A Biker's Obsession: Book 2: A Biker's Obsession, #2

By Hope Rosen

In continuing A Biker's Obsession, Jamison sets his mind to ensure that Sara will be protected, no matter the cost. The MC he's committed so much of his life to will challenge his new loyalty to Sara, but Sara will prove to be the real challenge as she fights to decide whether she should trust this man she's starting to fall for. 
Jamison has proven that he can become absolutely unhinged in the name of protecting her but she's not so sure that he'll feel the same way when he finds out what she did and why. 
Despite all of her misgivings, she can't get enough of this rugged man who has vowed to save her. After a lifetime of not being able to trust anyone can she find a way to trust him? And if she finally decides to let herself love him, what will she be willing to do to save him when he needs it?

**Note: This is Book 2 in a 3 book series and ends on a cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hope Rosen
• Release date: Jun 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227644824

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jamison McGarrity was a man of action, a man of certainty and most importantly: a man of his word. He had vowed to protect Sara, and even though she may have not have believed him, it didn’t matter - the promise had been made and was now etched on his heart.

Even though he knew he was simply doing what had to be done, it did not assuage the ache in his soul wrought by dumping Sara’s drugged, motionless body into the passenger seat of his truck.

He hadn’t bothered to tie her up - not at first - desperate to get as far away from the bar and Pike as quickly as possible. He sped away from town like the devil was on his heels, and in truth, he just might be -  or at the very least, one of his foot soldiers.

He hadn’t always thought his MC President, Roger, was an evil guy. Once upon a time, he’d looked up to the guy. When he was younger and trapped in that house with Frank, the carefree air of the bikers around the bar definitely appealed to him. He was sixteen years old and the thought of fast bikes, along with the ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude of club members spoke to everything in him that just wanted to get out.

Roger hadn’t treated Jamison like the young kid that was tortured and powerless by the abusive and dysfunctional relationship between his mom and stepdad. Instead, he’d treated Jamison like a man with a mind of his own, ready to take on the world and leave all the bullshit behind.

That probably would have been enough for him at that point, but then Roger had included him in something that would change his opinion for the better. Roger had asked for Jamison’s help. He would need Jamison to distract a deadbeat loser while he and a few other Reapers snuck into the man’s house and extracted his wife and young daughter. Roger explained to Jamison that occasionally women in trouble would reach out to the club. This particular woman had endured years of abuse at the hands of her husband, and now the husband had begun to take out his anger on their ten-year-old daughter too. She feared for their lives, and out of desperation, reached out to the club after hearing through the grapevine that the Smokin’ Reapers would help take care of ‘sticky" situations.

The operation had gone off without a hitch. Jamison had easily distracted the asshole while Roger and his men had taken the woman and her daughter to safety. Knowing that he’d been a part of her getting away from an abusive asshole (especially when he couldn’t get his own mother away from her abusive relationship) cemented Jamison’s admiration for Roger. That was until now.

His mind was still reeling from the turn-around. That little extraction was the first of many he would be a part of, except the next time he was a Prospect and eventually a full-fledged member. It had been such a big reason why he’d been so proud to be a Reaper -  they stood for something, and much of that had started with Roger.

In the last few years, Jamison had suspected that Roger may be into some shady dealings not becoming to the club, but he always reminded himself of all the good he’d spearheaded. But after hearing of Roger’s plans for Sara, everything he’d known about the man was thrown into question. The final nail in the coffin was the conversation picked up from the tap that Wes had installed on Roger’s phone.

We’ll find the bar bitch, don’t worry. She won’t talk. After I'm through with her she won’t be able to talk to anyone anymore.

The idea that Roger was planning on killing anyone made his stomach churn, sick in the knowledge that the man he’d once looked up to was a cold-blooded killer. Hearing Roger’s plans of brutally disposing of the very woman that Jamison found himself falling for made fear spike through him in a way it hadn’t since he’d been a small child listening in his bedroom as his stepfather beat the crap out of his mom.

So he sped towards a fishing cabin out in the woods, left to him by a war hero grandfather that he never knew. Halfway there, he found a place to pull over, far out in the country. With no cars to be seen, Jamison scooted over on the bench seat and gently wrapped rope around Sara’s feet and then her wrists. He kept his eyes averted, trying his hardest to focus on the task at hand. But the soft, velvety skin on the inside of her wrists caused his stomach to twist viciously. His eyes flew to her face, sure that he had heard her sharp intake of breath.

Her face was placid and smooth, lost to the chaos ensuing inside of his head. Bile rose in his throat. He felt like a monster, tying up her limp body - the very body he’d sought so desperately to please, reveling in its heady response to his touch.

