Broken Sparrow

  Chelle Bliss

  Broken Sparrow © 2021

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission.

  Publisher © Bliss Ink October 5th 2021

  Edited by Lisa A. Hollett

  Proofread by Read By Rose

  Cover Design © Chelle Bliss

  Cover Photo © FuriousFotog

  Cover Model Wesley Dutchman

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  1

  “You sure about this guy? ’Cuz all you have to do is say the word…”

  I’m sitting on my bike, parked in front of the entrance to the gas station. The late morning sun hits my face. There is silence on the end of the line, and that makes me sweat worse than the Florida sun.

  I don’t like it when she goes silent.

  It means she’s afraid.

  “Jessica…baby,” I urge. “I know you said this one is different, but if he’s turning out to be anything like that motherfucker ex of yours—”

  “Morris, no. God, no. Nothing like that.”

  I can’t make out the hesitant tone in Jessica’s voice. What it means. What she’s feeling. There was something there with Jessica. Her sweetness, the way she looked at me like I was the answer to all her prayers. Maybe not old lady material… She had shit of her own to sort out, but she opened up something in me that kept me checking in on her.

  Fuck it, I cared about her. And the phone sex was out-of-this-world hot. Her sweet voice whispering my name, the tremble I could hear when she made herself come for me, so wicked over the phone. My dick tightened in my jeans just thinking about it. But eventually, the calls started dropping off. Our plans to meet up in person never came together.

  Then two months ago, she dropped the bomb. She’d met someone. Really met someone.

  “Baby,” I growl into the phone. “Level with me. He treating you good? At least as good as I would? Because I swear to fuck…”

  Jessica barks a soft laugh over the line. “There’s no one like you, Morris,” she says softly, wistfully. “That’s the problem.” Her voice grows a little stronger as she says his name. “Kyle is a good one,” she assures me. “He’s not you, Morris. But it’s good. He’s good. JD even likes him, which is sayin’ something.”

  I listen for clues in her voice, unsure if what I’m hearing is honesty or uncertainty. “Yeah?” I press. “If JD doesn’t have an issue with him…” I echo, not ready to believe she bounced from her shitty ex Boyd to Prince Kyle Fucking Charming in one go.

  Her son JD, Mammoth to me, would sniff out an asshole and chase his ass far away. If he hasn’t done it yet, then I have to believe Kyle is a solid guy. Since Mammoth and Jessica reconnected after years of living apart, Mammoth hasn’t taken his eyes off her…one of the reasons we didn’t spend more time together.

  He didn’t think I was the right fit for his mom and he was right. I wasn’t the type she needed or deserved.

  I must sound like I don’t believe her, because she talks over me. “You’re one of the best ones, Morris. And Kyle is too,” she reminds me. “If I sound funny, it’s because—”

  “Jessica.” I cut her off. I can’t explain the static in my brain when I think about Jessica being trapped again in some bullshit relationship with a good-for-nothing douchebag.

  She’s better than that. She has to know that by now.

  A woman in black yoga pants with sunglasses on her face rushes past me and into the gas station. Her steps set off the sliding doors, which open and blast me with a gust of air-conditioned relief.

  “Morris, if I sound a little off…” Jessica continues.

  I kick a leg over my bike and pat my pocket for my wallet. This may not be a conversation I should continue inside, but my neck is starting to sweat and I need to take a leak.

  “Yeah,” I say, “you do, sugar.”

  I walk through the doors of the gas station, the whoosh of the doors drowning out Jessica’s soft apology. I scan the aisles, looking for the head. I’ve never been to this place before, a midsized gas station off the interstate between Daytona and Orlando, and I’m just hoping I don’t need to ask the teenager wearing green glitter eye shadow up to his eyebrows for a key so I can piss.

  “Go on, sweetheart,” I say low into the phone, spotting the restroom sign and heading toward the far back corner of the gas station. “Level with me. Just say what you gotta say.”

  “I’m so sorry, Morris,” she says. “It’s just that… It’s serious. Kyle and I moved in together. I can’t have…male friends or at least I shouldn’t.”

  Can’t have male friends.

  I roll my eyes. This Kyle guy’s douchebag status shoots into the stratosphere. Whether he is a controlling dick or an insecure one doesn’t matter to me.

  “I ain’t nobody’s male friend,” I say, the words sour in my mouth. I yank the doorknob to the single bathroom, and it sticks. “Did that fucker say you can’t have male friends? Because if he did, that’s some bullshit.”

  “Occupied!” a voice calls out from inside when the handle doesn’t budge.

  I lean against the wall to wait.

