JETT (A Brikken Motorcycle Club Saga) Read online

  Victor was the brother-in-law of the woman who was Sydney's foster mom a year ago. But, it wasn't until she was looking for a job that she ran into him and he gave her an offer she couldn't turn down.

  There were only two ways to go. Struggle with her situation or accept the inevitable and find a way to survive. Never one who curled up and called it quits, she took the offer and became good at conning people.

  She wasn't out to screw Victor over. He gave her a roof over her head and a way to make Sunday visitation with her sister, Kiley. The Mathew's were strict foster parents. If she missed her scheduled visit, they could keep her from visiting her sister.

  The whole reason she ran away was that the Mathew's agreed to take Kylie in. Not her. Only her sister. Social services planned to keep them together and send them back to the Jones', a home that wasn't emotionally or physically good for Kylie.

  She ran away so Kylie could go to the Mathew's with a plan to somehow find a way to keep in contact with her sister. Her answer to the problem was to con the Mathew's into believing she was Kylie's older, adult sister with a job, a home, and a life away from Kylie. And, as long as she kept her visits to their house private and never brought attention from their neighbors to remind them that Kylie was a foster and not a birth child of theirs, they allowed her in the backyard to visit her sister every Sunday.

  Kylie, while not happy to be away from Sydney, thrived with a family that gave her many advantages she wouldn't have received somewhere else. That's all that mattered to her. She wanted the best for her sister.

  Victor threw the duffle bag at her. She stumbled and pulled her hands out of her pockets, picking up the bag from the porch.

  "You'll go back to the club Monday night. Reel them in." Victor slammed the door in her face.

  She flinched. At least he wasn't going to push her to work tomorrow on visitation day.

  Stepping off the porch, she walked to the side of the house and followed the worn dirt path through the grass to the backyard. She reached into her pocket to grab her key and came into contact with the cold metal of the pistol.

  Groaning, she pulled out the gun and held it away from her. She never meant to take his pistol. All she wanted to do was get away from him to stay safe.

  He was older, which meant he'd be slower than her. She clicked her tongue. No wonder he was coming after her. She'd stolen his weapon.

  She stopped in front of the twelve-foot travel trailer and put the gun in her other hand to dig her key out of her pocket. It took her several attempts to unlock the bent door that stuck shut even when it wasn't locked.

  Inside the old, rundown trailer, she put the weapon on the couch and felt along the ceiling for the light, sliding the switch on. Able to see the contents of her place, she sat on the couch, slouching into the worn cushions. The place was barely habitable.

  She'd moved in during the spring and froze half the time. Now that it was summer, the trailer was no better than a tin can full of stuffy air. She never opened the windows because Victor had a habit of coming out into the backyard at all times and he had no respect for a closed door. He'd probably poke his big head right through the window if she aired the place out.

  She pulled her feet up on the couch and leaned over, grabbing her pillow. All she wanted to do was sleep. Tomorrow, she'd manage to wash her body from the sink and use the garden house in Victor's backyard to wash her hair. She closed her eyes. Her living conditions didn't matter to her.

  Kylie was safe, comfy, and happy. As long as she was clean, presentable, and followed the Mathew's rules, she'd get to see Kylie.

  Her body relaxed, and sleep hovered at the edge of her consciousness when banging rocked the trailer. She groaned. What did Victor want now?

  Sometimes, he was a real asshole. Especially, when he'd spent all evening drinking—which was most nights.

  She heaved herself off the couch and unlocked the door. Pushing against the aluminum frame, she couldn't get the door open. Victor thought he was giving her a deal by letting her live in the trailer for free, but it'd be nice if she could come and go without working up a sweat.

  More banging echoed in the small space. She threw her shoulder against the door. Pain ricocheted from her elbow down to her wrist.

  "Just a second. I'm trying," she snapped. "Can you pull from the other side. The door is stuck. Again."

  She held the handle and pushed with her other hand. Frustrated and tired, she kicked the bottom corner, and the door flung open.

