## Chapter 2: The Vice President
The desert wind cut through Jace Callen's leather kutte like a blade, carrying the scent of sage and diesel from the truck stop three miles out. He stood in the clubhouse doorway, watching his brothers file in from the parking lot—chrome gleaming under the morning sun, boots kicking up dust that had seen more blood than rain in the past decade. The Iron Reapers MC compound squatted on ten acres of Nevada wasteland like a concrete spider, all sharp angles and dark windows. Built to withstand a siege, decorated to intimidate. Jace had called it home for eight years, risen through the ranks from prospect to Vice President on the back of his fists and his reputation for seeing three moves ahead.
But this morning, his mind wasn't on club business. It was on a pair of haunted green eyes and the way a woman named Sadie had flinched when he'd reached for his wallet.
"You're brooding again," Cash said, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the chapel. The club's Sergeant at Arms had been Jace's closest friend since they'd served together in Afghanistan—two kids from the wrong side of everywhere, finding brotherhood in the sandbox before bringing it home to the desert. "Looks like the same shit that had you twisted last night."
Jace grunted, not ready to share. The Rusty Spur had been on their route for years—nothing more than a place to wet their whistles and scratch their itches when the mood struck. But seeing her there, moving like a ghost through her own life, had stirred something he thought he'd buried with his conscience.
"Meeting's in five," he said instead, pushing through the heavy doors into the clubhouse's interior.
The main room stretched before them—pool tables and worn leather couches, a bar that never closed, walls covered in the history of their brotherhood. Photos of fallen members, club girls who'd become family, territories claimed and defended. The air hung thick with old smoke and older secrets. Several brothers were already nursing beers despite the early hour, their laughter rough as sandpaper.
Jace moved through it all like a shadow, his kutte bearing his name and his patch—Vice President, Iron Reapers MC, Nevada. The leather had molded to his frame over years of wear, carrying the scent of engine oil and freedom that had lured him away from the straight world. He'd earned every stitch, every scar that lay beneath.
The chapel door stood open, revealing the long table where they'd sealed deals in blood and voted on life and death. Duke, their President, was already seated at the head—sixty years old and built like a brick shithouse, his beard silver and his eyes sharp as broken glass. He'd built the Iron Reapers from nothing, turned a bunch of disillusioned vets into something that mattered in this wasteland.
"Sit your ass down," Duke growled as Jace entered. "We got shit to discuss."
The other officers filed in—Road Captain, Enforcer, Treasurer, their faces carved by sun and hard living. Jace took his seat at Duke's right hand, the position he'd fought for and bled for. But as Duke started discussing the shipment coming up from Mexico, Jace found his mind drifting back to The Rusty Spur.
To the way Sadie had moved—efficient, practiced, like she'd perfected the art of being invisible in plain sight. The careful way she'd positioned herself, never with her back to a door. How she'd catalogued every brother in the room with quick, assessing glances before she'd even taken their orders. Those weren't the instincts of a small-town bartender. Those were survival skills, learned in the dark and paid for in pain.
"Jace." Duke's voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "You with us, son?"
The old man was staring at him, one gray eyebrow raised. Jace straightened in his chair, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand.
"Yeah, Prez. Just thinking about routes."
Duke studied him for a long moment, reading the lie in his eyes. The President had a way of seeing through bullshit that made him either the best ally or worst enemy a man could have. "We'll take the back roads through Boulder City. Less heat from Highway Patrol."
The meeting dragged on—territory disputes, gun shipments, the meth trade that kept their coffers full and their enemies desperate. Jace participated when required, offering strategy and solutions, but part of him remained in that bar, watching a woman who carried fear like a second skin.
When Duke finally slammed the gavel down, Jace was the first out of his seat. He needed air, needed to clear his head before he did something stupid. But Cash caught him by the arm in the hallway, that knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Whatever's eating at you, it's got teeth," his friend observed. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about."
"That's bullshit and we both know it. You've been somewhere else all morning, and I got a feeling it's got tits and green eyes."
Jace's head snapped toward his friend, something dangerous flaring in his chest. Cash raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin only widened.
"Thought so. The bartender from last night. Sadie."
"You don't know shit."
"I know you couldn't stop watching her. Know you've got that look—the one you get right before you do something noble and stupid. Like when you took that bullet for Ricky back in '09."
Jace shoved past him, stalking toward the exit. The comparison stung because it was accurate. He had a weakness for broken things, always had. There's a special kind of hell for men who tried to play hero in a world that ate the weak for breakfast.
But as he stepped out into the Nevada heat, felt the sun bake through his black shirt, he couldn't shake the image of those bruises he'd glimpsed when her sleeve had ridden up. Fingerprint marks, yellow and fading, but unmistakable to someone who'd seen their share of violence. Someone had put their hands on her, and recently.
