by Debra Kayn
"Get on." He lowered his hands.
She climbed on behind him. He removed the pistol tucked under his waistband, almost amused when she rubbed her hand across his stomach searching for the weapon.
He put the gun between his legs on the seat and rode away, motioning for D-Con to follow.
Fifteen minutes later, he passed Olin's house and continued riding. He'd need more eyes on Sydney if he planned on getting some rest and he needed to check in with Chief. He owed his father an explanation for his latest crime.
At the gate of the Brikken property, he shifted down and waited for the prospects to open the sheet metal gate. Comfort always came to him riding to the clubhouse, safely tucked inside the forty acres Brikken owned. He'd grown up here, surrounded by family and under the teachings of his grandfather, Rollo, who grew the MC from the ground up until he'd been murdered by someone who betrayed the club. Then, Chief took over the position of president.
Someday, Jett would become president when his father decided to quit riding or ended up killed. It was the risk of being president. Friends and even family members became your enemy.
He rode through the yard and backed up, parking in the long line of motorcycles, and cut the engine. "Go ahead and slide off."
In her hurry, Sydney almost fell off the bike. He toed the kickstand and took off his helmet. He needed food, talk with Chief, and rest. In that order.
"Am I going to have a problem getting you inside or are you going to walk beside me?" He took the helmet from her and set it on the seat of his bike.
"Depends on what you plan to do with me once we're inside." She held her hand against her chest.
He studied her, and when she made no move to run, he lifted his chin for her to follow him. Aware of her behind him, he held the door open and let her pass him. She still held her arm in front of her.
"What's wrong with you?" He pointed to her chest.
"Nothing." She straightened her arm down to her side.
She winced in pain. Taking her to the kitchen, he told her to sit and pulled a bag of frozen corn out of the freezer, tossing it on the table in front of her. She ignored the bag.
"Put it where it hurts. It'll help." He opened the cabinets until he found a loaf of bread, then got out mayonnaise, lunch meat, cheese, and made them both two sandwiches. Going by the lack of food that was in the travel trailer she'd lived in, she needed to eat, too.
Taking a beer out of the fridge, he grabbed a Coke, and carried everything over to the table and sat down across from her. "Eat up."
"I can't have a beer?" she asked.
"You're twenty."
"So?"
"You'll have Coke." He eyed her arm while he chewed.
She pampered her wrist. When she caught him checking her out, she put her arm under the table. She continued eating, one bite after another as if she believed he'd take away the food.
When he finished his first sandwich, he said, "Do you think it's broken?"
She lowered her gaze to her paper plate. "No, just bruised."
"Did you get in a fight?"
She gave a slight shake of her head. "I fell."
"Where?"
"Does it matter?" She licked her bottom lip.
It dawned on him what had happened to her. His youngest brother, Thorn, broke his arm at the age of twelve when he'd snuck out of the bedroom window and fallen to the ground. He'd bet that she hurt herself escaping Olin's house.
"When you're done, I'll take you to my room upstairs. You can put that bag of corn on your wrist and rest while I talk to the president of Brikken." He took the last bite of his sandwich. "No use running, because there are anywhere from one hundred to three hundred members here at all times. You'll be safe if you stay with me and listen when I tell you to do something."
"How long do I have to stay here?" she asked.
He cocked his brow, stood, and threw their paper plates away. It was best if he kept that information to himself. He wouldn't want her to get any funny ideas that would get her in trouble again.
"Follow me." He waited until she picked up the frozen bag of vegetables, then led her out of the room.
In the main room, he waved Keeffe, the vice president, over and motioned him to follow them upstairs. At the door to his room, he ushered Sydney inside and turned to Keeffe. "She's going to rest while I talk to Chief. Make sure you and everyone else here knows she's not to leave the room."
He'd spoke loud enough Sydney heard his orders. Closing the door, he walked down to the meeting room, knowing he'd find his father there waiting to hear back from him. He wasn't surprised to also find Johanna, Chief's woman. When she wasn't at the house on the other side of the creek on Brikken property, she catered to his father's wishes to be with her at all times.
He stopped beside the table, looking around the room. "Where's Jackie?"
His baby half-sister was always underfoot. At five years old, she needed to be protected from the business at hand.
Johanna, holding his other half-sister, Stassi, on her chest, pointed to the table. He bent at the waist and looked underneath the tabletop, spying Jackie laying on the floor. Her two dolls wrapped in her arms. She'd fallen asleep.
He straightened. "I need to talk."
"Go ahead, son." Chief patted Johanna's ass. "Go ahead and take Stassi. I'll watch our daughter until she wakes up and then carry her home."
Johanna kissed Chief and then squeezed Jett's arm. "You need sleep. You look like shit."
He snorted in amusement. He could count on Johanna to tell him the truth. Not only did he look like shit, he felt like it, too.
Alone with his dad, he sat down and stretched his legs out. "I wanted to update you."
"I heard." Chief exhaled. "A dead body means you've gained another enemy. Nobody lives in this life alone. Someone is out there, pissed about a death."
