up, forcing her to learn how to hide them with makeup and long sleeves.
My phone buzzes against the scarred surface of my desk. A contact at the DMV, someone who owes me enough favors to keep his mouth shut and his questions to himself. An old address in Columbus. A name on a shared lease from two years back.
Garrett Ashworth.
The name means nothing to me at first, just letters on a screen. I dig deeper, pulling up everything I can find.
Senator's son. Trust fund. Philanthropist. The kind of man who smiles for cameras at charity events while his other hand is busy leaving marks on the woman beside him. I find three previous girlfriends who filed reports, then dropped them. A pattern. A predator.
My hand tightens on the phone until the case creaks.
I think about Sparrow's smile, the one she wielded like armor, too bright for someone that damaged. I think about her hand pressed against the window, the naked hope in her eyes when I nodded up at her. I think about driving to Ohio and putting Garrett Ashworth in the ground.
It wouldn't be the first time I've killed a man. Probably won't be the last. The difference is, those deaths were business. This would be personal.
And I don't do personal. Haven't in seven years, not since I watched Marcus bleed out on the floor of this very clubhouse after the Vipers ambushed us. He was more than my president. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had.
I learned my lesson that day. Don't care about anything but the club. Don't let anyone get close enough to become a weakness.
But when I look at the bruises on Sparrow's skin, all those carefully constructed walls feel like paper.
Dawn comes too fast. I haven't slept, but it doesn't matter. I've gone longer without.
Her car is a piece of shit. An ancient Civic with rusted fenders, bald tires, and a transmission that's one hard stop away from falling out entirely. I check it myself, not trusting anyone else with the job. What I find makes my blood run cold.
The backseat is full of everything she owns. Clothes stuffed in garbage bags. A few books, dog-eared and well-loved. A photo of an older woman in a cheap frame, probably a grandmother or aunt. That's it. Her whole life, crammed into the back of a car that shouldn't even be on the road.
She's been living in this thing. Running on fumes. One bad accident away from dying alone on some empty highway where no one would even know to look for her.
"You're fixing it yourself?"
I don't look up. Gears is standing in the doorway of the shop, two cups of coffee in his hands. He's been my VP for five years. He knows me better than anyone, which means he knows something's different about this situation.
"I want to see what she's been driving," I say, not because I need to explain myself, but because Gears deserves that much honesty.
He hands me a cup and takes a long, assessing look at the Civic, his expression darkening as he takes in the rust-eaten wheel wells and the suspicious puddle of transmission fluid forming beneath the chassis. "Jesus Christ. That thing's a death trap on wheels."
"I know." The words come out harder than I intend.
"So what's the plan here? Fix it up, send her on her way with a tank of gas and a prayer?"
I straighten, wiping the grease off my hands with a rag that's already black with oil. "She's staying."
Gears' eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "For how long?"
"Until I decide otherwise." My tone leaves no room for discussion.
He doesn't push, doesn't question my authority. He's smart like that, knows when to back off. But his expression says plenty—curiosity mixed with concern, the kind that comes from knowing me well enough to recognize when I'm wading into dangerous territory.
"Her ex is trouble," I say, because I owe him at least that much explanation. "Connected trouble. Senator's kid with family money and political protection."
He whistles low, a sound of understanding and apprehension. "That's a hell of a mess to step into."
"It's my mess now."
"She know that yet?"
I go back to the engine, focus on the broken pieces I can actually fix. "She'll figure it out soon enough."
Itell myself I'm just checking the security feeds. Normal protocol. She's a stranger on club property, and it's my job to know what's happening in my territory.
But I've been watching her door for twenty minutes.
She emerges around seven, hair still damp from the shower, wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. I make a mental note to fix that. Tessa can take her shopping, get her something that fits properly, something that doesn't look like it came from the bottom of a duffel bag.
I watch her navigate the hallway, hesitant and careful, like she's expecting an ambush around every corner. Old habits. The kind you develop when you've spent too long living with a monster.
She finds the kitchen. Mama Rosa must hear her coming, because there's already coffee poured and a plate on the table. I watch Sparrow wrap her hands around the mug the same way she did last night, like warmth is something precious. Like kindness is something she's not sure she deserves.
Something twists in my chest. Angry and possessive and unfamiliar.
Mama Rosa says something I can't hear, and Sparrow laughs.
Real laughter, startled out of her, lighting up her whole face.
She's beautiful when she laughs. Not that she isn't beautiful all the time, but this is different.
This is what she'd look like if she wasn't carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Whiskey walks into the kitchen and I go tense, watching for any sign that he's going to make a move. But he just nods at her, grabs his own coffee, and heads out. Sparrow's shoulders relax.
She's cataloguing them. Learning who's safe, who's a threat. Smart girl.
Gears appears on the monitor next. He says something to Sparrow, probably introducing himself, and I see her stiffen for just a moment before his easy smile puts her at ease. He glances up at the camera. Right at me.
The bastard knows exactly what I'm doing.
I should stop watching. I don't.
When Sparrow leaves the kitchen, I track her through the clubhouse. She wanders, curious, stopping to look at the photos on the wall. Club history. Memorial pieces for brothers we've lost. Her fingers trace the edge of Marcus's frame, just a light touch, gentle and reverent.