The smart play was to walk away. Whatever Sadie Holbrook was running from, it wasn't his problem. The Iron Reapers had enough enemies, enough complications. They didn't need to add some stranger's baggage to their load.
But Jace had never been good at taking the easy road.
He swung his leg over his bike—a custom Softail with a 110 cubic inch engine that purred like a satisfied woman. The handlebars felt familiar beneath his palms, the vibration of the motor steady as a heartbeat. This was his church, his sanctuary. The road didn't ask questions or demand explanations. It just stretched out before him, offering escape or purpose, whichever he needed more.
Jace fired up the engine, felt that sweet rumble travel through his bones. Without conscious decision, he found himself pointing the bike toward Highway 95, toward The Rusty Spur sitting like a neon oasis in the middle of all this nothing.
Toward green eyes that had looked at him like he was both salvation and damnation.
The ride gave him time to think, to analyze the strange pull he felt toward a woman he'd spoken maybe twenty words to. It wasn't just attraction—though Christ knew she was beautiful in that wounded-bird way that made men stupid. It was something else, something deeper. Recognition, maybe. The way you could spot another damaged soul across a crowded room because you carried the same scars.
Sadie Holbrook was running from something, and she was terrified of being found. The question was whether Jace was prepared to insert himself into whatever nightmare had driven her to this godforsaken corner of Nevada. Whether he was ready to claim another ghost to add to his collection.
The Rusty Spur appeared on the horizon like a mirage, its sign flickering even in daylight. Jace rolled to a stop in the gravel lot, noting the lack of other bikes. Good. He wanted her alone, wanted to peel back some of those carefully constructed layers without an audience.
Inside, the bar felt different in daylight. Smaller, maybe. More pathetic. The kind of place where dreams came to die slow, painful deaths lubricated by cheap beer and false hope. Sadie stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with mechanical precision. She wore another oversized button-down, this one a faded blue that made her skin seem translucent. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, revealing the elegant column of her neck.
Jace settled onto the same stool from last night, watching her try to pretend she hadn't noticed his arrival. But he'd seen the way her shoulders tensed, how her movements became just a fraction more careful. Like a deer catching the scent of wolf.
"Thought you boys weren't due back through for another week," she said, not looking up from her task.
"Came alone this time." He let that hang in the air, watched her process the implications. "Didn't feel like sharing."
Now she did glance up, those green eyes wary but curious. "Sharing what?"
"Your company."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Or suspicion. She set down the glass she'd been cleaning and moved toward him, maintaining that careful distance she'd perfected. Every step calculated to keep space between them, to preserve her exit routes.
"You want a beer?"
"Whiskey. The good stuff this time—not the piss you serve the truckers."
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "That'll cost you extra, biker boy."
"Biker boy?" He raised an eyebrow, felt something warm curl in his chest at the almost-teasing tone. "That's new."
"Biker man sounds like something from a bad porno. And I'm assuming you have a name."
"Jace Callen. Vice President of the Iron Reapers."
She poured the whiskey—something decent from the top shelf, amber liquid catching the anemic light. "Sadie Holbrook. Professional bartender and amateur escape artist."
The words slipped out like she hadn't meant to say them, and immediately her walls went back up. Jace filed the information away, letting her think he hadn't noticed the crack in her armor. He threw back the whiskey, savoring the burn, then set the glass down with deliberate precision.
"You got any food in this place? Or is it just liquid poison?"
"Kitchen's closed. Cook doesn't come in until four."
"Pity. I'm starving."
He watched her process this, saw the moment she made a decision that went against every instinct screaming at her to maintain distance. "I could make you a sandwich. Nothing fancy—just cold cuts and whatever vegetables haven't wilted yet."
"I'll take it."
She disappeared through a swinging door into what he assumed was the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the ghosts that lived in dim bars. Jace studied his reflection in the mirror behind the liquor shelves—thirty-five years old and looked every day of it. Silver threading through his black hair, lines carved deep around eyes that had seen too much. He'd spent his adult life cultivating a reputation for being the kind of man others feared crossing, but sitting here waiting for a woman who probably saw him as another threat made him feel about as dangerous as a house cat.
When Sadie returned, she carried a plate piled high with what actually looked like a decent sandwich. She set it down in front of him with the same careful movements, like she was handling explosives.
"Thank you."
"Don't get used to it. I'm not running a charity here."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He took a bite, found the sandwich better than anything he'd had in weeks. "How long you been working here?"
"Three weeks."
"Before that?"
Something shuttered in her eyes. "Here and there."
"Running?"
The question hung between them like a loaded gun. Sadie's hand stilled where it had been reaching for a clean rag, and Jace watched her decide whether to lie or deflect. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that made his chest tight.
"You ask a lot of questions for someone I just met."
