Thornhill Road (Love Me Tender)

Chapter Two

Mustang

Trix was late. Forty-five minutes late.

Mustang looked at the clock and felt his blood start to simmer.

It wasn’t just that he needed to be at the bar half an hour ago.

If work was the pressing matter, he could have called Winnie. Bull’s ol’ lady was always more than happy to help out where she could when it came to MK. She understood what it was to be a parent. She and Bull had three boys, the youngest of which was only a year older than his MK.

This worked out for his little girl, as Otto had become her best friend.

Mustang was alright with that and foresaw he would be until Otto hit puberty; at which point, should he get any ideas about changing the nature of his relationship with Mustang’s princess, he didn’t care if Otto was his president’s youngest son or not—they’d have words.

It was two forty-five.

His custody agreement with Trix stated Mustang had MK Sunday morning until Wednesday afternoon. His schedule revolved around his little girl, so long as he had a say in the matter. He closed the bar Mondays and Tuesdays not simply because their Friday and Saturday night draw alone was enough to get them through the entire week, but also because he wanted to be home with his girl.

It pissed him off knowing if Trix was more than forty-five minutes late, it was because she was prioritizing something else over their daughter.

If she didn’t show in the next fifteen minutes, he knew he could tag in Winnie. He’d take MK with him to the clubhouse, which was routinely kid-friendly during business hours, and have Winnie meet them there. Possible as it was, this wasn’t his preference. It was a gorgeous day outside, and he wanted to be on his hog. MK still had a couple inches to grow before she’d be able to ride, which meant he’d be in his truck if Trix didn’t show.

He looked from where he stood, leaning against the kitchen island, into his living room. MK was on her knees playing with a couple of her stuffed animals. Her dark, curly locks were wild and loose—the way he loved them best—and she swept a few strands out of her eyes as she continued the scene she’d been enacting on the coffee table in front of her. She was completely oblivious of her mother’s lateness.

It still pissed him off.

He heard it when a car pulled into his driveway five minutes later, and he looked in the direction of the front door.

“Princess, time to put your toys up.”

“Oh, but daddy, do I have to?” she whined as she got to her feet. “Can’t I take Mr. Snuggles and Mr. Twinkles with me this time?”

He pushed himself upright and started for the door. “No, baby. You know the drill. They’ll be here when you get back.”

“Okay,” she said on a sigh, her shoulders slumped as she made her way to her room.

Mustang waited until she was out of sight, then opened the storm door and stepped out onto his front porch. He then proceeded to meet Trix halfway.

Four years he’d had his house. Not once had she so much as peeked inside.

His home was his sanctuary. It was MK’s safe haven. He’d bought it for her, and the only other woman who’d ever stepped foot inside was Winnie. Trix might have been the mother of his child, but she sure as hell was not welcome into his home.

As she approached, he took in her appearance.

Her long, curly hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she wore a pair of jeans that sat low at her hips. Her cropped Guns-N-Roses tank top revealed her narrow waist and flat stomach. She had on her usual amount of caked on makeup, barely concealing the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days and could put on a few pounds.

Every time he saw her, he wondered how on earth he’d ever found her appealing—let alone desirable for the three months he’d fucked her on the regular. Like most of the sheep who hung around the clubhouse, she’d been easy pussy. She was never more than that, and he’d never claimed her, but she certainly wanted him to—as evidenced by the four-year-old daughter they shared.

She’d poked a hole in his condom thinking she could trap him into making her his ol’ lady.

She’d thought wrong.

That was back in the day, before the club was clean. Back when the code of the Stallion brotherhood was being compromised from the top down.

The Wild Stallions were always going to straddle the line when it came to the letter of the law—clean or not—but Stallion code was something else. The code of the brotherhood was sacred, or so it should have been. The number one rule of the house was no drugs. It was their job to move the drugs, not consume them. Addicts were sloppy.

Stallions were outlaws.

They knew how to party.

But they weren’t supposed to mix business with pleasure.

Back then, Trix was a hang around who hung around too much. She was into that shit, but Mustang wasn’t. When he found out she was pregnant, he warned her that if she didn’t get clean, she was on her own with the kid. She sobered herself up, hopeful he’d change his mind about them.

What she failed to understand was, clean or not, he would not be manipulated.

She was pissed when MK was born and he still refused to claim her as his woman, but she’d needed the help, so she didn’t cut him out of their daughter’s life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Mustang realized Trix was incapable of staying on the straight and narrow. She wasn’t into the hard stuff, not anymore, but she was a fan of the high, and he couldn’t trust her.

She’d never totally fucked up, but he was always on his guard. The only reason he hadn’t sued for full custody was because he knew MK loved her and because she used to be a hang around who hung around too much.

She knew things. Things she shouldn’t know.

She threatened him with that shit all the time.