  “No, not exactly, but I think it’s best for my heart and the sake of my future if we cut our communication down to a minimum. Kyle isn’t exactly thrilled—”

  “Jess,” I say, “I get it. New guy doesn’t want old dick circling his bitch,” I explain. “Look, I want you happy. You deserve to be happy.” I hear the sound of the air dryer, and I know relief is in sight. “And I get that old…friends…can cause trouble where there is none, all right?” I scrub a hand over my forehead, wipe the sweat from the bridge of my nose, and tug the sunglasses from my face. I tuck them in the front pocket of my leather vest and sigh. “Listen. You find yourself in a bad way, you call me. Night or day. We clear? One wrong move from that asshole, and I’ll be down there so fast…”

  I can hear her suck a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Morris…” she says, sadness coating her tone. “I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

  “Baby, I’m happy for you. Make that asshole treat you right. You deserve nothing less than the best.” I nod, not that she can see me, but because this is right for her. I’m not a keeping man. She wanted things I could never give her. Maybe this Kyle would. “But, sweetheart,” I purr low into the phone.

  “Oh… Excuse me.” Yoga pants girl yanks open the bathroom door, her eyes widening as she sees me waiting against the wall.

  I nod at her and step aside to make a little more room. She drops her eyes to the black-and-white checkerboard tile as she scurries past.

  “Don’t delete my number, Jess,” I say. “You hear?” Something twists in my chest, a small shudder as I realize this really is goodbye.

  “I won’t, Morris,” she promises. “You be good.”

  I bark a laugh and yank on the door to the now-available head. “Never,” I vow.

  I end the call and relieve myself, blinking away the emotions the conversation brought out.

  Fuck… Can’t say I’m sad. Can’t say I’m feeling much of anything.

  Jessica was one of those women like so many over the years. No. I can’t lie to myself about that. She wasn’t like the others. There was something about her.

  A connection that maybe, just maybe, could have lasted past a couple of nights filled with whiskey and no-strings sex.

  But like she told me, she still wants stability and safety. A life that is more than the ride and the chase.

  Panty-melting fucking and liquor don’t exactly measure up to all the trappings of a life I couldn’t give her. Wouldn’t give her. All the things she wants she’d never have with me.

  I rinse my hands and shake them dry, letting the restroom door slam shut behind me. I’m happy for Jess.

  Nah, not that. Not happy.

  But she laid down the law, and I’ll abide by it. She had something going with this guy and a… Fuck, a male friend putting his dick where it didn’t belong… For now, Jessica says she’s good, and that’s good enough for me. It has to be.

  I head toward the coolers for a bottle of something for the road. I’ve got another half-hour ride ahead to the property, and that sun is going to hit hard by the time I reach t
he isolated yard. Better fuel up with more than just gas while I’m here.

  The club is changing. Has to. With Crow locked up, we’re down a man, and we need what every club needs—manpower and cash.

  And more than that, I’m not looking to spend the rest of my life locked up behind bars. The Disciples aren’t the same, sliding further into illegal activities, upping my chances of dying inside a jail cell.

  Six months ago, we decided to break away from the Disciples and start a new club. It wasn’t an easy vote, but it’s what is best for us and our future.

  We are no longer the Disciples or any dangling branch of the original club.

  We are new.

  Born fresh.

  Starting over from scratch.

  We are going legit, making money the old-fashioned way without the complications of drugs and violence. Looking over our shoulders had become tiring, but I’m sure the habit will take years to shake.

  I’ve spent the last couple months fucking Jessica by phone at night and securing a real estate deal by day. Using part of the club’s cash reserves, we bought a small commercial property at a real estate auction. Practically stole that shit.

  The bank seized a C-3 zoned strip with loads of parking on nearly two acres of land. The listing only said the existing building has PVC air lines inside, which made me think auto repair or auto service. All I saw of the building itself before we made the offer was one grainy aerial photo on the auction listing. We bought the whole nine with cash, as-is. Everything, including any trash, leftover equipment, lock, stock, and barrel, all ours as of closing.

  When the club decided to expand, we couldn’t agree on exactly what we’d put on the new property, but we don’t really know what’ll work until we can gain access to the place and figure out if anything left is usable. Or if we have to demo the whole site and start from scratch. I can’t say I care either way.

  Tattoo shops and cars, the shit we know best, they don’t need foot traffic to bring in business. But I’ve been wondering about whether we should try something a little different. Diversify a bit. Still cash-heavy shit like auto repair or, fuck, maybe even a nail salon, something the old ladies of the club can benefit from too. Anything that can move a little money when we need to, but something that will also bring in dollars clean.

  Legit.

  As I head toward the coolers, I spot the girl from the bathroom. She’s standing in front of the hot dog machine, shuffling back and forth on her feet, looking like she’s got the weight of the world riding on this decision. She’s got her hand deep in what looks like a child’s purse, and she’s digging through it, like she’s scrounging for change.