Something cracks in my chest. Something I've kept locked up tight for seven years.
The door to my office opens. I don't look away from the screen.
"She's clean," Preacher reports, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "No warrants, no criminal record. But someone's been tracking her. A PI, based out of Ohio."
"Ashworth."
"That the ex?" I nod. "What do you want done?"
"Nothing yet. I want the full picture first."
"And the girl?"
I finally look away from the monitor. Preacher's watching me with that knowing expression that makes him so good at his job. Former military, now my sergeant-at-arms. He's seen things. Done things. He doesn't judge.
"She's under club protection now," I say, my voice flat and final. "Anyone asks, she's mine. My responsibility. My problem to handle."
He doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. "That going to be a problem down the line?"
"For who?"
"For her. If the senator's precious kid comes looking for what he thinks belongs to him."
"Let him look." I let my voice drop to the cold, certain register that's earned me my reputation in this world.
The one that makes men twice my size think twice.
"Let him find her. Let him walk right up to this clubhouse thinking he's got rights to something that ain't his anymore. I'd love to meet him. Face to face."
Preacher nods once, slow and deliberate, and leaves without another word. He knows when a decision's been made. When the conversation's over.
I turn back to the monitor, my attention snapping back like it's on a leash.
On the screen, Sparrow has stopped at the window overlooking the front lot. She's staring out at the bikes, the gravel, the empty spaces between. She's looking for something out there. Looking for someone.
For me, I realize with a jolt. She's looking for the man who watched her all night from across the kitchen.
When she doesn't find me, her shoulders drop. Just a fraction, just for a second. The smallest shift in her posture. But I see it.
Disappointment.
I make a decision right then, sitting in my dim office watching a woman I barely know search for me through a security camera. She'll never look for me and find me missing again. Wherever she is, I'll be there. Watching. Waiting. Making sure she's safe.
I don't have a word for what this is. Obsession, maybe. The beginning of something dangerous.
But I know one thing for certain: Garrett Ashworth is a dead man walking. He just doesn't know it yet.
That evening, I find her in the storage room behind the bar.
She's got boxes stacked around her, papers spread across the floor, a look of intense concentration on her face. She's organized more in one afternoon than we've managed in four years.
"What are you doing?"
She jumps at the sound of my voice, spinning around so fast a stack of papers slides from her grip and scatters across the concrete floor.
Her eyes go wide—that same startled-deer look from this morning.
But the fear fades when she recognizes me standing in the doorway, replaced by something I can't quite read.
Something warm that makes my chest feel too tight.
"Gears mentioned you needed help with inventory. I'm good at organizing things." She gestures at the controlled chaos she's created around her—boxes labeled in her neat handwriting, categories I didn't know we had. "Or I will be, once I figure out your filing system. If you can even call it that."
"We don't have a filing system."
"I noticed." She pushes a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, tucking it carefully, and I track the movement like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever witnessed.
Like I'm memorizing the angle of her wrist, the delicate curve of her ear.
"So I'm making one from scratch. If that's okay with you. "
It's more than okay. It's the first time anyone's actually volunteered to deal with this neglected disaster since Marcus died and left us drowning in paperwork we pretended didn't exist.
"Dinner's in an hour," I say instead of any of that, instead of thanking her. "Don't be late."
I start to leave, my boots heavy on the concrete, then stop with my hand on the doorframe. I can feel her watching me across the dusty room, sense her gaze on my back, waiting for something more.
"Your car needs a new transmission," I say without turning around, keeping my eyes on the dim hallway ahead. "We'll have to order the parts special. It's going to take a week, maybe two."
It's a lie. A complete fabrication. Gears could have the damn thing purring like new by tomorrow afternoon if I gave him the order and the go-ahead.
"Oh." Her voice is small behind me. Uncertain and lost. "I can try to find somewhere else to stay while I wait. I don't want to impose on you all."
Now I do turn, pivoting to face her fully.
She's standing in the middle of the cramped storage room, surrounded by the organized chaos of her own making, bathed in the weak light from the single bare bulb overhead.
She looks like she's bracing herself, like she's expecting me to throw her out on the street.
"You're not imposing." I hold her gaze steadily, letting her see I mean it. "Stay as long as you need to."
"But I can't just—"
"Sparrow." Just her name, firm and final, but she goes quiet immediately. Her lips press together. "Stay."
She stares at me for a long moment, those ocean-blue eyes searching my face for something—truth, maybe, or sincerity. Then, slowly, like she's testing the weight of the decision, she nods.
"Okay."
That single word settles something in my chest. Something that's been restless and prowling like a caged animal since the moment she walked through my door yesterday with bruises on her throat.
She's staying. She's safe here. She's mine to protect. And anyone who tries to take her from this place will have to go through me first.
I leave before I do something stupid, like cross the room and pull her into my arms. Like bury my face in her hair and breathe her in. Like make promises I'm not sure I know how to keep.
But I make them anyway, silently, to myself.
I'll keep her safe. I'll make her smile. I'll destroy anyone who ever tries to hurt her again.
And when this is over, when Garrett Ashworth is nothing but a bad memory, maybe she'll look at me like she did this morning. Like I'm something good. Something worth wanting.
Maybe I'll even start to believe it.