Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
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."