Page 50 of Turmoil's Target

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Turmoil

My phone buzzes with a text message, interrupting my workout at the gym.

I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face before checking the screen.

It’s from my father.

Great, just what I needed.

Abram, we need to talk. Let’s have dinner tonight, my treat. There are dire matters to discuss.

I snort and toss the phone aside, going back to my weightlifting.

But the phone buzzes again a minute later.

I know we have our differences, but you’re still my son. One dinner, that’s all I ask of you.

Sighing, I pick up the phone and stare at the message.

My father and I have been at odds for years, ever since I chose the Reapers Rejects MC over the posh Hollywood life he wanted for me.

He’s never understood or approved of my choices.

But as much as we argue, he’s still my dad.

And maybe I do owe him a chance to talk, even if it likely won’t change anything between us.

I text back a short reply.

Fine. I’ll be at Mastro’s tonight. 8pm.

Setting my phone aside, I try to refocus on my workout and not overthink what drama tonight’s dinner may bring.

My life is with the club now, and that’s not something I’m willing to give up, no matter how much my father disapproves.

But still, a tiny part of me can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight could be a turning point for us.

A chance to gain some understanding, even if we’ll never see eye to eye.

Only one way to find out.

I’ll hear him out tonight and see what he has to say.

Beyond that, I can’t make any promises.

The day flies by and before I know it, I’m sitting in the parking lot of Mastro’s.

Getting out of the Mustang, I stride into the upscale steakhouse oozing old-world elegance with its dark wood, white tablecloths, and soft lighting.

My eyes scan the room until they land on my father, already seated at a table, impeccably dressed in his designer suit.

Squaring my shoulders, I make my way over.

“Abram,” he greets me, rising to shake my hand. “Glad you could make it.”

His smile is strained, his eyes appraising my own attire—dark jeans, boots, and a black button-down.

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