Page 41 of Sparrow

Turning, the pair looked the stressed president over. “Why the fuck not? He shot me. He busted up Sparrow. He threatened her. I think he’s more than earned it.”

“He’s earned a hell of a lot, and he’s gotten a lot,” Bowie said as he too slid onto a stool, putting Jacob in the middle. Resting his forearms on the bar, he clasped his hands together. “Death would be too good for him,” he said on a sigh.

“Death seems fine to me. Eliminates the threat,” Jacob argued.

Snorting, the older man shook his head. “When you see him, you tell me if there is a threat.”

Glancing to Dash, who only gave him a shrug, Jacob put his glass down. He didn’t say anything as he stood up and headed toward the back door of the clubhouse with Dash behind him.

“Romeo,” Bowie called out as they opened the door.

Turning, they watched as Bowie finished off the whiskey.

“Sparrow’s not your concern. I know she’s been hanging around a lot more, but she still ain’t personal property,” Bowie’s comment was loud enough for everyone’s ears.

The comment earned him a look from not only Dixie as she dried glasses down at the other end of the bar, but his sponsor as well. The judgment in those gazes added to the weight already on his shoulders.

They hadn’t had that discussion. It’d only been a goddamn week. He didn’t know how Ohio did it, or well, he’d seen how Ohio did it. That wasn’t how Odin’s Fury did it. He couldn’t in good faith do anything without her consent, and not before he’d made Pipes pay for what he’d done.

So, yeah, she wasn’t personal fucking property—yet.

Chapter 26

Romeo

The shed was a large wooden outhouse on the club’s property. From the outside, it looked like the place they stored their lawn care equipment. Metal gas cans sat along the outer wall, some lawnmower blades, and even an old rake.

Inside was a different story. A cement floor had a drain in the middle, and the walls were lined with various implements meant for torture. Several ball peen hammers of various weights and sizes hung from a pegboard with clamps, hacksaws, and a few bats, both wooden and aluminum.

The back wall had a deep, twin basin shop sink and a long wooden workshop counter one of their brothers who worked as a carpenter had built. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling of the windowless shed. To the right was a cot bolted to the floor that held shackles, so whoever was kept there could be restrained.

In the center of the room, with his head flopped forward, sat Pipes, tied to the chair in fancy knots. Dash’s doing. The guy was crazy about fucking knots. The air held a metallic flavor to it, and the floor was stained with blood. With the door behind them open, the sun shined on his battered body. His left forearm had a stark white bandage covering the length.

Peering at Dash, Romeo asked the question regarding the bandage without words.

“Burned club colors off him. Roughneck Riders colors, but his brothers weren’t pleased he’d be giving them a bad name,” Dash said as he closed the door behind them, making the room dark.

Bobbing his head up and down, Romeo understood. Displaying club colors was an honor. Having been ousted from the club meant he didn’t deserve the honor and was forbidden from donning them.

Though, the idea that they’d bandaged up that wound while leaving the others open to fester amused him. An infection wouldn’t matter. He’d be dead sooner rather than later.

Stalking around the man, he studied the asshole, taking in every injury. Small gashes lined his forehead and cheek. His bottom lip was swollen. Dried blood clung to it. Both his eyes were bruised, and his nose crooked, like it’d been broken.

Grasping Pipes’ chin in his hand, Romeo jerked his head upward. A groggy grunt was his reward. He noted his neck was free of any markings. He’d start there.

While Romeo had recovered, he’d taken silent inventory of Sparrow’s injuries. In that time, it seemed his brothers had done a good job showing Pipes not to fuck with club property. They missed one important thing. The bruising he’d stared at for days went around her neck. The piece of shit tied to the chair had put it there. His neck needed some attention.

Cracking his hand across one cheek and then the other of the captive man, he plastered a fake smile on his face. “Wakey wakey,” he taunted before sauntering over to the ropes coiled on the side.

Groaning, Pipes’ head lolled to the side. He gurgled, and his eyelids fluttered before he opened them fully. Blinking a few times, he finally settled on Romeo. Pipes’ cheek twitched. “She’s mine,” he rasped.

The fucker seemed to have a one-track mind.

Selecting a coil of rope from the wall, Romeo nodded. “So you’ve said.”

Bowie had a point. The man was a mess. He’d been pummeled well and good but he still believed Sparrow was his. To Romeo, that meant he was a threat. Romeo didn’t like threats, not to his family, not to his club, and definitely not to his woman.

“But, funny thing is, she’s not,” Romeo said as he took his time looping the rope one way and then the other. He was meticulous with the rope and wouldn’t take his eyes off his project. Dash had taught him that.

---