Page 8 of Her Possessive Bikers

"Home sweet home," I whisper, pulling into the lot. The rumble of the engine draws every head my way. Dad always said this car made an entrance - guess he was right about that too.

I park the black beauty and kill the engine. Silence fills the space, except for the soft ticking of cooling metal. Around me, the sea of motorcycles stands like a chrome and leather forest, each bike a testament to its owner's personality and loyalty. The car sticks out like a sore thumb, but that's Dad's style - making a statement even when he's not here to do it himself.

"Okay, Indy," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. "You can do this. Just... get out of the car. One foot in front of the other."

Taking a deep breath, I glance at the rearview mirror. Heavy lined eyes stare back, fierce but tinged with vulnerability. I push the door open and step out, boots hitting gravel with a crunch that seems louder than it should.

As I make my way towards the clubhouse, two prospects appear out of nowhere and block my path to the entrance, their kuttes still pristine and patches sparse. The taller one plantshis boots wide, arms crossed like he's auditioning for a B-movie bouncer role.

"Club members and family only today, sweetheart." He looks me up and down. "Nice ride, but it don't buy you an invitation."

I arch an eyebrow. "That's funny, considering it's my father's car. What's your name anyway?"

He adjusts his stance, trying to appear more intimidating.

"The name's Trevor." He says with a grimace.

I roll my eyes, "Figures, don't even have a title yet."

"Listen lady," the shorter one steps forward, "we don't know you from Eve. Could've stolen that ride for all we know."

My fingers curl into fists. "Maybe because you're too busy playing guard dog to actually know anything about the club you're trying to prospect for."

"Watch your mouth-"

"Or what?" I pull Dad's old leather jacket tight. "You gonna hit a woman? I don't think O'brien…" I don't even get to finish my sentence before a booming voice filters through the yard.

"What in the goddamn hell do you two think you're doing?"

The prospects spin around so fast I swear I hear their necks crack. A mountain of a man storms down the clubhouse steps, salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed against sharp cheekbones. His kutte is well-worn, patches telling stories of decades on the road.

He grabs both prospects by their collars, yanking them back like misbehaving puppies. "That's Brick's daughter, you fucking idiots!"

The prospects pale, stumbling over each other's words. "Oh shit, we didn't- we just thought-"

"You didn't think at all, that's the damn problem." He shoves them aside, turning to me with piercing blue eyes. "Sorry about the trouble Indiana."

I can't help the smirk tugging at my lips. "Call me Indy, but it's nothing I can't handle."

The prospects shuffle their feet, looking anywhere but at me. The taller one clears his throat. "Miss Cooper, we're so sorry-"

"Save it." The older man cuts him off. "Get your asses inside and start setting up chairs. Now."

They practically trip over themselves rushing to obey.

I try not to stare, but damn. The way his kutte stretches across broad shoulders, how his jeans fit just right - this man is aging like fine whiskey. A strand of silver hair falls across his forehead as he shakes his head at the retreating prospects, and my stomach does a little flip.

"Those boys need more training than a circus monkey." His voice rumbles deep in his chest.

"Those must be the two that Dad said must have drank motor oil instead of formula when they were born." I stifle a laugh.

A smile creeps across his face, crinkling the corners of those striking blue eyes, "that sounds about right. But I'll make sure no one else gives Brick's little girl any trouble, you can bet on it."

"Not so little anymore." The words slip out before I can stop them.

"No," he agrees, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. "Definitely not."

The air between us crackles with something that definitely shouldn't be happening at my father's funeral. I clear my throat, remembering why I'm here.

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