Page 29 of Sophia, Property of Tracker

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not a prospect.”

Daisy heads back around to the bar and grabs a mug. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Black two sugars.”

She pours black coffee into the mug, then goes into the back of the kitchen and returns with a spoon and sugar. I watch as she places two into my mug and hands it to me.

I take a sip and sigh. “That’s good coffee.”

Smiling, she taps her long red nails on the bar. “So if you’re not a prospect, are you a nomad?”

Nomad is a term used for a biker not attached to a club. A biker that is his own club, traveling from one club to another.

Shaking my head, I take another sip. “No, not a nomad.”

“I give up. Who are you?”

She leans forward and rests her chin in her hand.

“I’m Ryan.”

“Okay, Ryan, and what brings you here?”

“I ran into the club last night at Rubix. The club helped me locate my brother.”

“Oh, really.” Daisy stands again and folds her arms. “And who exactly is your brother?”

She’s obviously protective of the club. It seems like she’s their mother figure, and she sure doesn’t trust me.

“It’s okay. Quill and the others found my brother. He’s with the Sinners MC. I’m heading out there today.”

She relaxes a little. “We call him Prez around here.”

Frowning, I say, “Sorry.”

“Quill, he’s not Quill here… he’s Prez or President.”

I nod. “Yes, you’re right. I’m not used to calling people by their biker names.” Grabbing my coffee, I take another sip and sit on the bar stool.

“Prez and the others earned their road names. Prez is a good man… he’s done wonders for this club. Before him, Bull sunk our club into debt. Prez has gotten us out of the dry slump, and we are in a good place.”

“I get that,” I agree.

She smiles and looks from my eyes to my chest, then back to my eyes. “Honey, do you like older women,” she asks playfully, winking at me.

While laughing at her statement, I hear. “Well, look who’s still with us?” I glance behind me and see Prez walking toward me, dressed in a white Henley, blue-washed denim jeans, and his biker cut. He places his hand on my back and gives it a tap. “Daisy, I see you met Ryan?”

Daisy smiles, and a look of adoration fills her face. The gesture is sweet, and I can tell she looks at him as her son.

“I sure have, Prez. We just met. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Yes, please, darlin’.”

“On it.”

Daisy gets to making Prez his coffee, and he sits on the stool beside me.

“Sleep well?”

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