Page 36 of Property of Fox

“My stepdad.”

A tension wraps around us like a heavy fog as I process her words. The tightness in my chest hangs there, an unwelcome intrusion as I consider what tools and how many of the Bastard Boilers I would need to call to take care of this problem for Brea. My mind races, a maze of conflicting emotions swirling within me. I’ve always been fiercely protective, a trait ingrained deep within my being, but the strong urge to shield Brea surprises even me. It's not just about duty. It's personal now. I barelyknow her, yet the instinct to safeguard her is undeniable, a primal need that claws at my insides.

“What’s his name?”

“Why does that matter?” she fires back.

“So I know what to write on his tombstone.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look like I am joking, firefly?”

“You have to be,” she answers, chuckling to herself. “You’re acting like one of the bikers in my books.” Her eyes look over to me as she leans back slightly against the seat.

“Well,” I say nonchalantly while shrugging off her jesting tone. “I ride.”

“Riding is one thing,” she replies as she crosses her arms over her chest defiantly. “But what you’re hinting at is something else entirely. I’ve seen you twice this weekend. You aren’t wearing a cut or colors. No club tattoos.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling like I should explain myself more but knowing that there are some parts of my life that I can't share with anyone. It's not just about secrecy or our safety as a club. It's also about protecting myself and those around me. However, the way she’s using our verbiage piques my interest. Either she’s reading books that have great details or she’s been around a club, but I can’t put my finger on which it is.

"I have them," I finally say, meeting her gaze head on. "There's a reason I'm not wearing them that I can't share."

Brea leans forward in one swift movement. Her green eyes never leave me. “You’re serious. You’re in a motorcycle club.”

I look into Brea's eyes and admit honestly, "Yes, I am a biker."

Brea's confusion is evident as she responds, "But real bikers don't come to biker book signings."

"I can assure you they do. My club president is here as well, there are likely more of us than you realize. But in a crowd likethis, we don't wear our colors. It helps prevent turf wars and fights. Less mess to clean up afterward."

Brea still doesn't seem to understand as she asks, "But why would you or your club president come to a book signing? It doesn't make sense."

"The truth is, the last place I wanted to be was at this book signing. Though meeting you may have changed my mind about that," I say with a hint of sincerity. "I'm only here because I was hired to do a job."

"A job? Are you here to kill someone?" Brea's voice trembles slightly. Something flashes across her face. Fear, maybe, or recognition of the MC lifestyle, but it disappears too quickly.

I shake my head, trying to ease her fears. "No, I'm not an assassin for hire, Brea. I'm just here to help out a friend. That's all. The same goes for my club president. His fiancé happens to be one of the authors who signed today."

Realization dawns on Brea as she gasps, "The woman who helped me when I had my panic attack...that was her?"

I confirm her suspicions with a nod but quickly add, "I would appreciate it if you kept that detail to yourself out of respect for her safety."

Her expression softens, and for a brief moment, the tension hanging between us begins to dissipate. “I promise.” She takes a deep breath. “But this doesn’t explain why you're so…protective.”

“That’s just who I am,” I reply, steadying my voice. “Been like this my whole life.”

“Even before you joined the club?” She tilts her head, intrigued.

“Especially before,” I admit, feeling an unexpected surge of honesty bubbling up. “Had to look out for myself and my grandma while my parents were off doing their own thing. Sometimes, it feels like the world is filled with those who wanthurt someone and those who don’t know how to protect them so I became the balance.”

Brea nods slowly, letting my words sink in. There’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes that stirs something deep within me. A connection that goes beyond just shared secrets or troubling family histories.

“So, what now?” she finally asks, the softness in her voice beckoning me to consider our next steps.

“I owe you a date. You still up for it now that you know my little secret?”

Brea bites her lip again before she nods. “Yeah, I think I am.”

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