Page 15 of A Christmas Surprise for the Biker

“I’m glad you pushed me to come.” I lift her hand to my lips and place a kiss on her knuckles.

I can't help but feel like everything's finally falling into place.

Tomorrow, I'll deal with my P.O. and whatever bullshit comes with it.

I look around at the dingy office, the fluorescent lights flickering, and the cheap plastic chair that’s digging into my back is a constant reminder of where I am and why I'm here.

I've been out of prison for less than a week, and already I remember why I hate the fucking cops. This place reeks of bureaucracy and judgment.

Glancing at my watch, I check the time for the tenth time in as many minutes.

My parole officer is late.

Whether it's a power play or just poor time management, I'm not sure, but either way, it's pissing me off.

When the door to the inner office finally swings open, a man in his mid-forties steps out.

Officer Turner.

I can tell by the look on his face, turned down to the file in his hand, that he’s someone who's seen too much shit and stopped caring a long time ago. His eyes come up and land on me, and I see a flicker of something, but it’s gone before I can put my finger on it.

“Dominic Fischer?” he calls, his voice way too fucking authoritative for my liking.

I stand, squaring my shoulders. “It's Legend,” I correct, looking him square in the eye.

His lip curls slightly. “I'll stick with what's on your file, Mr. Fischer. Come in.”

My fists clench, but I force myself to relax. There’s something about this guy that rubs me the wrong way. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking hate him on principle, but it’s something else.

Shaking it off for now, I follow him into the office and take in the cramped space. The walls are lined with filing cabinets, and his desk is buried under stacks of paperwork.

It's clear this guy's overworked, but I get the feeling he thrives on it.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk as he settles into his own.

I sit, keeping my posture relaxed. There’s no way I’m letting this glorified paper pusher think he can intimidate me. Fuck that. I’ve been through this song and dance before with assholes just like him.

Officer Turner opens my file and starts flipping through it. “So, Mr. Fischer, how's freedom treating you?”

“Can't complain.”

He looks up, his eyes narrowing. “Really? Most guys I see can't wait to tell me how unfair the system is, how they were wrongly convicted.”

I shrug. “I did the crime, I did the time. Now I'm looking to move forward.”

Turner leans back in his chair, studying me. “Cut the shit. You're a known member of the Saints MC.” He waves his hand down at my file. “Your record shows a history of violence, drug charges, and now assault.”

The accusation in his tone rubs me the wrong way, but I keep my cool. “People change, Officer Turner. I've got responsibilities now that I didn't have before.”

He scoffs. “Right. I heard about your little surprise. A baby and a girlfriend who showed up out of the blue. Convenient timing, don't you think?”

The hair on my neck stands on end. How the fuck does this guy know a goddamn thing about Brae and my son? “Not sure how you know about my family, but they’re off fucking limits. You got it.”

Turner’s face turns an alarming shade of red. “You threatening me,boy?”

“Take it how you want.” I hold his stare. I’m not backing down.

“It’s my job to know everything about the criminals under my watch. And your club poses a problem.”

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