Her Possessive Bikers

12. Jacoby

12

JACOBY

T he rumble of my bike echoes off the storefronts as I cruise down Main, scanning faces for our troublemakers. Word on the street is Dos Banditos plan to use the shift in President roles within Luci's to their advantage.

My knuckles itch for action, but so far nothing. Then I spot that sweet Chevelle pulling into Murphy's Gas & Go, and suddenly my priorities shift.

I swing my bike into the lot, kicking up loose gravel as I park next to the muscle car. Indy steps out, looking like a dream in cut offs and a white damn tank top.

"Need a hand with that, darlin'?" I hop off my bike and stride over before she can reach for the pump.

"I think I can manage." She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Been doing it myself for years now."

"Come on, pretty women shouldn't have to pump their own gas." I grab the nozzle, flashing her my best smile. "Let a gentleman help out."

"A gentleman?" She snorts, leaning against the car. "That what you're calling yourself these days, Jacoby?"

"I can be whatever you want me to be." I wink, starting to pump the gas.

"How about useful? Since you're so intent on helping." She pulls a cloth from her back pocket and holds it out. "Window's looking pretty grimy."

"Oh, so I'm your errand boy now?"

"Hey, you volunteered." Her hazel eyes sparkle with mischief. "Unless that gentleman act was just for show?"

"Sweetheart, I never do anything just for show." I take the cloth, making sure our fingers brush. "But you're gonna owe me one."

"Put it on my tab." She grins, and damn if it doesn't light up her whole face.

The pump clicks off and I replace the nozzle, watching her dig for her wallet. "This one's on me."

"I don't need charity."

"Not charity. Consider it an investment in future conversations." I say with a sly grin.

"So what's on your agenda today, besides letting strange men pump your gas?" I lean against the Chevelle, admiring how the morning sun catches the chrome.

"Actually, I'm headed to take some of Dad's old clothes to the shelter downtown." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing that little silver nose ring that keeps catching my eye.

"Wait, Brick owned clothes that weren't leather or band shirts?" I clutch my chest in mock surprise. "Next you'll tell me he had a secret collection of polo shirts."

Her laugh rings out across the parking lot. "You'd be surprised. Found at least three sweater vests hidden in the back."

"Bull fucking shit."

"Okay, maybe not sweater vests." She pushes off the car, and my eyes follow the curve of her hip. "But he did own actual clothes. Normal people clothes."

"That shelter's in a rough part of town." I straighten up, suddenly serious. "Mind if I tag along? Keep the riffraff away?"

"The riffraff?" Her eyebrow arches. "Isn't that what people usually call guys like you?"

"Exactly. Takes one to know one. I speak their language." I tap my temple. "Plus, I've got insider knowledge of all the best taco trucks in that neighborhood."

"Well, with an offer like that..." She pulls her keys from her pocket. "Lead the way, Mr. Wilson."

I swing onto my bike, watching in my mirror as she slides into the Chevelle. The engine purrs to life, and damn if the sound doesn't do something to me. Or maybe it's the way she's got one arm hanging out the window, fingers drumming against the door to some beat in her head. That tank top's riding up just enough to show a hint of ink on her hip, and I force myself to look away before I end up wrapped around a telephone pole.

The shelter's front desk lady beams at us as we carry in the boxes. Her gray hair's pulled back in a neat bun, name tag reading "Carolyn" pinned slightly crooked on her cardigan.

"Oh, how wonderful!" She clasps her hands together. "We're always so grateful when couples bring in donations together. You and your husband are such dear?—"

"Oh, we're not—" Indy starts.

"Just friends," I jump in, setting down the last box. My chest tightens at the word 'friends.'

"He's giving me a tour of town, it's been a while since I've been here," Indy explains, tucking her hair behind her ear. That nervous habit of hers gets me every time.

"Well, isn't that sweet of him?" Carolyn winks at me like we're sharing some secret. "These will help so many people."

I watch Indy chat with Carolyn about sorting the clothes, the way her eyes light up talking about helping others. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches her hair just right, and for a moment I let myself imagine coming home to that smile every night. No club business, no rivals, no violence—just her curled up on the couch waiting for me.

But the burner phone in my back pocket vibrates, yanking me back to reality. Tres needs me for something, and whatever it is, it ain't gonna be pretty. That's the life I chose—the only life I know.

"Ready?" Indy touches my arm, and I try not to focus on how her fingers linger there.

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Let's roll."

The weight of my cut feels heavier than usual, like it's reminding me exactly who—and what—I am. Some things just aren't meant to be, no matter how much you might wish different.

The shelter's glass doors swing shut behind us as we step into the humid Texas air. Indy's perfume catches on the breeze, something sweet and spicy that makes my throat tight.

"So, about those legendary taco trucks you promised?" She spins to face me, walking backward toward her car. "I'm thinking it's time to put your money where your mouth is."

"Damnit man," The burner phone burns a hole in my pocket. "Rain check? Apparently some club stuff just went down."

"Mmm." She tilts her head, studying me. "Convenient excuse."

"Trust me, darlin', there's nothing convenient about it." I run a hand over my buzzed head. "I'd much rather be watching you try to eat street tacos without making a mess."

"Bold of you to assume I'm a messy eater."

"Everyone's a messy eater when it comes to proper street tacos. It's like a law or something."

She laughs, the sound hitting me right in the chest. "Fine, rain check it is. But I'm holding you to that, Wilson."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Cooper."

The Chevelle's door creaks open and she slides in, those cutoffs riding up just enough to make my mouth go dry. Christ, the things I'd like to hold her to. The steering wheel, the hood of that car, my?—

The phone buzzes again. Right. Club business.

"See you around, troublemaker," she calls through the open window.

I kick my bike to life, drowning out whatever response my brain might've cooked up. Better that way. Some lines weren't meant to be crossed, no matter how damn tempting they might be.

The rumble of my pipes echoes off the shelter walls as I pull out, and I definitely don't watch her in my mirrors until she disappears around the corner. Definitely don't imagine what that laugh would sound like first thing in the morning, or how those fingers might feel twisted in my sheets instead of drumming on her steering wheel.

Club business. Focus on club business.