He understood the consequences. It wasn't the first time he'd taken a life.
"I haven't had the time to delve into the man's background." He rubbed his hands over his face, scratching his cheeks through his beard. "I brought the girl that worked for him and witnessed what went down back with me."
"Was she involved with this Clark person?"
"She's twenty years old. Young thing. I doubt they were involved, besides her working for him. The guy was at least sixty." Hit with the humor of the situation, he cocked his brow at his dad. "Sydney's not as young as Johanna when you brought her to the clubhouse."
Others would look at his father for taking an eight-year-old girl as his own and lock Chief up in prison. Hell, he'd wondered the same for about a minute back in the day. He'd been thirteen at the time and thought his dad was fulfilling a desire to have a daughter. It was soon apparent that his connection to Johanna came from somewhere deeper. He accepted the relationship because to fight it would be foolish, and Johanna was happiest with Chief.
"What are you going to do with her?" asked Chief.
He blew out his breath. "Get answers. I'm not going to let her loose until I know what she's going to do with the information she holds. I don't have a desire to spend any more years locked up in prison."
His dad grunted. "If you plan on keeping her in your room, make sure she keeps her nose out of club business. If I sniff any trouble, I have no problem getting rid of her. Do you hear me, son?"
He hooked his hands under his armpits. The rules were in place for the good of Brikken. There could be no other way if the motorcycle club were to survive.
The need to protect Sydney put him on edge. The look in her eyes when she'd cried in the trailer bothered him. He wanted to remove her pain, and yet he held no responsibility toward her.
"Get some sleep." Chief stood from the table. "Your MC brothers will watch your back."
He pushed to his feet. When it came to Sydney, he trusted no one with her.
That realization came to him before he understood why.
"Right." He leaned down, checked on his sister under the table to make sure she
still slept and walked out of the room.
By the time he opened the door to his room upstairs, he only wanted a warm body, a soft place to lay his head, and to shut off his mind. Instead, Sydney rushed him the moment the door opened, and he received two dainty fists in his stomach as she tried to knock him on his ass. Outweighing her by a hundred pounds, he barely reacted to the force of her body and yet he stiffened at the cry of pain coming from her.
He caught Sydney before she bounced off his stomach. She struck out at him, fighting him. He turned her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her arms to her side to keep her from hurting herself again.
Her body fit against him like a fucking glove and stilled. He lowered his mouth to her ear. "There's no reason to be scared. If you'd take a second and think, you'd realize I probably saved you from losing your life or at the least, winding up in prison."
She struggled against him.
Knowing she was past the point of listening and wouldn't stop fighting him, he walked her to the bed without letting go, picked up the frozen corn she'd thrown on the bedspread, and forced her to lay down. He spooned her, pressing the bag to her wrist.
"Hold still." He held her tighter. "I need to sleep, and I don't need to worry about you trying to kill me when my eyes are closed."
She never moved a muscle. He lay pressed against her back, having tucked her into the curve of his body. Her head rested below his chin. He peeked down. Her plush breasts higher than normal because his arms were wrapped around her rib cage. His balls tightened as the warmth of her ass permeated the front of his jeans.
Comfortable, warm, and relaxed, he closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
Jett's dick pressed against Sydney's ass. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought the desire to arch her back and stretch. It'd been hours of torment laying in Jett's arms.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
She couldn't think.
When he'd taken her to bed, she'd been sickened by the proof of his sicko mind to the point of feeling threatened.
Then, in his sleep, he'd cupped her breast and tweaked her nipple. Not hard or painful but comforting in a way nobody had ever touched her before. She waited and waited for him to touch her again, scared that she wouldn't be able to get away because he held her down.
Just when she believed he'd fallen asleep again, his fingers would work her nipple into a hard bead again before his heavy breathing filled the room and she realized that this — this snuggling, touching, arousal — was the way Jett slept.
She'd never slept with a boy, man, girl, woman before. Foster care had strict rules about children sleeping in their own bed, in a private room. Once her and Kylie had to stay in a group home for six months, and even then she had her own bunk.
Sleeping, or trying to sleep with Jett, left her feeling sick because she liked the contact because he was the only one here that was taking care of her but at the same time, he scared her.
Numerous times, she tried to wiggle her way out from in front of him. Each time, he tightened his arms. The bag of corn on her wrist had thawed hours ago.
Somehow, between the myriad of emotions that'd passed, flipped, and spiraled in her, she'd also slept for short moments.
And, during her awake periods, she decided that there was nothing she could do about her situation. If she tried to run away, there was a motorcycle club waiting to hurt her. If she stayed, she'd lose contact with Kylie.
Basically, she was royally screwed.
There was no story she could tell, no act that she could perform, to get herself out of here.
Jett straightened his leg and stretched. She used that moment to roll away, and he let her go. Scrambling off the bed, she turned to face him and stepped back.
He looked at her with warm sleepy eyes that screamed his current mood. She fisted her hand, testing the pain. Discomfort remained, but the frozen vegetables had helped the swelling. She would not allow him to abuse her.
He'd have to kill her first.
