Page 29 of Myla: The Hawthornes

Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. To be honest, I was a little surprised I’d said it, too.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“I find your phone and blood on the ground,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not gonna put me in a good mood.”

“Once you saw I was fine, you should’ve—”

“Doesn’t work that way,” he cut me off.

“I’m sorry you were worried—”

He made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Worried doesn’t cut it,” he said flatly. “Not even fuckin’ close.”

“Okay, well, still,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I wasn’t wasted. I didn’t get sloppy and dumb—I did everything I was supposed to.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t find you out back with that piece of shit,” he said, leaning against the bench. “Killin’ the member of another club would cause more problems than you can even comprehend.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be hanging out with shitty clubs,” I snapped.

Dad just looked at me. We both knew that the clubs they associated with weren’t known for their good manners. The men I’d been surrounded by my entire life weren’t exactly polite company, to be delicate about it. I was allowed at the club during parties, because most people knew that I was Tommy Hawthorne’s daughter. The club was a protection I’d always been able to take for granted—but I’d been warned that therewas always a chance that there would be someone stupid enough to cross the line. I’d gotten complacent. Cian was completely justified when he’d questioned my common sense—I’d just been too angry to hear it.

“I had it handled,” I said, lowering my voice. “Even before Cian got there.”

“Somethin’ like that happens again, you come find me.”

“You were asleep.”

“You come find me,” he repeated.

“I will,” I said in exasperation. “We cool?”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he muttered, grabbing a rag off the workbench to wipe off his hands. “Just like your mother.”

“Aw, Dad,” I sang, clasping my hands under my chin. “That’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“Smartass.” He grinned and slung an arm over my shoulders. “Come on, I need a beer.”

“Mom wants us to stay for dinner,” I said, walking in step with him as we headed toward the front door.

“Oh, yeah? What’s she makin’?”

“No clue. I thought you’d know.”

“I never know anythin’ around here,” he complained. “I came home the other day, and she was tryin’ to peel beadboard off the walls in the hallway—she tell you that?”

“Nope.” I huffed out a laugh.

“It was a goddamn mess.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Keeps me on my toes, though,” he said, grinning as he let me go.

“You’ll never be bored,” I agreed, following him up the porch steps.

“Woman, what’s for dinner?” Dad called out obnoxiously as he threw open the front door.

“Make your own fucking dinner,” Mom shouted back. “You’ve got two hands and a semi-functional brain!”

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