"Occupational hazard. Being Vice President means knowing people's stories, figuring out what makes them tick. Helps keep my brothers alive."
"And I'm one of your brothers now?"
"No. But you might need one."
She laughed, but there was no humor in it—just a bitter sound that spoke of disappointment and lessons learned the hard way. "I tried that once. Didn't work out so well."
Jace finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth with the napkin she'd provided. Every interaction felt like a chess match, each word carefully chosen and weighed. He'd known men who'd rather take a beating than open up about their damage, but something about Sadie's particular brand of broken called to the part of him that still believed in protecting the innocent. Even if that innocence had been stolen long ago.
"Show me," he said quietly.
"Show you what?"
"Whatever you're hiding under that shirt. Whatever left those marks on your arm."
All the color drained from her face. She took a step back, then another, her hand moving instinctively to cover her forearm. Jace remained still, knowing any sudden movement would send her running like a terrified animal.
"You're mistaken."
"Am I?"
"I burned myself. On the oven. It's nothing."
"Those weren't burn marks, Sadie. They were fingerprints. Someone grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises, and not that long ago."
Her breathing had gone shallow, eyes darting toward the exit like she was calculating her chances. Jace felt like an asshole for pushing, but he'd learned long ago that the truth had a way of festering when left in darkness. Better to drag it into the light and deal with the infection.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? I've seen enough victims to recognize the signs. The way you position yourself in a room. How you never turn your back to the door. That careful distance you keep between yourself and everyone else, like you're expecting to have to run at any moment."
"Stop."
"It's written all over you, sweetheart. Someone hurt you bad enough that you ran to the middle of nowhere to hide. Question is whether they're coming after you, and whether you're prepared for what happens when they find you."
The word "when" seemed to hit her like a physical blow. Sadie's hand found the edge of the bar, knuckles going white as she gripped it for support. In the dim light of the bar, she looked impossibly young and impossibly tired—a combination Jace recognized from his years of dealing with people who'd seen too much too soon.
"You should go," she whispered.
"Probably."
"So go."
Instead, Jace reached into his kutte, pulled out a business card. It was plain white with just a phone number—no names, no club affiliation. The kind of number that couldn't be traced back to anything official. He set it on the bar between them like an offering.
"This is my private line. Twenty-four seven. You call, I answer. Doesn't matter if you're in trouble or just need to talk to someone who understands."
"And what makes you think you understand anything about my situation?"
"Because I've got the same look in my eyes, darling. The one that says you've seen the monster under the bed and realized it wears a human face."
She stared at the card like it might bite her, made no move to take it. Jace stood slowly, giving her time to adjust to his movement, and dropped a twenty on the bar next to his empty plate.
"Sandwich was good. Thank you."
Sadie said nothing, just watched him with those haunted eyes as he moved toward the exit. At the door, he paused, looked back at her standing there looking small and fierce and utterly alone.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "And the day after that. This doesn't have to be anything more than a man enjoying a decent meal and the company of a beautiful woman. But if you ever need more, all you have to do is ask."
"Why?" The word came out broken, desperate in a way she probably hated. "Why would you do that for someone you don't even know?"
Jace considered the question, thought about all the reasons he should walk away and never look back. Instead, he told her the truth.
"Because once upon a time, someone offered me the same courtesy. Made all the difference in the world."
Then he pushed through the door into the desert heat, felt the sun bake away some of the darkness that clung to him like second skin. His bike waited where he'd left it, chrome gleaming like a promise. Jace threw his leg over the seat, fired up the engine, and tried to pretend he wasn't already planning tomorrow's visit.
As he rolled out of the parking lot, dust trailing behind him like smoke, he caught a glimpse of her in the bar's window. Still standing where he'd left her, the business card now clutched in her hand. It wasn't much—not really. But it was a start.
And Jace had always been patient when it came to things that mattered.
The road stretched out before him, leading back to the compound and the life he'd built from blood and brotherhood. But for the first time in years, part of him remained somewhere else. With a woman whose name tasted like salvation and whose eyes promised damnation.
Tomorrow, he'd come back. And he'd keep coming back until she trusted him or told him to stay away. It wasn't heroism—it was need. The same need that had driven him to protect his brothers, to build something stronger than blood in the middle of the wasteland.
Sadie Holbrook was running from something that scared her more than death. Jace understood that kind of fear—the kind that made you choose lonely desperation over company and comfort. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough to recognize its reflection in someone else.
But understanding and fixing were two different animals, and he had a feeling this particular rescue was going to cost him more than he could afford to lose. The smart play was to walk away, to let her fight her own battles in whatever hell she'd escaped.
Instead, Jace pointed his bike toward the horizon and started planning.
Because he'd never been smart when it came to saving people.
And something told him Sadie Holbrook was worth whatever price he'd have to pay.