Jackal (Heartlands Motorcycle Club Book 12) by Frankie Love

Author:Frankie Love [Love, Frankie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-08-26T23:00:00+00:00

Jackal

We take the back roads home, winding through the empty highway with Lydia's arms wrapped around my back, her body pressed to mine. The sun on our faces and the breeze on our skin feels damn good. Feels right.

When we get to my place, I take her hand in mine, and silently we walk up the steps to my apartment over someone's three-car garage. The owners keep to themselves, a retired couple, and I rarely see them this time of year. They head up north to visit their family in Alaska, leaving this place quiet, calm. And I'm grateful for the space without anyone watching me, talking to me, and I can mind my own business.

Tonight, though, I bring Lydia home, and I realize I don't mind sharing the space with her — not one bit.

Maddox has been here a few times, and so has Dice from the garage. But besides meeting me before we go out for a ride, there's no need for company. But Lydia doesn't even feel like company, like a guest. I don't know how she feels, not exactly. But as her fingers lace with mine, I know she wants to be here.

I open the door, nervous suddenly, wondering what she'll think of my place. It's modest, minimal. But it's mine, and I'm proud of that. For a long time, I never thought I would have a home of my own. Now, I do. "This place is great," she says, looking around. "From the house next to this garage, I wasn't sure what to expect of your place, but this is really nice. It looks like you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, walking over to the refrigerator and grabbing a jug of iced tea from the fridge. I pour her a glass and hand it to her, and take a drink of my own.

"It's just very clean and organized. It's no-nonsense."

"Is that a nice way of saying it's boring, just like me?"

She laughs. "No, I wasn't meaning that. It just... You know, it's calm."

I nod. "Yeah. My real pride and joy of this place is this collection right here," I say, resting my hand on a record player and nodding toward the large shelf of vinyl records I've collected.

"Wow," she says, "I'm impressed. What got you into collecting records?" She pulls an album out at random and runs her hands over the cover.

"My mom," I say. "She'd always listen to records when I was little, which wasn't that typical back then. But nowadays, every hipster has a record collection."

Lydia smiles. "But you're no hipster, are you?"

"Definitely not," I say with a laugh. "Do you want me to put that one on?"

She nods. "Sure." It's Elvis Presley, Greatest Hits. And as I lift the needle and set the vinyl down, I hold my breath.

"There's something about Elvis that gets me every damn time," I tell her.

She smiles. "Growing up, we never listened to music that wasn't Christian. But I remember a few times being in the car with my dad and listening to the oldies station.

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