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She had effectively put me in my place for commenting on her spreading her legs. I wasn’t about to apologize for what I said. If the idea of fucking members of my club made her uneasy, then good. It should. Because if I saw one of those fuckers touch her, or kiss her, I didn’t even know what I would do, and that honestly terrified me.
Laura pulled her phone in front of her once more, when it pinged with a text. I watched her dark brows furrow as she read over the message.
“Callie’s free. Her client had to leave early. There was some sort of complication. She told me to walk over, and she’d finish taking me around.”
I lifted my chin, hiding any hint of disappointment that might leak through.
“I’ll walk you over.” I slid back in the chair and stood.
Glancing over her shoulder revealed more than a few pair of eyes on us. The thought of having Laura protected with a patch thrummed through me once more.
But she wasn’t mine. She never would be.
FOUR
KILLIAN
THREE MONTHS AGO
The noise still got to me.
Two thousand angry and bitter prisoners trying to make the best of the sentences they’d been given. Some of these men might not have earned it, but there was no question at all that my pops had.
He was a mean motherfucker, and while I would never normally come here on my own or because I wanted to, he was still a Stone Rider, and we didn’t leave our men behind. Regardless of what they’d done to get themselves put behind bars.
I entered the visiting room without my cut on because seeing the patches might incite violence with the other visitors. This part of Virginia was home to five dangerous clubs that carried the one percent patch, so it wasn’t merely bloody or dangerous: it was a death wish.
I wasn’t allowed to take anything with me inside the visiting room, but Carl, the guard, knew me and didn’t mind letting me through with my paper and eraser. It wasn’t like either could do any harm. Seated at a small table large enough for two chairs, I unfolded the paper I had shaded the night prior; it was completely covered in graphite. I took out my eraser and began tracing. I didn’t consider myself an artist but drawing, or rather the opposite of drawing, had always worked to calm me down. Even now at thirty-two years old, it worked.
I had no idea how much time had passed, but before long, there was a loud buzzing sound that went off, which meant my father was being led inside. The eraser dropped from my fingers right as he folded into the chair across from me.
“You still doing that shit?”
I kept my eyes on the page, carefully folding it.
“That a fuckin flower?” my dad barked loudly, followed by a raspy laugh.
My jaw tensed, but I wouldn’t show him. Once I had control over my words and my temper, I finally set my gaze on the man who sired me.
Green eyes, darker than mine, glowered. He had circles under his dark lashes, and his skin looked paler than normal.
“You stop getting outside time?”
His wince was slight, but I caught it.
“Had to be in the box for a while.” His shoulders lifted while he briefly glanced over his left side. The guard by the door locked a hard gaze on him.
“Solitary sounds more your speed. What you do to earn it?” I was careful not to ask what happened or allow him to become a victim in any way. He was a narcissist and would take any opportunity he was given.
My dad shrugged once more, this time the mean glare on his face twisted into something sinister. “Gutted a Raider.”
Normally I wouldn’t mind that he’d killed a Death Raider, but Wes was worried about things escalating after hearing from Callie that a few had been staying in town. We weren’t sure what they were up to but now that she was back, we needed to be careful.
“Came here to deliver some news.” I sat forward, so our conversation would stay quiet.
This chat was overdue, but I had been dragging my feet. Fuck, he likely already knew, but if he had then he would have already said something. Maybe there was a reason I had stalled on telling him that his best friend of thirty years had died. Perhaps regardless of how mean he was, or the fact that he left me all alone when I was just ten years old, there was a part of me that hesitated telling him our president had passed.
Swallowing past my nerves, I blinked and spilled it. “Simon’s dead.”