Swallowing back the agony of it he pulled out a clean, worn bandana from his pocket and secured it around her head, covering her eyes. He couldn’t risk the beams of sunlight that were coming through the windshield piercing through her drugged haze any sooner than necessary. Binding her up like this was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew that if she came to before they got to the cabin she would fight like hell to escape - no matter that he was just trying to keep her safe.

He wouldn’t blame her, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not the first time she’d dealt with psychopaths like Roger.

He gently set her bound hands in her lap. Returning to the driver’s side of the bench seat of his truck, he jerked the gear shift back into drive, letting gravel fly as he barreled down the deserted road. The quicker he could get her to that cabin the quicker they could figure out what Roger was up to and how Sara played into it, and, most importantly, why she was such a threat to Roger.

I’m sorry, Babygirl, he whispered to her unconscious form. I’m only doing what I have to. He fought the stinging in his eyes and pressed his foot further down on the gas pedal hoping to God that when she woke up she’d soon realize he wasn’t the enemy.

Chapter 2

A deep, twangy voice filtered in from somewhere far away. Sara heard a small groan. Her throat felt scratchy and dry, and she realized with some alarm that the groan had come from her.

She wanted to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt like they were weighted down. When she did manage to crack them open all she could see was faint shadows passing through whatever was tied around her eyes. She tried to concentrate. She felt movement; she was definitely in a vehicle of some sort.

Tentatively, she moved her fingers and found that her hands were tied together. She flexed her ankle and found that her feet were tied together as well. Whoever tied her up knew what they were doing, giving her just enough slack to be able to move slightly and keeping her hands and feet from going numb, but making sure those ties were impossible to get out of.

Well, shit.

Sara took a deep, quiet breath to steady herself, trying her hardest to lessen the wave of panic that was threatening to rip through her. She knew all too well that panic would only worsen her situation.

There were a couple of possibilities as to who had taken her, and she feared the worst. The most immediate answer would be the Smokin’ Reaper’s President: Roger. According to Jamison, Roger seemed to think she had information, although what she could know that could possibly be so vital to Roger or his club she had no clue. The only thing she knew about the Reapers was the possessive, slightly demented, and completely beguiling Jamison, who seemed equally clueless to the reasoning behind Roger’s convictions, but he had seemed hell-bent on finding out. At least that was the pretense he was presenting.

After all of her experiences she’d learned to trust no one, and it was what was in her past that truly terrified her the most at that moment. She’d done so well to outrun her past, but she always felt deep down that it was just a matter of time before she was found out by the slimy cop who’d forced her into her current situation.

Had she gotten so complacent? She’d been so distracted after Frank’s death and then Jamison had shown up.

Jamison.

He had definitely proven himself unpredictable, but would he take it this far? This seemed extreme even for him.

What was she saying? The man broke into her trailer and watched her shower, not to mention he’d forced her back to said trailer when she’d tried to skip town.

Still, she couldn’t rule out the possibility that Detective Aron had finally tracked her down in spite of her changing her name and virtually falling off the grid. Aron certainly wasn’t above resorting to criminal resources to get what he wanted. He fancied himself some sort of archangel that was impervious to wrongdoing since his badge told the public he was one of the good guys. Sara learned the hard way that Aron would do absolutely whatever it took to get what he wanted and make himself look good.

The last time she’d been tied up had been in that storage locker when she’d prayed for her life to end before Aron and his cronies handed her over to the highest bidder. Now, here she was again, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and praying.

She took another tremulous breath, Who are you? her voice came out surprisingly strong, and she was buoyed by the fact that it didn’t crack. But her question was met with silence. Heart pounding, she asked again, Who are you? Why am I here?

Silence. Only the sound of the static of the radio occasionally being broken up by the sound of a twangy voice struggling through the sketchy reception met her ears.

Dammit.

Her palms were sweating, and no matter how hard she attempted to calm herself she couldn't stop the racing of her heart. She squeezed her eyes tight and uttered the word she detested, please, she beseeched, her voice quiet.

She heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a harsh voice said, Don’t beg.

Was that him? It was said so fast that she couldn’t tell. She tried again, I don’t have anything to give, I don’t know anything, no possessions, nobody’s going to give you ransom. The words rushed out frantically in spite of her better judgment, I’m not anything to anybody.

Shit, she thought, way to make it all the more easy for this guy to dispose of her with no one the wiser. But it was too late, she couldn’t take it back now. She held her breath, mentally rebuking herself for letting her mouth go.

