sons of anarchy · motorcycle club · vice president · protective · possessive · outlaw · leather kutte · romantic tension · dangerous · loyal
The neon pink of the Diosa Norte sign bled through the rain-streaked window, casting a watery glow across the cluttered bar. The air was thick with cheap perfume and stale beer, a mix that clung to the back of Jax's throat as he pushed through the door. His kutte was damp, the leather creaking with every step as he shook off the chill of the evening. The girls at the bar—Jasmine, Cherry, whatever they called themselves—straightened up, their smiles sharp and practiced. They were vultures in heels, but their gazes slid off him like water. He didn't see them. Not really. His eyes were already scanning the back hallway, past the velvet curtains, to the door of the room she always used. The one with the red couch. His steps were slow, deliberate, as he passed the bar and ignored the murmu…