Jett rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and removed his phone out of his back pocket. Rubbing his hand over his beard, he said, "Bathroom's down the hall to your left."
At the mention of a bathroom, she had to pee. Bad.
She walked to the door, glancing over her shoulder to see if he was going to let her go alone or attack her if she tried to leave—like he gave her a test and if she chose the wrong thing, she'd pay. She turned the handle and slipped out into the deserted hallway. Hurrying to her left, she slipped into the bathroom.
After using the toilet, she washed her hands and glanced in the mirror, groaning. Her face was a mess. Finding a towel in the cabinet, she wet the edge, soaped her face, and scrubbed yesterday's makeup off her face. There was no use wearing any if she was being forced to stay in the clubhouse.
Glancing at the shower, she wished she could stand under the warm water, close her eyes, and pretend her life hadn't kicked her ass again. She opened the door, peeked out, and found Jett in the hallway talking to another biker.
Not wanting to be around him or go back in the bedroom, she leaned against the wall. For how many members belonged to the motorcycle club, it was quiet inside the clubhouse. Maybe there was no one downstairs.
She looked past Jett. The stairs were at the other end of the hallway. The moment she tried to walk by him, he'd stop her.
He caught her gaze. She looked away. Even without seeing Jett, she could sense him walking toward her.
He had that presence about him. Dominating and strict. Authoritative and yet uncontrolled.
Scars marked his body. Ones that everyone could see. Like the white line on his cheek and other marks she'd caught glimpses of on his body before he'd dressed. She ogled at him while he talked with someone else. He had old eyes full of wisdom and anguish and age.
Being with him stole her self-confidence. He flustered her so much, she couldn't pretend to be anyone else, but herself around him. An experience she'd never had to deal with before. She always had a plan.
Strangers had come and gone in her life as she was shuttled from one foster family to the next. She'd learned not to trust anyone because everyone was temporary. Being with Jett, who upset her routine and her emotions left her vulnerable.
Jett stopped in front of her. "Give me a sec to take a piss, and I'll take you downstairs, and we can grab something to eat."
He never waited for a reply but walked into the bathroom. She hurried down the hallway, glancing over her shoulder the whole way. Not pausing to listen to the dangers she could face on the main floor of the clubhouse, she ran down the stairs knowing she might not have another chance to escape.
Skipping the last three steps, she jumped.
And, plowed into a large man.
She tilted her head back, and all she could see was a beard.
"Lost?" asked the man.
She stepped back, shaking her head. "Jett...he said we're—"
"Going to eat." Jett's hands landed on her shoulders. "Sydney, this is Chief...my father."
Chief crossed his arms and tilted his head. "What's your last name?"
"H-Hawk—" She cleared her throat, catching herself. "Hawkinson."
Chief raised his gaze above her head, and she realized he looked at Jett behind her. "How old did you say she was?"
"Twenty," said Jett.
"Bullshit." Chief shook his head. "She's not legal."
"I am, too." Sydney shook off Jett's hands. "I had a birthday six months ago. I'm pretty sure I would know my own age."
Warmth flooded her face under Chief's inspection. She struggled to keep his gaze, proving her legitimacy and decided she already blew it by arguing with him.
"We're going to eat." Jett squeezed her shoulders. "You look into things, Chief."
"I'm on it. We'll shoot the breeze later." Chief placed his hand on his son's bicep. "Good that you got some sleep, son. You're going to be busy."
Jett walked her p
ast his dad. In the kitchen, she hung back as he moved to the fridge. What would he do if he found out her real name?
She turned and squeezed her eyes closed, trying to control her stupidity. Chief had startled her. He was huge like Jett. She forgot everything that came second nature to her.
Her momentary lapse could've blown everything and put Kylie at risk of losing her.
"Sydney?"
She sniffed the tears away and turned around. "Yes?"
Jett held up a plate of pizza. "Cold or hot?"
"Cold," she mumbled, sitting down in the chair.
He slid the plate over to her. She chewed to keep from crying. Yesterday, when she'd visited with Kylie, she hadn't mentioned a word about Victor Clark being murdered in front of her or Jett chasing her and forcing her to stay with him. Kylie tended to worry, which set off her sensitive stomach. Anytime she feared social services would move her in with another foster family, or hinted that she might have to split her and her sister up into different households, Kylie started throwing up.
The pizza tasted like greasy cardboard on her tongue. She swallowed. Fighting against time, Jett, and now his father, the president of Brikken, paled against what she'd already fought through and survived in her past.
The only difference between obstacles in her past and the ones staring her in the face was because she always had something to use against everyone else. Jett had nothing she could use against him.
He hadn't done anything to her.
He'd killed Victor Clark for her.
In some kind of righteous, chivalrous act to protect her— assuming she was in danger—a danger she continually handled—he'd taken a man's life, cleaned any evidence of her connection with Victor, and brought her back to the clubhouse.
She stared down at the grease on her fingertips. Why would he want to protect her?
He must be forty years old.
She had experience with creepy men.
The way Jett held her, took care of her, lacked the lecherous leanings she'd lived through in the past.