There was a long pause, then a voice - a man’s voice, firm but quiet, You’re something to somebody, he said.

Jamison.

His voice rolled over her like a tidal wave, and she clung to the sound desperately, hopefully.

Jamison? she asked. It was quiet, but her ears picked up his breathing.  It was slightly louder now. For all the relief that rushed through her that it was  him, it was quickly replaced with anger. You son of a bitch, she breathed. She heard the changing of gears and the engine whining as the vehicle accelerated. You son of a bitch! she said again her voice rising with every syllable, punctuating her curse with the kick of her bound feet against the dash.

He turned the vehicle sharply, and she fell to her side, her head landing on what she guessed was his thigh, because she could feel heat and fabric against her cheek. She tried to right herself, but was unsuccessful as she felt what she can only presume was a truck by the way it handled.

The truck struggled up a steep incline, forcing her back against the seat and causing her head to butt up against his hip. She could feel his arm moving the steering wheel above her, but he did not touch her, just mashed his foot down on the gas pedal. She heard the gears winding up, and an ‘oomph’ escaped her as she fell back.

I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, she hollered, then fell back against him again as the truck came to a sudden halt. The engine was shut off. She heard the driver’s side door creak open. He slid out, letting her head bounce softly onto the seat. She heard boots crunching on the ground and a long sigh. A jolt of surprise dumped into her gut when she finally felt hands sliding underneath her armpits, hauling her out of the truck. Kicking her feet violently did not loosen his hold on her. Because of her flailing, she landed unsteadily on her feet, but he was there holding her up.

Frustrated, she shrieked and swung her bound hands, but he was too quick and she just chopped the air. You sick bastard, she seethed through gritted teeth.

His hands slid to her hips, and she cursed the shiver they inspired. He took a firm hold of her hips and lifted her, swinging her over his shoulder. Her bound hands beat his back, and she did her best to knee him in the stomach, but his arm was too tight around her thighs.

Jamison! she screamed.

Calm your ass down. You’re ok, he ordered. This only worsened her sense of panic; she could feel it welling up inside her. She was trying to tamp it down and trying to wriggle out of his hold, every instinct in her urging her to fight then flee. The sound of his boots stepping on wood reached her ears through her haze of disbelief and anger. He stopped and shifted her weight a little bit; she heard the creaking of a door and the whoosh of cool air, then the sound of the door slamming behind them. He swung her off his shoulder, unceremoniously dumping her onto a bed, and yanked off the bandana covering her eyes. Light rushed into her eyes, and she blinked furiously.

Immediately, she righted herself and began clawing, as best as she could in the circumstances, at her restraints. Miraculously, she felt a little give on the binding around her hands.

Her victory was short-lived however, for she felt him come over to her, grabbing her wrists, a piece of cold metal against her skin and the feel of the binding giving way. She swung her now free wrists and made contact with him, she could feel that treacherous heartbeat thumping wildly beneath her striking palm, but he did not say a word: just tried in vain to wrestle her flailing arms.

Sara, calm down please, he pleaded, but to no avail. Please, I don’t want to have to tie you to the bed, he warned now through gritted teeth as her elbow came into contact with his rib. She didn’t even see him, she just kept moving wildly in the hopes of getting him off guard enough that he would slip, and she could make a break for it.

Somewhere in the struggle, her shirt ripped partially, and the sound of that ripping material sent her completely over the edge.

Flight response in full, rigorous mode, the terror was rising up her throat, so much so that she didn’t even realize that she was shrieking. The sound was agonizing to his ears and his heart as she struggled against him, and he finally got her hands secured to the headboard.

How she didn’t pass out he didn’t know, because she wouldn’t take a breath from her ear-splitting screaming, calling him every name under the sun and telling him what a waste of human flesh he was. The words didn’t hurt him, but the panic on her face, the fear emanating from her body, pierced straight through him. She did not beg. She did not plead. She squalled like a wounded animal fighting for her life, which he supposed she was - just not against him like she was thinking. But he certainly couldn’t blame her, even if it did feel like a jagged knife being run through him.

The keening wail emitting from her struggling body undid him. Enough! he roared. To his surprise she stopped, her chest heaving, trying to breathe, and that’s when he saw it. In the melee of trying to get her restrained, he had not gotten a clear shot of her face. But now he saw it, the wetness on her face, the tears in her eyes.

He looked down at her, agonized by the sight. His fingers gentled on her tied hands. He ran his fingertips over where the rope dug into her skin. He hadn’t made the ties that tight, but her struggling had made the rope dig in.