  The light in the trailer shined into the biker's face who'd given her a ride home. Panic spurred her into action, and she reached out to grab the door.

  He wrapped his broad hand around her wrist stopping her. "I need my pistol back."

  "Let me go, and I'll get it." Taller than him when in the trailer, she'd feel better if he backed away and she could close the door first. He could have the stupid gun. She didn't want it anyway.

  He released her hand. She eyed him, waiting for him to force his way inside and when he remained outside, she shuffled two feet away and quickly grabbed the pistol. Pointing it at him, she waved the barrel. "Step back."

  His mouth tightened making a scar on his cheek turn white. His dark eyes almost disappeared under his glare. He refused to move. "Just hand me the gun."

  Was this guy afraid of nothing?

  Indecisive whether to give it back, for the simple reason that he'd be armed and she'd be the one at his mercy, she looked over his shoulder into the dark yard. If she could throw it over his head, he'd have to move to get the weapon, and she'd have time to shut and lock the door. She swallowed hard, forgetting that idea. He filled the whole doorway.

  "Either shoot me or give me the pistol. I don't have all night." He held out his hand.

  With no other choice than to hand him the gun, she held it out. "I was going to give it back on Monday."

  "Right." He popped the insides out of the handle of the pistol, checked the bullets, and shoved it back in with a click.

  Confused about how the gun worked, she studied how he slid a small switch on the side. Even if she had a chance to shoot him when she held the gun, she wouldn't know how. She also wouldn't do anything to ruin her chance of seeing Kylie tomorrow.

  He looked at her and slid the pistol behind him bringing his empty hands forward. Caught up in watching the almost mechanical movements, she forgot all about shutting the door until he stepped inside the trailer, forcing her backward until her legs bumped into the couch and she toppled over and fell to the cushions.

  "You live here?" He gazed around the small space.

  He could stretch his thick arms and touch each end of the trailer. She scrambled to her feet, still feeling small next to him.

  "I didn't invite you in." She pointed, almost touching his arm.

  "You've got two-thousand dollars that belong to Brikken members. I want the money." He opened the micro-fridge, frowned, and then opened the freezer that was no bigger than a shoebox. "What the hell?"

  He pulled out a bag of frozen snap peas. "You don't have food."

  "I do, too." Insulted, she scooted sideways until the edge of the cabinet under the sink pressed into her thigh. "I like sugar snap peas."

  He closed the freezer and looked at the couch behind her. "You sleep there?"

  His long, wavy hair hung past his shoulders, and his beard covered whatever his T-shirt said under his vest. She lowered her gaze. For such a hairy man, he hardly had any hair on his tattooed arms.

  "I asked you a question. Do you sleep in here?"

  She folded her arms in front of her. "Have you never went camping?"

  He grunted, opening the cabinet above the couch. She leaned to the side, afraid he'd touch her.

  If she could get him out of the trailer, he'd forget about asking for the money. Victor would never allow her to give it back. Though, she couldn't swear on that because none of her hits ever found out where she lived. She'd always made sure no one followed her home.

  "If you'll
leave, I'd like to close the door before the mosquitos fly in toward the light." She scooted closer to the opening, planning to run.

  He grabbed her upper arm. "Where's the money?"

  "I don't have it." She tugged, but he wouldn't let her go. "Please. I'll bring it Monday. There's nothing I can do tonight or tomorrow. I don't keep the money on me. I've already handed everything over to my boss."

  His gaze narrowed. "That was your boss at the front door when you arrived?"

  "No." She shook her head, more afraid of Victor kicking her out and not letting her work for him than if the biker hurt her. She was one step away from losing visitation rights with Kylie if she ended up on the streets again.

  He blurred in front of her. She blinked rapidly, desperately fighting the tears but after struggling to maintain a life by herself every sleepless night, every dangerous situation, every heartache she'd suffered, she couldn't do it any longer.

