Page 3 of Tracked By Sasquatch

She couldn’t be a temporary situationship. She was the family of a club brother, therefore only a serious desire to settle would be reason enough to approach.

Did he feel that way?

Sometimes he wondered. Devin was everything a brother could want in an ol’ lady. Smart, sarcastic, funny as shit, and she could hold her own. Curves for miles and she could handle the life.

The real reason he’d held back from getting to know her better was exactly that. Somewhere deep down, he knew he’d be a goner for her if she gave him a chance. She was exactly the type he’d wife up instead of fuck around with.

That made her dangerous.

That and she had a demon or two floating around her. Ones she ignored rather than shout down like she did every other obstacle she’d faced.

Over the years she spent some time at the club, and every single adversity she’d faced, she’d met with her head high and her middle finger in the air. Same as her brother. But for some reason, there was something she just couldn’t seem to deal with related to what had happened in Nebraska.

As he pulled a riding jacket from the saddlebag and handed it to her, he made himself a promise. He would help her. He would stand beside her and shout down her demons with her.

She was family, and family is everything. Since she was on the outs with Hook, he’d be the rock she needed until she let Croon back in. Maybe he could even help facilitate that.

Sasquatch had his own demons, demons that had damn near wrecked him, but he dealt with them. Not in a healthy way at first, still not from time to time, but he managed. Only Zombie and his aunt knew, but he still went to therapy. Not regular anymore, but when things got sideways.

Ultimately, it was the club, his family that did the trick. He stayed emotionally healthy because of them. He could give Devin the same. Family, a reason to fight whatever she was fighting.

After she donned the helmet, his bike roared to life. A shiver always coursed down his spine the moment she fired up.

They rode aimlessly until Devin tapped her com. “Can we stop for a drink?”

“Sure thing.” They’d head to the Metal Shop, maybe Croon and her could talk. Devin shut down his idea before it formed.

“Not The Shop or even a club-friendly place, please?”

They only owned one bar but were regular fixtures at seventy percent of the places in town. They provided security and did business with a hella lot of people in Provo.

“How about that dive bar on the outskirts?”

They were aware of the bar. They’d scoped it out when they’d proposed to buy the motel next door.

To say it wasn’t club-friendly was an understatement. The old codger who owned it had beef with the club, well, all clubs really. There was a story they’d never quite gotten to the bottom of, but it involved the last generation of a local club, and they wondered if it was Carl’s old club.

Thinking of Carl brought a pang to his chest. As the old man had predicted, he hadn’t lasted until trial. The cancer got him before the state of Utah could declare him guilty.

Which he was. He’d shot Nova’s ex dead as fuck when he caught the bastard trying to rape her. For his sacrifice, the club paid off Linda’s house, and she never wanted for anything. However, the house sat empty more often than not as she’d started spending most of her time at the club after Carl’s passing. She was a regular den mother to a bunch of bikers.

He knew it was more for her than for them. She was lonely, so it worked out for everyone.

When they got to the bar, he parked next door at the motel instead. Removing his cut, he locked it in the saddlebag.

Devin raised a questioning eyebrow as she removed her helmet, looking between him and the saddlebag, before she looped her arm around his and they strode around toward the bar.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of you guys remove your cut outside of riding in a car, excuse me, cage.”

Squatch threw his hand out toward the building. “No colors.”

It was spray painted on a piece of plywood nailed above the door right under the larger spray-painted word, B.A.R.

“Shit, Dev. Does this place even have a name?” He knew it didn’t, it was registered as B.A.R.

“Of course it does, Bar.”

“No, not just Bar, see the periods. It stands for something. What do you think?”