My father belonged to the Aces MC. The Aces controlled the gun trade on the West Coast from Fresno to Vancouver. All of them had rap sheets, and many of them had outstanding warrants. They lived by their own rules—the law of the club—and once you were in, you were there until you died.
Pop wasn’t just a member. He was the vice president.
“Why didn’t you come home, love? You know I would have taken care of you,” he said.
“I couldn’t, Pop.” I looked down at my hands, so he wouldn’t read anything on my face.
“Well, it’s water under the bridge now, I suppose.” He sighed but looked at me knowingly. “I don’t want you to worry anymore. It’ll be taken care of.”
I wanted to argue, but this was what I came for, wasn’t it? I knew what the Aces were capable of, and I also knew that I belonged to them. No one messes with an Ace.
After a few tense moments, he spoke again. “Tell me, why would you give that beautiful granddaughter of mine an awful name like Trix? What the fuck is that? A cereal?”
I giggled softly. “It’s short for Bellatrix. Bellatrix Colleen.”
“Ah, Colleen is a good Irish name. Where the hell did you find Bellatrix?”
A raspy voice that I thought I’d never hear again answered from the doorway. “Bellatrix, a star on Orion’s belt. It’s Latin for female warrior.”
I was afraid to look up. I knew he would be here, but I hoped against hope that we wouldn’t cross paths. It seemed silly in hindsight since the clubhouse wasn’t really that big. The odds of us completely missing each other were slim at best. I clenched my hands so tightly that my knuckles turned white before I finally glanced up at the man I’d thought I knew so well five years ago. If I thought I could get through this without my secret becoming known, I was mistaken.
For there, standing in the doorway, was Dragon, and he was holding our daughter in his arms.
I hadn’t seen her in five years. The minute Poet got a phone call from the gate, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I knew it was her. I was instantly brought back to when we’d first met. It was at my party—the night I’d gotten my cut.
I was well on my way to being shitfaced the first time I saw her. Not the best beginning, but I swear, the minute I saw her, I sobered up pretty fuckin’ quick.
I had spent the first few hours at the party doing anything I could to ignore the pain from the recent and massive tattoo on my back—a reminder I would have forever. I was an Ace for life. There would be no running, and my brothers would kill me rather than turn their backs. I knew shrinks would have a field day with my abandonment issues, but I didn’t give a fuck. It felt good to be somewhere solid. If I were being honest, I was really fuckin’ proud of it. After a year of probation, and even more time before that just hanging around, I was in.
I could feel the blood on my back sticking to my T-shirt, and every time I moved, my cut dragged against both. My fuckin’ back was on fire. This was why I had been carrying around a fifth of Jack, and I was already more than halfway through it.
She was spectacular—all legs and tits. I wasn’t sure why her legs looked so long ’cause she was actually pretty tiny, but I was sure her almost nonexistent shorts and high-heeled sandal things had a lot to do with it. She had a torn T-shirt on, and Jim Morrison’s eyes were staring at me from across her tits. Damn, the old boy had never looked so good. She walked in like she owned the joint, and I was surprised when she stopped to talk to some of the guys and their old ladies. I sure as hell had never seen her before. She didn’t look like one of the girls that hung around—too little hair and too little makeup—but she really couldn’t be anything else. This wasn’t Sunday brunch; good girls didn’t just show up in the middle of an Aces party. Didn’t happen.
She seemed like she was looking for someone, but she didn’t find whoever it was because, eventually, her head turned back toward me. I won’t pretend like we held gazes or any of that stupid shit. She was across the room, and I couldn’t even tell what color her eyes were for chrissake. I could tell she was looking at me though. After a few minutes, she turned completely away from me, and I got hard, just like that. The back of her T-shirt was cut down to her waist, and I could see a lacy green bra strap across her back.
Fuck. Me.
I just stood there, watching her, looking like a tool, as she gave hugs to the women around her—wondering how that fucking shirt stayed on. She actually hugged the boss’s old lady, Vera. Shit, that bitch was hard as nails. Who the fuck was this girl?
I followed her ass out of the clubhouse. It was like she was one of those sirens who lured men to their deaths. She was holding some sort of invisible leash, and I was tagging along behind her like a goddamn puppy. When I made it outside, she was sitting on the hood of her car with her heels resting on the front bumper of a 1969 red convertible Beetle.
I instantly pictured her naked and spread out over the hood of the bug while I feasted on her. Did the carpet match the drapes? Yeah, I was pretty sure she had that fiery red hair down below. No way that mop of curls on top of her head wasn’t natural. Or maybe she was bare—fuck, I bet she was. Most of the bitches that hung around here kept things bare or at least trimmed short. I loved it when women kept everything waxed. It felt so much better against my face and made them way more sensitive to the scratch of my beard.
She seemed surprised to see me when I walked up and stood right between her legs. The girls around the club knew the score. It wasn’t like I instantly crawled on top of her, but she acted like I had. She scooted back as far as she could until I caged her in with my hands resting on each side of her hips.