Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(4)
“Jagger.”
“Jagger?” The name was familiar, but with her brain still fuzzy she couldn’t place him. In fact, she couldn’t place anything. Not even herself. She forced her mind backward, trying to pinpoint her last memory.
“Maybe this will help.”
He removed his cut and spun it around, holding it up to give her a good view of the back. She recognized the three-piece patch at once: a winged skull set above flames, with two stars on either side and two curved rockers above and below, proclaiming the name of his club and the chapter.
THE SINNER’S TRIBE MC.
She was going to die.
And on the very day she had planned to escape this life forever. Gritting her teeth, Arianne forced back a whimper. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging for her life. Death with dignity. She would make her mother proud. And her father, too, if he was even capable of that emotion.
Jagger grimaced and shrugged on the cut, his fingers brushing over the patch identifying him as president. “Looks like you know who we are.“
Blood pounded in her throat and she dipped her chin. Who didn’t know the Conundrum chapter of the Sinner’s Tribe, the dominant outlaw MC in Montana, and one of the top outlaw MCs in the country? The club boasted nine hundred members across the northern United States alone. Archenemies of the Black Jacks MC in which she had been born and raised, the Sinner’s Tribe were unequaled in size or power in Montana. And Jagger was their king.
A sickening wave of terror cleared the fog from her brain. Everything came back in a rush. All her hard work to save enough money to procure false passports and new identities for her and Jeff. Favors pulled to arrange for them to get to Canada under the Black Jacks’ radar. The excitement of knowing they would finally be free from their father, Viper; the Black Jacks; and the biker world. And then Jeff’s text: he wasn’t coming. Viper had caught him on his way out and sent him with a team of Jacks to torch the Sinner’s Tribe’s clubhouse and steal a shipment of weapons.
She swallowed dryly as she remembered racing through Conundrum on her Ninja, desperate to stop Jeff from making a mistake that could cost him his life. Hope and desolation. Flames flickering. The crack of a gun. And then darkness.
Jagger leaned forward, his hand outstretched as if to steady her. “You’re lookin’ very white. You gonna pass out?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Fighting back an almost overwhelming urge to run, she made a quick assessment of the room: king-size bed, night table, and wooden chair. Bare and functional. Her .38, still in its leather calf holster, sat beside a black gym bag on a low, wide dresser. A window with no curtains. Moonlight casting shadows on the floor. Handsome-as-f*ck executioner. No Jeff. Small mercy. Maybe he’d escaped.
Maybe she could escape, too. She had to escape. If Jagger found out her father was his mortal enemy, he would shoot her on the spot.
“Where are we?” Her voice was thin, almost unrecognizable, and raw in her throat.
Jagger tilted his head and gave her an amused smile. “Too far to run, if that’s what you’re thinking. We acquired this old house from a double-crossing dealer who thought he could play us. Nothing around for miles except mountains, trees, and the odd wolf. And if you did get it into your head to go for a hike, there are one hundred angry Sinners and support club members outside who think you burned down our clubhouse. They want blood. Right now, this is the safest place for you to be.”
Okay. Not good odds. But staying here was certain death. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to sitting, grimacing as pain sliced through her head.
With a soft, admonishing grumble, Jagger clasped her arm and helped her back down onto the pillow. “Doc said you had a concussion and shouldn’t get out of bed for a coupla days.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn’t you just kill me? Why bother with a doctor? Or do you like your prisoners healthy before you torture them?”
He shifted in his chair, and a shadow crossed his disturbingly attractive face. “Innocent until proven guilty. I added it to our bylaws. Keeps the boys from becoming vigilantes and delivering instant retribution for imagined slights.”
“Maybe in your club. Not in mine.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Damn. Even the smallest bit of information could reveal the identity of her father, although save for the dark hair, she and her father didn’t look much alike. And despite the fact that she’d been wearing her Black Jacks cut, she wasn’t a Jack. Not by a long shot.
Jagger studied her in silence, unnerving her with his steady stare. But damned if she would … could look away from those warm brown eyes. Deep. Fathomless. For a second her mind unmoored and she was floating in a chocolate sea.
Safe.
Protected.
What the hell was she doing? When had anyone ever protected her? And he was the enemy. Their clubs had been fighting over territory for years, trading brutalities the way young boys traded insults. Even the old ladies weren’t safe.
Or their daughters …
She pushed the memory away. Her mother hadn’t died because of the feud but because of the biker culture at the heart of it. A culture that considered women to be property and nothing more.
“You got a name?” He leaned back and spread his legs in the irritating way men often did, taking up the space of three people in an effort to exert dominance.