Chapter 32
The day-to-day action in the Royalla Motorcycle Club clubhouse returned to normal as if nothing had happened in the last twenty-four hours. That he hadn't killed a man. That Lydia's world had turned upside down.
Baddy walked inside to see members shuffling toward the back door, where they'd enter the garage. A shipment was scheduled to go out in two days.
Going in the opposite direction, he ignored the others and went straight to the kitchen. He wouldn't be able to work without getting something off his chest.
Baker stood at the counter with his hands braced on either side of a mug he wasn't drinking from. The older man looked up the second Baddy stepped through the doorway.
"How's my daughter?" Baker asked quietly.
The words hit Baddy wrong. So now, he wanted to claim Lydia as his daughter?
His skin prickled. A slow burn crawled up his spine. Lydia wasn't property, wasn't something to claim, wasn't something to send away. She belonged to him. His to protect. His to hold. His to bleed for.
And hearing someone else lay claim to her made something territorial and primal rise in his chest.
"She's resting." Baddy unclenched his hands. "She had a rough night."
Baker nodded, guilt flickering across his face. But Baddy wasn't done.
He stepped closer, close enough that only a few inches separated them. "Listen to me, brother."
Baker straightened, sensing the shift.
"I don't care that you're her father," Baddy spoke slowly, making sure his point was taken. "I don't care that you're Royalla. I don't care what history you and Lydia's mom have."
Baker's jaw tightened without saying a word.
"If you ever hurt her," Baddy continued, "brother or not, you'll pay for every tear that falls. I won't let anyone put her through more pain. I've already killed one person who thought they would hurt Lydia, I'm not afraid of killing someone else."
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Baddy wasn't fucking around. He'd claimed Lydia. He was going to make damn sure he made her happy.
Then Baker nodded once. Slow. Respectful. "I'd expect nothing less."
The tension between them eased a fraction. Enough for Baddy to breathe again.
Before either of them could say more, footsteps sounded behind them. Baddy looked over his shoulder.
Maureen stepped into the kitchen, stopping short when she saw him. She gazed through red-rimmed eyes and twisted her hands nervously in front of her.
She whispered, "Sorry, I didn't know you were here."
Baddy didn't soften. His loyalty was to Lydia. "How are you holding up?"
She swallowed. "I... I'm trying." Her gaze darted toward the doorway, as if she expected Lydia to appear. "How is she? Is she... is she okay?"
"She's shaken. Hurt. Mad. Confused." Baddy exhaled deeply. "But she's safe."
Maureen nodded quickly, tears threatening again. "Can you tell her I want to talk to her? Please? I need to explain everything. She deserves to know why I—"
"It's up to Lydia when or if she wants to talk to anyone," Baddy cut in gently but firmly. "Not me. Not you. Not Baker."
Maureen's face crumpled. "I just want her to understand."
"She needs time," Baddy said. "Time to breathe and wrap her head around all of this. When she's ready, she'll come to you."
Maureen wiped her eyes, accepting the order to wait even though it clearly hurt. He knew nothing about Lydia's mom, only that she was involved with Cusclan Motorcycle Club. That alone made him suspicious of her.
Baker stepped toward her, placing a steadying hand on her back. She leaned into him instinctively.
Baddy watched them for a moment—two people with a past, a past that involved Lydia. He had a strange mix of protectiveness and anger twist inside him.
He didn't know how everything would play out in the end.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Lydia wasn't facing any of it alone.
Not anymore.
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, already planning how to get through his day, so he could get back to her.
The air compressor shut off as he stepped into the garage. He inhaled deeply. The motor oil, metal, and the faint bite of paint thinner eased the tension in him. Before Lydia entered his life, this was where he spent most of his days.
Hunter looked up from the bike he was tuning, spotted Baddy, and jerked his chin toward the far corner. He followed the cue and found Kodiak standing beside the lift, arms crossed, watching a couple of prospects struggle getting the front panel off the vehicle.
Baddy nodded. Message received. Kodiak was looking for him.
He walked around the rollaway and approached Kodiak. His president didn't turn right away, but Baddy knew he'd sensed him.
"Prez," Baddy said.
Kodiak faced him. "Good. You're here. Saves me from sending someone to drag your ass out of bed."
Baddy arched a brow. Not once had he overslept in all the years he was due in at the clubhouse. "What's up?"
Kodiak pointed toward the open bay door. "After the next shipment goes out, you're back on the escort crew. We need your experience to get the truck loaded and out of Vancouver."
Baddy widened his stance, relieved to regain his position within the club. "Yeah. I'm in."
Kodiak studied him for a moment. "Things better at home?"
Home. Funny how that word meant something different now.
Baddy exhaled slowly. "Headed that way."
"Good." Kodiak grunted. "Baker's going through hell."
"That's his own doing." Baddy met his gaze. "You should know that Lydia's my old lady."
"Figured that was coming." A beat passed. Then Kodiak said, "Is she gonna keep working at Patty's?"
"That'll depend on what Lydia wants once she puts back the pieces of her life," Baddy said. "Not my call to make."
Kodiak's mouth twitched in approval. "Good answer."
The conversation ended there, clean and simple, the way things always were between them. Kodiak went back to barking orders at the prospects.
Baddy headed to the far side of the garage where the Mustang waited, taped off and primed. He grabbed the spray gun from Flash, adjusted the nozzle, and grabbed his mask.
The first sweep of paint hissed out in a smooth, even line. The task calmed him. Work. Noise. Focus.
It was exactly what he needed.
Because as much as he wanted to be home with Lydia, giving her the strength to go on with the new life that was handed to her, she needed space to breathe. To think. To figure out who she was now that everything she believed about her past had cracked open.
He'd be there when she was ready.
Until then, he'd keep his hands busy and his head clear.
The paint mist settled around him in a fine cloud, and the steady hiss of the spray gun drowned out everything else.
For now, that was enough.