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“He is,” Emilia mumbled under her breath.
“You ain’t gettin’ shit,” my dad said firmly. Parker jerked back in surprise at the venom in his words. “And in case you were thinkin’ about botherin’ my son and his woman again—don’t. Club’s got a long arm and a long fuckin’ memory.”
“This isn’t over,” Parker blustered, opening his car door. “Cops’ll be real interested.”
“Let me stop you there,” I said through my teeth, making him pause. “You were payin’ Emilia under the table and I’m guessin’ you pay everyone else that way, too. Pretty sure that ain’t exactly legal. Gramps?”
“It sure isn’t,” Gramps muttered, glaring.
He gaped at me like a fish, searching for something to say.
“Don’t fuck with me,” I finished. “You won’t like the result.”
“Parker,” Emilia called as he threw himself into the car. “How did you even find me?”
The douchebag scoffed. “Bitch, if you were trying to hide, you shouldn’t have been runnin’ your mouth to all the other useless gash I employ.”
Only Gramps’s hand on my chest stopped me from ripping him back out of the car.
Seconds later he pulled away, spraying gravel like a moron.
“Don’t wanna deal with this bullshit again,” Dragon muttered, shooting me a look. “Waste of my goddamn time.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emilia said, her voice hitching.
Dragon ignored her as he walked back toward the clubhouse.
“I didn’t mean for—” Emilia’s words cut off as my dad wrapped his hands around her head, his palms on her cheeks, pulling her closer so he could kiss her forehead.
“Family takes care of family,” he murmured. “Don’t matter if you took five hundred or five million, yeah? It’s over.”
“Hell yeah, we do,” Rumi said with a grin.
Dad, Gramps and Rumi walked away, leaving us standing alone in the middle of the forecourt.
“I didn’t take five thousand dollars,” Emilia said, turning to me. “I swear, Michael. I only took what he owed—”
“You don’t think you shoulda given me a heads up?” I asked in frustration.
I’d thought we’d gotten past all that shit. I thought she’d told me everything. Instead, her old boss had shown up at the club while they were throwing her a fuckingwelcome to the familybarbeque saying she stole a bunch of money. Jesus, had Rumi been right when he’d reminded me I didn’t know her anymore?
“Jesus Christ, Emilia,” I spat. “What else aren’t you tellin’ me?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “Nothing, that’s it.”
“Right,” I muttered, stepping around her. “Go back inside.”
The rage I’d tamped down for years bubbled, and I found myself clenching and unclenching my hands. I’d never hurt Emilia, not in a thousand years, but all of the anger coursing through my veins needed a goddamn outlet.
She’d been in Oregon for a week and she hadn’t said shit. She’d driven my son from Arizona with a target on their backs, and she hadn’t said shit. We were goddamn lucky that he’d shown up at the club. That motherfucker could’ve shown up at our house at any time while Emilia and Rhett were there alone, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. He could’ve found them at some cheap ass motel off the interstate before I’d even known Emilia was coming back to me or that Rhett existed. I thought about every time I’d come home from work while Rhett was playing in the back yard, the trips to the grocery store that Emilia had gone on alone, the way she’d had sagged in relief when she said they werefinally here, the way she’d glossed over the fact that her boss might be looking for her because she’d turned him down, the way I’d been blindsided when he showed up at the club asking to talk to whoever was in charge. The nasty look in his eyes as he’d watched Emilia defend herself, scared and shaking.
“Come on,” I barked, grabbing Emilia’s hand. I towed her behind me back to the clubhouse.
“I’m sorry,” she said, struggling to keep up. “I know I should’ve said something, but—”
“We’ll talk about it later,” I ground out.
I knew myself. I knew that I needed to get my emotions under control before we had any kind of conversation. My skin felt too tight over my bones, almost itchy, so heated that I was sweating even in the cool air.
