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Jesus. “Has Lyla ever dated some asshole she met at a gas station?”
“Not that I know of. Lyla doesn’t really date.”
“Good.”
She pauses in the middle of swiping a fry through ketchup to glance up at me. “Good? You think it’s good that your daughter is lonely?”
“No, I just meant it’s good that she’s not…dating a bunch of losers.”
“You mean sleeping with them, right? Well, don’t worry. She’s not. She’s still a virgin.”
“Oh hell, I didn’t ask!”
“I know you didn’t, but you obviously were worried she’s running around the campus like a little slut.”
“I would never call my daughter a slut.”
“But you would call me one, wouldn’t you?”
CHAPTERTHREE
Holly
When Mr. Perry doesn’t respond to my question, I realize it’s true.
He thinks I’m a slut.
And because that label hurts, I want to hurt the brooding asshole back.
“Lyla is failing three classes.”
“What?” he exclaims.
Shit. Sorry, Lyla. Thanks to my alcohol-addled brain, it didn’t occur to me until after the words left my mouth that I was screwing her over with her dad. “It’s not a big deal. She’s unhappy. I think she wants to drop out.”
“Drop out? Now? When she’s so close to graduating? Are you fucking kidding me?” If I thought he was angry at the club, I was wrong. Now he’s pissed. Furious.
“I’m not sure how close she is to graduating, but does it matter? She’s not happy. If she drops out, could you at least try not to be a dick to her?”
“Since when do you think you can tell me how to treat my daughter?”
“Since I grew up with a mother and father who didn’t give a damn what I did unless it made them look bad in front of their friends.”
“That’s why you didn’t call them to come get you tonight?”
“I haven’t spoken to them in years. I would rather hitchhike home than call them for help,” I tell him truthfully. “Besides, I’m not even sure if they would have come.”
Isaac doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stares at me, his blue eyes narrowed, jaw clenched in anger. I know he wouldn’t hit me, or any woman for that matter, but he looks like he’s considering it.
“What?” I ask him, the shots making me braver than I’ve ever felt around him. The man is scary in the daylight. Late at night, pissed off he has to deal with a messy drunk girl, he looks ready to explode into violence.
After all, he is the president of a badass motorcycle club, as the patch on the front of his jacket continuously reminds me.
“What do you mean, what?” he finally mutters quietly.
“Could you please stop looking at me like I’m…I’m a thorn in your ass that’s growing bigger by the second?”
“You are a thorn in my ass getting bigger by the second!”
