4. CJ
CJ
The porch creaks under my weight as I shift in my chair, stretching my legs out, letting the early morning air settle over me. The scent of damp earth lingers from last night’s storm, mixing with the familiar aroma of coffee in my hand.
Beyond the railing, the land stretches wide—a gravel driveway leading to the garage where my bike’s parked, a couple of trucks belonging to the club guys who crashed here last night.
Past that, nothing but open fields and a tree line that borders the property, the sun just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
It’s peaceful. Or at least it should be.
But my mind is anything but calm.
I take a slow sip of coffee, exhaling hard through my nose. “What the fuck was she doing in my bar?” I mutter.
And with Hawk, of all people.
That’s what’s been sitting heavy on my chest since last night. Hawk might be my brother, my VP, but when I walked into that room and saw him about to fuck Marcy Hollingbow—I damn near lost my shit.
My grip tightens around the mug. Hawk had been pissed, of course. I had interrupted them mid-sex, after all.
But what the hell else was I supposed to do?
I heard the door was jammed, went to check on him, and boom—there she was, looking all flushed and wrecked, like she belonged there. Like she wasn’t the daughter of the man I hate most in this world.
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw clenching.
I’d pulled Hawk aside, asked him straight-up what the fuck was going on, but he just gave me that look—half pissed, half stubborn as hell—and told me it was none of my damn business.
Like hell it wasn’t.
I take another sip of coffee, the bitterness settling on my tongue.
I stare out at the fields beyond the porch, the morning still and quiet except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
The coffee in my hand has gone cold, but I don’t move to refill it.
I’m too lost in my own goddamn thoughts.
She ran.
Bolted out of that room like she was escaping a burning building, leaving Hawk standing there, half-dressed, pissed as hell, and me with more questions than I had time to sort through.
I hadn’t even had the chance to really lay into Hawk, hadn’t found the words to demand what the fuck he was doing with her.
Because Marcy Hollingbow didn’t belong in our world.
Not here. Not with us.
Not after what her father did.
I exhale heavily, my fingers flexing around the mug. My brain wants to focus on the present—on figuring out what the hell she was doing at my bar, wrapped around my VP—but the past claws its way forward instead, the way it always does when I let my guard down.
A cold, foreign night. My rifle in my hands, cocked and ready to fire.
The sound of boots crunching against the frost-covered ground, our breath misting in the frigid Russian air.
“Move fast. Get in, get out. No one sees you.”
We had our orders. Operation Blackthorne was supposed to be wrapped up in forty-eight hours. It was simple enough. We go in, retrieve the item, and get out.
But missions go south.
And this one… this one went to hell.
I shake my head, grinding my teeth as the memory tries to take root.
Not now. Not fucking now.
I force my thoughts back to the present, to the unanswered questions still burning in my skull.
What the hell was she doing at The Den? And why the fuck did she look at me like she had no idea who I was? Like her father hadn’t used us and gotten my best friend killed?
The weekend’s passed, but I still feel the same damn thing. Anger. Frustration.
And something worse.
Something that has my fists clenching, my gut twisting.
Curiosity.
I hear the porch door creak open before I see him. Small footsteps pad across the wooden floor, and then a tiny voice breaks through the mess in my head.
“Daddy, why you mad?”
I glance down to see Sam standing there, his too-big hoodie swallowing his little frame, sleeves bunched up around his hands where he’s gripping a cup of hot chocolate.
His dark hair is a mess from sleep, sticking up at odd angles, and his brown eyes—so damn much like his father’s—are wide with sleepy curiosity.
The sight of him is enough to knock some of the tension from my chest. I force a smirk, nudging the chair beside me with my foot. “Who says I’m mad?”
Sam huffs, unimpressed, and climbs up into the seat, settling in like a miniature version of me. He leans back, lifts his cup, and takes a slow sip before side-eyeing me. “You’re frowning.”
I raise a brow. “That right?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nods seriously, licking a bit of chocolate off his lip. “You only frown like that when the guys do something dumb.”
I snort. “That’s a lot of frowning, then.”
Sam grins, all proud of himself, and I can’t help but chuckle. He reads me like a damn book, and no matter how much I try to keep my shit under wraps, he knows when something’s up.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Just got some things on my mind, kid.”
