Page 10 of Gangster Daddy's Girl

“That’s what I thought,” I growl. “Now, get the fuck out of here, and don’t ever come back.”

Rico, with a little bit of fight still in him apparently, raises his head and glares daggers at me, looking as if he really might try something. I head that off by pulling the Glock from the holster at the small of my back and leveling it at his face.

“You going to do something here, Rico?”

The man clenches his jaw and puffs out his chest but ultimately backs down. As I look at him, he seems to wither.

“What about you, Dawson? You got some balls?”

The man looks away and says nothing.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” I say. “Now, get the fuck out of here.”

The two men turn and head for the door. Before he leaves, Rico turns back, his face twisting with rage. “You’re going to pay for this, Tyson. I swear to God, I’m going to make you sorry.”

“Yeah, I guess we’ll see about that.”

“Trust. It’s coming.”

He slams the door behind him. Slipping my gun back into the holster at the small of my back, I ponder Rico’s words. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him get anywhere close to being ballsy with me. With anybody. I’m not afraid of him, but something in his eyes told me it would be wise to watch my back. The last thing I want to do is put him down. But if he forces my hand, I won’t back down. That’s just not who I am.

I honestly hope he doesn’t make me prove it.

8

TABITHA

Try as I might, I haven’t been able to get Tyson out of my head since the night in his car. I’ve been trying, but he’s like a splinter embedded just beneath my skin—a constant source of irritation that I can’t find any respite from. I’ve thought about it and have come to realize I can’t get him out of my mind because I haven’t closed the door on him totally. Firmly. Completely. Until I do, I can’t excise that splinter.

I walk into the club, which I think serves as Tyson’s headquarters. The interior is dim and gloomy but clean. Despite it being the middle of the day, half a dozen men sit at the bar nursing their drinks, and a thick layer of cigarette smoke hugs the ceiling like smog along the city skyline. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird” issues softly from the speakers around the ceiling, and the bartender sits off to the side, reading the paper.

A familiar face emerges from the gloom and steps in my path, confirming that I’m in the right place. Six-foot-four, Zeus is as wide as he is tall and has a mane of wild, onyx-colored hair. He’s like a mountain that grew arms and legs and learned how to talk.I remember him from the ride home the night all this started. He’s kind of hard to forget.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.

“I need to talk to Tyson.”

“He’s not seeing people.”

“He needs to see me.”

I speak with a confidence I don’t actually feel. Standing here in front of Mountain Man has me feeling a little rattled. He’s just so big and imposing that it makes me nervous. The guy could squash me flat with one hand.

“You should leave,” Zeus grumbles.

“Not until I talk to Tyson.”

“You can leave, or I’ll make you leave?—”

“Zeus, it’s all right.”

I turn to see a man stepping over to us. Zeus gives him a nod, then turns and walks back to his post, leaving me with this man I don’t know. He’s a few inches shorter than Tyson and lean but looks fit and athletic. His black hair is slicked back, and his goatee is neatly trimmed. Like Tyson, he dresses in a nicely tailored, expensive-looking three-piece suit and has the same dangerous air about him. He stops and looks me up and down, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re Tabitha, yeah?” he asks.

“And you are?”

“Marco,” he replies. “I’m Tyson’s associate.”

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