“You’re late,” he muttered as she came to a stop in front of him. “You work from home. What the fuck, Trix?”

“Whatever. I’m here. I’m sure you’re both fine.”

He clenched his jaw and reached for her chin, angling her head up so he could look her right in the eyes.

She tried to jerk out of his hold, but his grip was too tight, and he wasn’t going to let go until he was sure. She’d given MK her dark, curly hair—but their daughter had gotten his eyes. Trix’s were russet brown, and currently clear.

She wasn’t high.

Good.

“You bastard,” she grumbled, swatting at his arm.

He let her go.

“Stay,” he told her before he returned into his house. “MK, come on, baby. Time to roll.”

He loaded MK into the backseat of Trix’s car and pressed a kiss into her hair before he said goodbye. He watched them leave, then went inside to grab his keys and his kutte. Not sixty seconds later, he was on his blue Harley Davidson Road King, headed for the compound.

The compound was where the Stallions spent most of their time. If they weren’t at the clubhouse, they were working; and if they weren’t working, they were at the clubhouse or home. For some, the clubhouse was home. It had been for Mustang when he first joined, until he’d saved up enough money to get his first apartment.

Work came in a variety of forms for those in the MC—and not all of it was club business. Since MK was born, for Mustang, it rarely was. After the hostile takeover that ended with Bull as the president over all the Wild Stallions, things had been different. A lot of their business was legit.

The garage had been around as long as the club. They did good work which meant they had a faithful customer base, allowing them to earn their keep. Fixing up bikes was their specialty, but their guys could handle anything with a motor.

The auto-parts store was a late addition. Mustang had been a Stallion for a good five years before someone suggested they expand. The club was growing, and business—on and off the books—was good. They had the capital, so they made it happen. Turned out to be not just a good idea, but a profitable one.

For a while, things were steady.

And then they weren’t.

When business got messy, it was Bull who started recruiting guys to side with him in an effort to clean up the club. Their off-the-record work was getting more dangerous, brothers were getting caught, a couple had gotten themselves killed. Mustang knew he wanted to be around, not in the ground, and he was quick to pick a side.

It had been his idea to go one step further than righting the ship.

He thought they could change the game entirely.

That’s when he tossed out the idea of building a biker bar.

It was something he’d been thinking about for a while. He’d even stashed a good bit of his earnings to make it happen. The timing seemed right, if the club could put up the funds to get him the rest of the way there.

Bull had been surprised that Mustang, of all his brothers, wanted to open a bar. As far as Mustang was concerned, it was a sure way to rake in cash that could supplement what they would lose if they got out of the drug trafficking business.

But it was more than that, too.

It was also his chance to have a place where good bands could come play. He’d cross state lines to find and enjoy a killer show, but he liked the idea of bringing great talent to the northeast corner of Wyoming.

Shit went down. Civil war ensued. The good guys won. Then Steel Mustang was born.

He pulled onto their lot in under four minutes and took a sharp right turn, headed straight for the bar. There were already a couple bikes parked out front, and he was quick to make his way inside. The overhead sound system was playing, a couple of his brothers were shooting pool in the corner, and Rodeo was behind the bar while Wrangler sat with a beer on the other side of it.

“Hey. You good?” asked Rodeo with a jerk of his chin.

He was one of the first brothers to join the club under new leadership, voted in just two years ago. He was a good kid, and Mustang liked him, which meant he worked behind the bar most nights.

“Trix,” was all Mustang said in response.

“Fuck. ‘Nough said,” muttered Wrangler.

Wrangler was the club’s enforcer. He’d been around for more than a decade and was elevated into his role when Bull became president. It had been the right call, and not one of them disapproved of the appointment.

“Phoenix?” Mustang inquired, speaking of his bar manager.

Unlike the majority of his crew, she was not part of the club—she just kicked ass. From the moment she showed up for her interview, he knew he’d be a fool to turn down a woman who could hold her own in a bar full of bikers the way she could. Phoenix always had a fire in her belly and a knife on her hip. Their regulars knew not to mess with her.

“She’s—”

“Right here,” she interrupted as she shoved her shoulder into the swinging door that opened up behind the bar. Her arms were full of five bottles of unopened liquor. “Little help,” she said, looking to Rodeo.

He was quick to unload her arms. With her hands free, she sighed, planted her palms against the edge of the bar, brought her eyes to meet Mustang's and teased, “Nice of you to join us.”

It may have been a stereotype to assume all redheads were feisty, but this one certainly was.

“Trix,” he repeated.

Phoenix scrunched her nose. “Oh.” She then shrugged and added, “Well, we’re good here. And we’ve still got a couple hours before the band shows and business starts to pick up. If you need to get anything done in the back, have at it.”

Mustang nodded in a silent show of appreciation, then headed for his office.