  How could people expect her to carry on like nothing was wrong when struggling to keep a roof over her head and snap peas in the freezer seemed like too much work?

  "What the...?" Hands landed on her shoulders.

  Human contact only expounded the heavy load. She gasped on a sob, caving in on herself. Her forehead hit his chest. The pathetic noise coming from her mouth humiliated her. Her life had never been rich with a kind touch.

  "Hey, hey, now." The man held the back of her head with his hand. "Stop the tears."

  The authority in his voice weakened her legs, and her head slid down his chest before he grabbed her and stood her firmly on her feet. The jolt left her gasping.

  "Stop." He shook her.

  She hiccupped, staring at his broad chest. Desperation exhausted her. Her talents for gaming the system came from years of seeing through people's agendas. Playing another player developed into a game where finally she experienced the high that she associated with the feelings she denied herself.

  A generic equivalent for love.

  The man—God, she didn't even know his name— captured her head in his rough hands and tilted her face. She inhaled roughly, squaring her shoulders. Though it made no difference in her size. He still overwhelmed her.

  "Tears don't sway me." His deep voice deepened. "Wash your face. You've got makeup smeared all over yourself."

  He let her go. Shocked over how much it hurt to be criticized, she turned, grabbed a towel, and wet the cloth from the water jug on the counter. Using the time to clean herself, she hid the way her body shook.

  She couldn't give him the money back, and she understood that he'd make her pay. Gambling was a dangerous occupation. She'd known that from the beginning.

  Her luck had finally run out.

  There were worse things than dying. She only wished she could see Kylie one more time and tell her how sorry she was for failing her.

  Chapter Three

  The women in Jett's life weren't prone to tears. He couldn't remember Johanna or his mom ever using tears to get their way. The women at the clubhouse never had a reason to cry, because he only hung around them for sex—and they sure in the hell never cried tears. He studied the woman. Even his little sisters never cried, unless they were physically hurt or overtired.

  He leaned his hip against the counter and studied the bowed back of the woman who viciously scrubbed her face. He'd only seen one other person break down to where it seemed like they'd lost all self-control and put themselves in a vulnerable state.

  During his stint in the penitentiary, an inmate fell apart. The man's anguished cry had haunted the corridor before silence fell upon every prisoner, including him. It was during the next shift change that word got passed around that the man hung himself with his jumper. A picture of his wife clutched in his hand.

  After several minutes, he realized the woman no longer scrubbed her face. He put his hand on her hip and turned her.

  She exhaled in defeat and faced him. He couldn't move, and it had nothing to do with the cramped space inside the trailer.

  The bloodshot eyes, free of makeup, gazed up at him. He took in the blue eyes, such a striking color with the black hair. His hand tightened on her hip, knowing he'd been suckered.

  "How old are you?" His gaze intensified, looking for any sign that she'd lie.

  There was not one blemish on her face. No squint lines, no laugh lines, no stress lines testifying to her con-artist life. Standing in front of him, she was the picture of perfection, while he resembled the aftermath of a Don't Drink and Drive poster.

  "Twenty," she whispered.

  "Twenty years old?" When she nodded, he whistled low.

  With the heavy makeup on, he would've taken her for mid-twenties, at least. Irritated that he'd been conned by a baby, he said, "What's your name?"

  "Sydney."

  "Sydney what?"

  The muscles in her slim neck convulsed. "Sydney—"

  The trailer rocked, and the door swung open to a large older man wielding a pry bar. Jett grabbed his pistol and jerked the woman behind him in one move.

  "Drop the weapon." Jett aimed at the man's chest.

  At least three hundred and fifty pounds, the man's cheeks inflated with each exhale. "Get off my property."

  Without taking his gaze off the man, he said, "Sydney? Is this your daddy?"

  "No," she said.

  "Do you work for him?"

  Several seconds ticked by and Jett watched the man's eyes flick from him to the girl. His disgust grew as he took in the situation. A young girl living in a moldy travel trailer with a middle-aged man gave him the situation without asking.

