Page 6 of Thornhill Road

She was pissed when MK was born and he still refused to claim her as his woman, but she’d needed the help, so she didn’t cut him out of their daughter’s life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Mustang realized Trix was incapable of staying on the straight and narrow. She wasn’t into the hard stuff, not anymore, but she was a fan of the high, and he couldn’t trust her.

She’d never totally fucked up, but he was always on his guard. The only reason he hadn’t sued for full custody was because he knew MK loved her and because she used to be a hang around who hung around too much.

She knew things. Things she shouldn’t know.

She threatened him with that shit all the time.

“You’re late,” he muttered as she came to a stop in front of him. “You work from home. What the fuck, Trix?”

“Whatever. I’m here. I’m sure you’re both fine.”

He clenched his jaw and reached for her chin, angling her head up so he could look her right in the eyes.

She tried to jerk out of his hold, but his grip was too tight, and he wasn’t going to let go until he was sure. She’d given MK her dark, curly hair—but their daughter had gotten his eyes. Trix’s were russet brown, and currently clear.

She wasn’t high.

Good.

“You bastard,” she grumbled, swatting at his arm.

He let her go.

“Stay,” he told her before he returned into his house. “MK, come on, baby. Time to roll.”

He loaded MK into the backseat of Trix’s car and pressed a kiss into her hair before he said goodbye. He watched them leave, then went inside to grab his keys and his kutte. Not sixty seconds later, he was on his blue Harley Davidson Road King, headed for the compound.

The compound was where the Stallions spent most of their time. If they weren’t at the clubhouse, they were working; and if they weren’t working, they were at the clubhouse or home. For some, the clubhousewashome. It had been for Mustang when he first joined, until he’d saved up enough money to get his first apartment.

Work came in a variety of forms for those in the MC—and not all of it was club business. Since MK was born, for Mustang, it rarely was. After the hostile takeover that ended with Bull as the president over all the Wild Stallions, things had been different. A lot of their business was legit.

The garage had been around as long as the club. They did good work which meant they had a faithful customer base, allowing them to earn their keep. Fixing up bikes was their specialty, but their guys could handle anything with a motor.

The auto-parts store was a late addition. Mustang had been a Stallion for a good five years before someone suggested they expand. The club was growing, and business—on and off the books—was good. They had the capital, so they made it happen. Turned out to be not just a good idea, but a profitable one.

For a while, things were steady.

And then they weren’t.

When business got messy, it was Bull who started recruiting guys to side with him in an effort to clean up the club. Their off-the-record work was getting more dangerous, brothers were getting caught, a couple had gotten themselves killed. Mustang knew he wanted to be around, not in the ground, and he was quick to pick a side.

It had been his idea to go one step further than righting the ship.

He thought they could change the game entirely.

That’s when he tossed out the idea of building a biker bar.

It was something he’d been thinking about for a while. He’d even stashed a good bit of his earnings to make it happen. The timing seemed right, if the club could put up the funds to get him the rest of the way there.

Bull had been surprised that Mustang, of all his brothers, wanted to open a bar. As far as Mustang was concerned, it was a sure way to rake in cash that could supplement what they would lose if they got out of the drug trafficking business.

But it was more than that, too.

It was also his chance to have a place where good bands could come play. He’d cross state lines to find and enjoy a killer show, but he liked the idea of bringing great talent to the northeast corner of Wyoming.

Shit went down. Civil war ensued. The good guys won. Then Steel Mustang was born.

He pulled onto their lot in under four minutes and took a sharp right turn, headed straight for the bar. There were already a couple bikes parked out front, and he was quick to make his way inside. The overhead sound system was playing, a couple of his brothers were shooting pool in the corner, and Rodeo was behind the bar while Wrangler sat with a beer on the other side of it.

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