That, with the combination of her teary eyes, sent his stomach rolling again. He bolted from the bed and swung open the front door, leaving it wide open while the old aluminum screen door snapped shut behind him. He barely made it off the front steps before he doubled over and heaved. Very little came out, but despite his stomach being empty, his chest continued to heave, straining against the sick pressure bearing down on him.

From her vantage point on the bed, Sara watched all of this in a confused, fear-driven stupor. Through the mesh of the screen door, she watched as Jamison’s broad back spasmed beneath the power of his body expelling its contents.

She wished she could derive some satisfaction from his discomfort, but it only added to her confusion. She watched carefully as he rose uneasily, his shoulders moving rapidly from sucking in deep breaths. She heard him bite off a nasty oath and let out a low, frustrated growl. That growl carried his legs striding towards the truck, where she could  partially see through the blinds on the window next to the door that he swung his fist into the side of his truck.

The sound of the impact created a nasty cracking noise from bone hitting metal, but it did not seem to deter him. She watched as he let out a fierce roar from the back of his throat that did not denote physical pain, but rather intense frustration... then silence.

If she strained her ears, she thought she could hear harsh breathing, but at that point she couldn’t tell if it was his or her own. The room may have been spinning for her, but she determinedly focused her gaze on the man hunched over the bed of his truck, his head bent. After a long pause, he straightened, and her body stiffened in preparation as he climbed the steps and came back into the cabin. It was then that Sara really noticed just how shitty he looked. Bags under his eyes, pale, worn.

He entered the cabin, keeping his eyes averted; he made a beeline towards the cabinets and sink on the other side of the front door. Turning on the water, he stuck his mouth directly underneath the faucet, rinsing his mouth out and spitting the water out forcefully. When done, he yanked open one of the cabinet doors and pulled out a small bottle of whiskey, and unscrewed the top with noticeably shaking hands.

The silence was deafening in the cabin, so her quiet, scratchy voice was startling. He was taking another healthy swig of the whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn, when he heard her ask, You gonna bogart all of that?

He looked back at her, her tear-streaked face, her rumpled clothes, her tired, determined eyes. God, it really was too late for him.

After examining her for a moment, he walked toward the bed clutching the bottle. He sat down next to her almost gingerly, keeping eye contact as he twisted the top off the bottle and carefully brought the bottle to her lips. He tipped it gently, and she took a greedy swallow, not wincing in the slightest, but a little bit of the liquor slipped past and started to dribble down her chin. Without thinking, he reached out and wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. He watched carefully as her eyes dilated, still pooling with moisture.

After a long silence, she finally asked, There a reason you can’t keep anything down?

You’re crying, he answered simply.

No, I’m not.

Sara, he said softly cupping her cheek in his hand, his thumb swiping a tear away. It was only then that she even felt the wetness on her face, and it felt like a sock in the chest causing her lips to part from her sharp intake of breath. Without even thinking, Jamison leaned forward and replaced his thumb with his lips, tasting the salt of her tears. She could feel the tip of his tongue barely touch her cheek, and she had to suck in a deep breath at the onslaught and power of the emotion. His eyes were squeezed tight, and Sara could feel that squeeze inside of her chest.

Why are you doing this? she whispered, shutting her own eyes tight against a fresh wave of tears.

Because I want you to live, he ground out in a low, anguished voice.

She opened her eyes, and he felt the brush of her eyelashes against his skin. He sucked in a ragged breath as he pulled back from her only slightly, I know there’s something in your past, Babygirl, something big- he stopped, swallowing hard, then pushed forward, determined, "but whatever it is, I’m not going to let anyone do it to you again -  I’m not going to do it to you," his broken voice growled through gritted teeth.

The silence that filled the cabin was cloying, in that space of time where he watched an entire, pain-ridden life play out in Sara’s eyes. Eyes that appeared to be all cried out - wide, weary and sadly resigned, the sound of her hushed words struck the silence and his heart like a sledgehammer slung from a slingshot, Then untie me.

The implication of her words hit him hard. He bolted from the bed. The thought that someone had trussed her up and restrained her made his stomach roll again, even as he was doing the same thing to her.

He eyed her wearily. Everything caustic and realistic in him saying she could very well be playing him, but everything else in him simply did not care. This was when he knew for sure that he was done for. She had him by the balls, and strangely, he was at peace with this. It was like a definitive shift had taken place, and now he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He reached forward and she flinched. Relax, he said softly around the lump in his throat. He undid the ties easily. She ripped her hands from them quickly. He did not step back. Instead, he stood before her, his hands