Page 3 of Biker Daddy

Drew took another swig of whiskey. That I am, Layla, that I am.

“Don’t you pick up the kid from school in an hour?” Trevor crossed his thick arms, staring Layla down. Drew knew Trevor looked out for the kid too.

“He ain’t fuckin’ yours, Gunner, so mind your own business.”

Drew scratched his beard, watching the bartender’s teeth grind. Perhaps there had been a possibility Brent was Trevor’s, but Layla had fingered some guy from the next town over who’d been unfortunate enough to stop at the diner where she worked one night after having one too many. He was too decent to ask for a DNA test, but not decent enough to do anything more than pay child support. He never saw the kid.

“This place is my business,” Trevor said and leaned one of his bulky arms on the bar so he could get closer to Layla. “No alcohol for mothers driving to pick up their kids is a company policy. It’s also a club policy.” His long finger stabbed the bar top as he made his point. Drew knew Layla had wanted to be part of the Iron Code for years, and when Trevor refused to give her his property patch, she attempted to become one of the club whores. That didn’t go over well either and she’d been out in the cold, nothing more than a hang around.

“I’ll just go somewhere else.” Layla flipped her hair and headed for the door, wiggling her ass.

“Don’t fuck with me, Layla. I’ll call child services.”

Layla gave Trevor the finger. “Try it, that asshole already did.” She pointed at Drew and walked out, lighting up a cigarette as she did. Drew shook his head.

“You did?” Trevor’s brows rose, and Drew mentally chuckled at the man’s surprise.

He’d done his best to fly under the radar over the years, to keep his good deeds—however insignificant—as quiet as his sins. If he had any reputation at all, it was for laying low and not getting involved.

He was sure Trevor would be shocked to know that Drew had donated millions of dollars in commissions to Victims of Violent Crimes, the charity he’d founded when he’d sold his first piece of artwork six years ago when he was only twenty. But not nearly as surprised as he’d be to learn that Drew was the real artistic genius in town, and that he’d only hidden behind his friend and mentor, Ray Moore, to keep his father and the other Skull Grinders from ever finding him again.

The low-lit bar brightened a moment as the door opened and slapped shut. When Trevor’s eyes widened from their usual half-lidded state and he smoothed his beard and black t-shirt, Drew knew someone had walked in when Layla left and that someone was female. Drew had the urge to look with Trevor’s reaction, but not even Julia-fucking-Roberts would interest him that day. Then some dick playing pool smashed his cue across the table, and Trevor rushed his leather-clad ass to the trouble. He was burly, muscled, and broke men in half without breaking a sweat. He needed no help, even if Drew was edgy and could use the distraction. Besides, all Trevor had to do was remind the unruly patron he was destroying Iron Code property and things would end quietly.

Drew glanced at the stool beside him as it was gently moved aside so someone could lean against the bar. An expensive female scent wafted up his nostrils. Why was it he couldn’t go to a fucking bar in the middle of the day to get shit-faced and get some goddamn peace? There was ten feet of bar, but the woman chose the part closest to him.

He glanced to the side, his gaze scanning the woman from the bottom up and not making it to her face as she was looking toward Trevor and the ruckus. She was short, and wore a flowered skirt, cream blouse, and wide-brimmed hat that was only suitable for a fancy-ass garden party or visit with the damn queen of England. She wasn’t someone who belonged in a biker bar, let alone one that was affiliated with an MC.

“Can you tell me how to get to Tonalonka Camp?” she asked, her voice honeyed but with a velvety tone that was nothing like the kind of sickly sweet voice Layla used to get a man’s face between her thighs. He curled his lip.

Big city stink, prissy-ass clothes, and a sweet voice meant to lure someone into a false sense of security. It had to be that fucking reporter who’d been hounding him.

“How many times do I need tell you, lady? I’m not going to talk to you and if you set one high-heeled shoe on the property, I’ll toss you off it onto your city-girl ass.” Drew chugged the final swallow of whiskey and stood, the stool scraping back loud enough to be heard over the scuffle at the pool tables. His six-foot-four frame towered over the woman. She took several steps back and gasped, but he ignored her and walked out of the bar.

He scared people all the time. He was tall, inked with most people’s nightmares and pierced, and had perfected a scowl he used to keep people at a distance, particularly women. Only women like Layla braved it, and as if on cue, she was touching him again before the bar door slapped shut behind him.

“Sure you don’t want some company?”

A snort was his only reply. Why he’d ever put his dick in that… his thought halted. He knew why he’d fucked her. He deserved nothing better than Layla, the whore of Last Resort. Men like him made their beds and needed to shut the hell up and lie in them.

Then again, Trevor seemed to have a thing for her, so maybe Drew was missing something.

“Come on, Fitz, I’m horny.”

“Go flirt with Gunner, Layla. You two seemed to have some long overdue business by the look of things.”

“Pfft, whatever. Gunner’s a prick.”

Drew’s long legs straddled his hog, and he revved it until his jaw vibrated. He didn’t look back as he peeled out of the lot, not even to see if the bitch from the big-city paper had followed him. She’d never keep up anyway.

As the scenery flew by, Drew tortured himself further by finishing the sequence of events in his mind that he didn’t get to see when he woke too soon from his nightmare.

“This your drawing, Drew?” His teacher held Drew’s sketchbook open to the picture of the river he’d been working on several weeks ago. The one he’d dropped in the alley. It had a tire mark across the top. Drew stared so hard at the paper in his teacher’s hands, his eyes blurred.

He swallowed hard and looked back at Mr. Marks, noting his thick brown mustache twitched anxiously. Drew’s gaze swung to the tall man in the brown suit beside him. The suit’s eyes were hard, eager, and greedy.

“You a cop?”

The man’s brow rose and his lips pressed slightly. “Yeah. Detective Dick Brighton.” He shoved back his suit jacket and set his hands on his hips, as if daring Drew to remark on his name.

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