"Count on it."
After she left, her absence filled the apartment—her scent on my sheets, her coffee mug in my sink. Three weeks of dancingaround each other, three days of hell thinking I'd lost her, and now she was mine.
But sneaking around? Hiding what we were? That shit ended now.
My whole life had been about taking what I wanted, consequences be damned. Why should this be different? Why should we hide like we were doing something wrong?
By three-thirty, my decision was made. Showered, dressed in my best jeans and my leather cut polished and proud. If I was declaring war on Sheriff Bill Jenkins, might as well look good doing it.
The ride to the sheriff's department took ten minutes. Could have been quieter, could have parked down the street, could have texted Quinn to meet me somewhere discrete.
Instead, I rumbled right up to the front entrance, engine deliberately loud, pipes echoing off the buildings. Deputies peered out windows. Good. Let them all watch.
I killed the engine but stayed on the bike, checking my watch. 3:58.
The front door burst open at 4:02, but not with Quinn.
Sheriff Bill Jenkins stormed out like thunder in uniform, face already red with rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing, McCarthy?"
"Waiting." I didn't move from the bike, didn't even remove my sunglasses. "That a crime now, Sheriff?"
"Making a disturbance outside a law enforcement building might be." His hand rested on his service weapon like I posed some kind of threat. "You've got ten seconds to clear out before?—"
"Dad."
Quinn's voice cut through his threat. She stood in the doorway, out of uniform, wearing jeans and a soft blue t-shirt, duty bag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze moved between us—her furious father, me on my bike—and the moment of her choice was visible on her face.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you."
She walked straight to me, each step deliberate, determined. Bill's complexion went from red to purple as understanding dawned.
"Quinn Marie Jenkins, don't you dare?—"
But she already had the spare helmet in her hands, the one I'd bought weeks ago hoping for this exact moment. "Dad, Wolf and I are together."
"Like hell you are!"
"It's not your choice." She turned to face him, magnificent in her defiance—spine straight, chin up, every inch the woman who'd pulled me over three weeks ago. "I'm twenty-eight years old. I can date whoever I want."
"He's a criminal! A thug! Everything I taught you?—"
"He's a good man." She cut him off, voice steady.
“I seriously doubt that Quinn. You have no clue who he really is, what that club is. You are being naive Quinn.”
I stood, moving beside Quinn but not touching her. This was her fight, her choice to make.
"You're right," Quinn said, surprising both of us. "He is MC. Vice President of the Pike Creek Riders. And I'm a deputy sheriff. And somehow, despite everything that says we shouldn't work, we do."
"If you get on that bike—" Bill's threat hung in the air.
"You'll what?" Quinn challenged. "Disown me? Fire me? I'm a good cop, Dad. Dating Wolf doesn't change that."
"It changes everything!"
"No," she said softly. "It changes your image of me. Your perfect daughter who follows all your rules. But I'm done living in your shadow."
She put on the helmet, swinging her leg over the bike behind me. Her arms wrapped around my waist, and the slight tremble in them spoke of adrenaline, not fear.
