Page 15 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Killing time, I pull my phone out. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see because it’s not like many people outside the club have my number yet, but I check it anyway. Well, would you look at that? I have one missed call from my Granny, but calling her back will have to wait.

Scrolling through social media, using a dummy account with a picture of a dog and a made-up name so no one knows it’s me, I wait for the brothers to arrive.

I come across an article about the shooting, posted by one of the local news stations, and there she is. The image for the post is a screengrab from a video that must’ve been taken shortly after I took off.

Alex.

My imagination in the shower really didn’t do her enough justice. She’s so fucking beautiful. What I wouldn’t give for another taste.

If I hadn’t been so up close and personal with her, had the image been of some random woman, I probably would have scrolled right past the post, not giving it another thought. But I was. I was all up in her bubble, literally and figuratively, for the hottest few minutes of my life. Had we not been shot at and chased, I never would’ve let her out of my sight. Too bad luck was not on my side that day, and I had no choice but to run.

Just as I click on the post, both mine and Drake’s phones start to ring.

“Something’s wrong.” Thank you, Captain Obvious.

“Yeah,” we both answer our phones at the same time.

“Brother,” it’s Wash, “you need to get the fuck out of there. Cops are on the way.”

“Fuck.” I turn to Drake, and I watch his face shut down.

“Follow Drake’s lead and we’ll see you back at the clubhouse.” Wash hangs up, and the call goes dead.

“What’s the plan?” I ask as I follow Drake deeper into the mill. He started walking, still on the phone with who I’m guessing is Miller, so I stick close behind.

Drake finally ends his call. He unholsters his gun, shrugs off his cut, and hands them to me, along with his phone.

On instinct, I grab everything, shoving his phone in my pocket, tucking the gun in the back of the waistband of my jeans, and holding tight to the leather. He fishes the SUV keys out of his pocket and hands them to me too.

“What the fuck is going on, man? What are you doing?” I stand there, holding the keys like they’re some magical object, so fucking confused.

“That was Miller.” I was right. “You stay inside. Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone see you. Prez’s orders.”

“Drake, quit with the fucking riddles,” I snap. I’m squeezing my fists so tight, holding myself back from shaking the answers out of him; I barely register the keys biting into my palm. “Why do I have to stay inside?”

“Goliath.” I watch as Drake transforms from the previously kind of silly, upbeat, fun brother into a whole new man. His shoulders pull back, I fucking swear he grows three inches, and a mask of indifference falls over his face. He rests his hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. “Someone called the cops and reported a B-and-E. Apparently, this building is now owned by the city, so they’re sending their finest. You can’t be caught here, but I can.”

I think I’m starting to see where this is going, and I don’t like it one fucking bit.

“No—”

“Prez’s orders.” I try to argue, but he cuts me off just as the sound of approaching sirens starts to ring. “You need to find somewhere in here to hide. I’ll go outside and cause a distraction. I’ll put up a fight, so they have no choice but to arrest me. Once I’m loaded up and taken away, and the coast is clear, someone will text, and that’ll be your sign to hustle your ass to the SUV and get the fuck back to the clubhouse. There are brothers waiting about a mile down the road. They’ll see you and follow to make sure no one is following you.”

Even though there was very little time to plan this getaway situation, Miller and Wash made their orders, relayed our directions, and we have no choice but to follow them. If the club officers tell you to be the scapegoat and get arrested, you don’tquestion your orders; you just do it. It doesn’t mean I have to like that Drake is putting himself in the crosshairs for me, but I have no say in this matter anymore.

“I owe you, brother.” I pull Drake in for a bro-back-slapping hug just as tires screech to a halt outside and the sirens go silent, then head for the shadows.

Along the back wall, I find a row of half a dozen dumpsters. They smell something awful, but I think climbing in one of these is going to be my best bet of staying out of sight. I climb in the one farthest to the left so I can still see out the windows and crouch as low as I can. I keep my hands to myself, not wanting to get any dirtier and smellier than I already know I am, and stay silent.

My heart pounds as I watch the police approach Drake, who is out there screaming and hollering at the cops, acting like a drunk idiot. They don’t deal with his seemingly crazy self for long before they tackle and arrest him. They are not being gentle with him whatsoever. If it weren’t for my damn record and the threat of life in prison, I would be out there instead of him.

This isn’t fucking fair.

It doesn't take the cops long to put Drake in the back of the cruiser, and they’re gone. And now I wait.

I check the time on my phone every few minutes, waiting for my all-clear text.

Five minutes.

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