  "Yes," she whispered, leaning against his back. "Please, go. I can't lose the job."

  "He's got you working the streets? Taking people's money?"

  "It's okay. I don't—"

  "Is he paying you?"

  She pulled on the back of his vest. His anger grew as the man in front of him panted, blocking his way.

  "Sydney, does he pay you?"

  "I-I get to sleep—"

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

  "Please, just leave," whispered Sydney.

  Ignoring her request, he stepped forward, forcing the man away from the doorway of the trailer. He stepped down into the yard holding the pistol on the man. He'd dealt with fuckers his whole life who used brute size for intimidation. They were the worst fighters.

  Overweight, the man couldn't even hold a pry bar without breaking out in a sweat. Not wanting to shoot the pistol in the city and have cops surround the house within minutes, he slid the weapon under his belt.

  "Sydney?" said Jett. "Throw some of your things together in a bag. We're going on a little ride."

  "You're not taking her." The man stepped forward raising the bar.

  "Try and stop me." Jett stepped forward.

  The man swung. He ducked, keeping his eye on the man's arm.

  Sydney's boss raised the three-foot-long piece of heavy metal over his head as if to stab Jett. That's all the movement he needed. Jett lunged, catching the man's wrist in his hand and taking him down to the ground. The element of surprise on his side, he removed the knife from his boot and sliced the man's throat before he could utter a sound and alert the neighbors.

  Wide, desperate eyes stared back at him. Jett pushed off the man and stood over his body, knowing any effort from the man to haul his fat ass off the ground would have him spurting blood at a rate he wouldn't make it five feet. His time on earth leaked out of him. He wouldn't make it fifteen minutes.

  "Oh, my God," said Sydney behind him. "What have you—"

  "Quiet." He turned, swinging his gaze in an arc over the trailer at the neighbors surrounding the backyard. All the houses were single story, and the fence kept their windows out of view. His activity tonight remained free of nosy eyes.

  "Get your things." He squatted and wiped his knife off in the grass. "Be ready to ride in two minutes."

  She stepped back into the trailer, struggling to close the door as if hiding inside would stop him.
He stood and grabbed the aluminum door. Maybe she was in shock or two young to realize the situation. She couldn't stay here.

  The cops would eventually find a dead man in the yard. It wasn't safe for her to be around.

  Her mouth opened and closed looking past him to the man out on the ground. "H-he's going to die."

  "Sydney," he said firmly.

  She snapped her gaze to him and stiffened. If being scared of him got her moving, he'd take it. "Pack. Now. Unless you have plans to spend the next seven years in prison for murder."

  She turned away and started picking up clothes and holding them in her arms. Satisfied that she worked toward getting out of here, he looked over at the man and pulled out his cell phone.

  He put a call into his brother.

  "Yeah?" answered Olin.

  "Are you still at the clubhouse?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "I need your house tonight." He glanced into the trailer and made sure Sydney stayed on task. "Call Chief. Tell him I walked into some trouble tonight but all's good. I'll see him in the morning."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Fine. It's the other guy who isn't." He lowered his voice. "I'm bringing someone back with me."

  "Need help?"

  Amusement hit him. Only Olin would skim over the details and assume a woman was involved. The middle son, two years younger than Jett, Olin enjoyed living on his own, off Brikken property, but never turned down time with the opposite sex.

  Though, Sydney was a girl, not even twenty-one yet. He couldn't leave her here to take the fall for the murder of the man who seemed to have some control over her.

  He inhaled deeply, finding Sydney staring at him with the same duffle bag she'd ran with through the night, and her vulnerability hit him. She'd swindled Brikken members out of their money without any fear. Lived in the backyard of the man who dared put a woman-child on the street to do his dirty work.

  She'd gone out dressed like a fucking whore to hide her age. Someone had forced her into the life she led, and he suspected the man fighting for his last minute of consciousness was the one to blame.