  Maybe it’s the curve of her ass in those body-hugging pants or the fact that her hair is almost the same shade as the sunshine, but I walk up to her.

  “Pick the one with the pucker,” I say.

  She turns her full body toward me, looking startled. “Excuse me?” She closes the small purse and grasps it to her chest like I’m a mugger sizing up her tiny teal handbag for what’s inside.

  I give her a playful grin. I point past her to the slim rolls of meat, each one slowly turning under an electric heat lamp.

  “Pick the one with the pucker,” I repeat. “See the skin?” I nod toward the glass display case where the hot dogs are in various states of doneness. “That one.” I lean down to point to the one I mean, and I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells sweet, like cookies. Pure sugar. “When the skin puckers like that, it means the dog is nice and cooked inside but not too dry and not too raw. Just right,” I explain.

  The woman watches me and takes a tiny step back. I get it. I’m a heavily tattooed stranger three times her size, and she’s a sweet little wisp of a thing trying to buy her lunch in peace. She’s pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, and I can see her brown eyes are light, startlingly so. The look of caution in them, and the tightness at her mouth, trip up my gut.

  I can see the light dim in her face as she scans my beard, my leathers, the decades-old ink on my neck.

  She’s braced. Protective. Afraid.

  And that’s my cue to move on.

  “Cover it up with some relish and you got damn near as decent a meal as you can get on the road.” I give her a grin and a nod, ending the conversation.

  She gives me a press of her lips that passes for smiling back, but it’s guarded. Hesitant. She looks like she’s struggling between being polite and running for her life. It hits me why I’m drawn to her, why I’m chatting up a sexy stranger in front of the hot dog machine at a gas station.

  Jessica. This woman reminds me of Jessica. No old lady, not one of those down-to-whatever, whenever, for-a-good-time types.

  She’s another scared little bird fallen from the nest. If only women like this understood what real wolves look like.

  I take one last breath of that sugar-cookie fragrance. “Enjoy your dog,” I say.

  Then she speaks. “Uh, thanks.” The words sound as soft as her hair looks and as guarded as her face.

  I nod and head past her, leaving her to her hot dog and her troubles.

  I yank open a cooler and grab two sweet teas in one hand and the phone buzzing my pocket with the other.

  “Fuckin’ Tiny,” I mutter.

  Tiny’s been like a damn housemother since we bought the property. I scan the text just to confirm it’s from him and pocket my phone. Tiny can wait.

  I grab a bottle of water to add to the teas and head for the register.

  “I’m so sorry, I…” The little bird in the yoga pants is already being checked out. There is a hot dog on the counter along with some other snacks, and Mr. Green Glitter Eye Shadow is shaking his head.

  “Lady, card’s declined. Won’t go through. I ran it three times.” He drops the piece of plastic on the counter. “You got cash?”

  I stand a respectful distance behind her, trying not to look at her ass in those yoga pants. I look anywhere but down, aiming for her sunshine hair and the sleeveless tank that reveals trim, almost muscular arms.

  She’s telling the attendant her card worked fine when she paid for gas outside at the pump. “Could you try it again? Please?” she asks, her voice proud, but the exhaustion of defeat sneaks through.

  The kid huffs a sigh, but he picks up the card and runs it again. After a second, he raises his brows. “Okay? Satisfied?” he asks. He hands it back to her. “Won’t go through. I’m sorry, all right? It’s shitty, but this isn’t our fault. You gotta pay cash or…”

  My eyes trace what look like finger-shaped bruises on the backs of her upper arms. The marks aren’t faint, but they are starting to heal. They look recent enough that I’m sure, goddamned sure, that somebody gripped her and shook her not that long ago. Shook her hard.

  She drops her head in her hands. I stare past her to the shit she has piled on the counter. A hot dog loaded with ketchup. Two bags of chips. One water, one juice.

  I pull out my money clip and peel off a $50.

  “Here’s your cash,” I say to the attendant, reaching past her.

  The woman faces me, her expression unreadable.

  “Better not to use the card readers at the pump,” I say. I’m trying to save her pride here, and by the looks on everyone’s faces, we all know it. “You know those things all have skimmers on them,” I explain.

  “Skimmers?” she echoes, like she has no clue.

  “Scammers steal card numbers from gas pumps all the time,” I say. I point to her card, which she’s now clutching tight in her hand. “Maybe check with your bank, maybe there’s been some kind of fraud. There’s usually a reason why these things don’t work when they should.”

  The attendant holds up a hand with the change, looking unsure who to give it to.

  “That’s his,” she says quietly. She blinks at me, but she doesn’t say thanks or anything.