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“Heckler is another one. I don’t know his real name. He’s one of their enforcers, but the other big name to know is their VP. Ghost. I can’t remember if I’ve told you about him or not. His name is Shane King.”
“King?”
“He goes by Ghost.”
Bren didn’t reply, but she didn’t hand the phone over either.
“Word’s been put out that you’re protected. My cop friend let me know that the last time I was there. Having said that, you go in there, looking for Dad, I can’t guarantee there won’t be someone going rogue. You stabbed one of theirs. They take that seriously, very seriously. You might not be as protected anymore.” A beat. “I really don’t want you going there.”
But we were.
Bren looked up, holding my gaze.
I reached over, taking the phone from her. Her fingers didn’t move.
“It’s Cross again.”
“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Wait. Maybe I should come?”
Bren’s brother knew the score. You try to cage Bren in, and she’d break free every time. It was the only reason he was giving her what he knew, so he knew where she was going. He knew that. I knew that. Bren knew that. And seeing her look, Bren was set.
I said into the phone before hanging up, “We have her back.”
Jordan glanced back, pausing at a red light, meeting my gaze. Yeah. He knew what was happening.
We were following our crew member.
BREN
I had no plan. I just knew that when Jordan pulled up outside The Twister Sister, I needed to talk to my dad. Ignoring the entire row of Harleys backed up and parked in front of the door, I headed inside. A few bikers were at the door. I recognized the cut and emblem of the Red Demons. Two had the word ‘prospect’ across the back of their cut. All of them stopped, skimming me over, but I walked past.
They didn’t stop me, or Cross and Jordan.
One of the guys was pulling out a phone just as I stepped inside and waited for my eyes to adjust.
The inside was a stark contrast from the sunny outside.
The music in the background was at a soft lull. It wasn’t overbearing, and neither was the smoke. The smell of stale booze lined with a faint trace of sweat and dust. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed different groups inside. A few pool tables were smack in the middle of the room, with different bar counters placed throughout the bar. A large main bar ran the length of the back end of the room. High-top tables and lower tables were placed all over. Some dartboards were on the far side of the room, alongside the jukebox. A stage was in the corner, running the length of a wall. The hallway to the bathroom was just beyond where the stage was set up. An open floor area was in front of the stage.
A few guys were playing pool, and all paused to stare at us.
A group of people were bellied up at the bar, sitting and talking with the staff. Some waitstaff were handing out drinks. There were maybe twenty people inside, maybe a few more. For the large room, it didn’t seem like that many.
I heard movement behind me, a page being turned, and I looked.
My dad was sitting at a high-top table in the corner. He was alone. His arm was bandaged, and some of the papers from earlier were all spread out in front of him. A beer bottle was next to him, but unopened, and there was a coffee mug sitting beside it.
“Can I help you folks?” A waitress was heading for my dad, a coffee pot in hand. She paused, her black hair in two thick pigtails resting just beyond her shoulder. She had a white shirt tied in a knot underneath her rib cage, as well as tight purple shorts that just covered the tops of her thighs. Her makeup was red, rosy, and cheery. All three words came to mind. She looked like a ’50s pin-up girl, and her eyes were warm. Her smile was welcoming.
“Bren.”
“Aww, Pops. This your daughter?” The waitress moved around me, heading over to fill up my dad’s mug without him asking.
He was watching me, a lot more cautious than this morning. “Yeah. This is my daughter. Bren.” He had a pen in his hand, and with it he gestured to Cross and Jordan behind me. “And a few of her friends.”
The waitress’ smile just got warmer, but she barely took in the guys. Her hand went to her hip, the other still holding the coffee pot. “Well, there you go. Pops here is family, so you know what that means, right?”
I didn’t respond.
My dad coughed to clear his throat, and he stood from his stool. He moved around the waitress, patting her on the hip. “How about we get an order of some burgers and chicken baskets? My daughter is underage, her friends, too, so we’ll just do soda.”