“Club stuff?”
“Yeah.”
He nods like he understands, even though he’s still too young to know half of what we do. He just knows the 12 Devils MC is his family, that the guys would lay down their lives for him in a heartbeat.
And that, I would, without question.
Sam swings his feet idly, staring out at the fields. “Is it ’cause of that girl?”
I stiffen. My grip tightens on my coffee. “What girl?”
“The pretty one.” He gives me a knowing look, like I can’t bullshit my way out of this. “The one from the bar.”
Marcy.
I exhale, rubbing my thumb along the rim of my cup. “You spying on me now, kid?”
Sam shrugs, taking another sip. “Nah. I just heard the guys talking.” He pauses, then adds, “And you came home looking extra frowny.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile. “You always this nosy?”
Sam grins. “Yup.”
A comfortable silence settles between us. The sky is brighter now, the sun creeping higher, spilling light over the trees. Sam leans his head against my arm, still swinging his feet, completely at ease like he belongs here. Because he does.
He’s the only reason I got through the worst of it. The only reason I didn’t let the anger, the guilt, and the past swallow me whole.
I glance down at him, my chest going tight. “You good, buddy?”
He hums, nodding. “Mm-hmm.” Then he peeks up at me, grinning. “Are you good, Daddy?”
I smirk, ruffling his already wild hair. “Getting there, kid.”
It’s not a lie. But I also know I won’t really be good until I get some damn answers about Marcy Hollingbow.
I narrow my eyes at him, feigning suspicion. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for school, kid?”
Sam giggles into his cup like he’s just gotten away with something. “I thought you forgot all about it.”
“Oh, you thought, huh?” I set my coffee down and shift in my seat. “That so?”
Before he can react, I lunge. Sam squeals, trying to scramble out of the chair, but I’m faster. I wrap an arm around his middle and haul him up, throwing him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Daddy, nooooo!” he shrieks between laughter, kicking his feet as I carry him back inside.
“You tried to trick me, huh?” I growl playfully, shaking him a little. “Thought I’d let you skip school? You got another thing coming, kid.”
He’s still giggling when I dump him onto the couch, poking his sides until he’s breathless. He kicks at me weakly, face red with laughter, and I finally let up, standing over him with my arms crossed.
“You gonna get dressed now, or do I have to carry you to school in your PJs?”
Sam gasps, his little hands flying to the Spider-Man pajama pants he’s still wearing. “You wouldn’t.”
I arch a brow. “Try me.”
He scrambles up fast, darting toward his room. “I’m going! I’m going!”
Shaking my head, I follow behind, making sure he picks out something half-decent. He gets himself mostly dressed, but I help him with his jacket, zipping it up while he squirms. His hair is still a mess, so I grab a comb and run it through quickly while he scowls at me in the mirror.
“You’re making it all flat,” he complains.
“You had a bird’s nest on your head, kid. You’ll live.”
He pouts but doesn’t fight me too hard. When we’re finally done, he stands back, looking himself over.
“Lookin’ good,” I tell him, ruffling his hair one last time for good measure.
I straddle my bike, adjusting my gloves before glancing back at Sam, who’s fumbling with his helmet strap.
“Make sure that helmet’s on tight, kiddo.”
He huffs but fastens it properly, tugging on the chin strap to test it. “See? Not my first rodeo.”
I smirk, but as I watch him, a sharp, familiar ache wedges itself in my chest. Sam on the back of my bike, helmet secure, gripping onto me like he trusts me with his whole damn world. But it shouldn’t be me here.
It should be him.
His father.
My best friend.
I grip the handlebars tighter, my jaw locking.
Because of Jake fucking Hollingbow, Sam will never know his real dad. He’ll never hear his laugh, never have him at his football games, never get to be tucked in by the man who should have been here instead of me.
Because of that greedy, selfish son of a bitch, Sam lost everything before he even had the chance to know what he’d been given.
And now his daughter is waltzing into my bar? Into my club?
I don’t know what game she’s playing, but I’m gonna find out.
And if Marcy Hollingbow thinks she can walk into my world without consequence?
She’s got another thing coming.