Page 8 of Forsaking All Others

“Hello to you too, daughter,” I mutter.

She stares at me as if she’s only just noticing I’m in the room, then launches for me. I breathe a sigh of relief, my arms tightening around her tiny frame as I glance back at Holly.

“Forget everything I said earlier. I don’t want her to grow up.”

I don’t want her to make mistakes.

I don’t want her to give some little shit the first few pages of her story.

I want her to stay mine forever.

Holly laughs just as Tara pulls out of my arms and I bring my eyes back to my little girl, watching as she worries her lower lip between her teeth.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, reaching out to give her shoulder a squeeze.

“Dad, Mark isn’t a jerk. He’s a good guy, gets straight A’s and he’s captain of the football team…” Her voice trails as she looks at Holly. I glance between them, silently reading where this is going and turn back to our daughter.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I grunt. “But if the little shit gets handsy all bets are off.”

Holly and Colt chuckle behind me as a grin breaks across Tara’s face and so help me God, I feel that fucking smile right in the center of my chest.

Yeah, my boy is a lot like his mama, but my girl—well, like I said, lightning struck twice.

“Thanks, daddy.”

Fellas do yourself a favor and get yourself a daughter. That’s where true love lives and breathes.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

Christ.

“What’s that?” I reply, cracking my knuckles.

It’s a good thing I shave my head, or I’d be gray.

“Can you take your kutte off? It’s a little intimidating,” she says, her long lashes fluttering innocently.

Forever my little girl, but a giant pain in the ass too.

I poke her ribs.

“Don’t push your luck, kid.”

* * *

The tall chainlink fence that’s topped with barbed wire slides open and a prospect waves me thru the gated compound. Gravel kicks under my tires as I ride past a stack of old motorcycle parts and make my way toward the line of bikes that sits out front of the clubhouse. I pull my Harley next to them and drop down the kickstand before killing the engine. Music vibrates from the clubhouse and outside two members, Hawk and Wiz, surround one of the picnic tables.

I throw my leg over my Harley and start for them. Hawk spots me first and quickly straightens his stance.

“What’s up, Prez?”

Not too long ago, Johnny “Hawk” Mann came to me with a business proposal. As a veteran who has served our great nation, Johnny has firsthand knowledge on a dog’s ability to serve soldiers in the field. Booker & Mann trains canines for police departments, the military, and personal protection. What started out as a small business soon grew into a major operation and with a flow of international contracts coming in, I was able to secure a piece of land near Poplar Creek for us to expand on. Now we have all the space we need to properly train dogs for specific tasks such as explosive removal or searching for missing corpses. It’s a legitimate business venture that keeps the heat off our backs and our books in the black, but it also keeps Hawk on the road a lot, in fact, he should be in Georgia right now.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” I say, tipping my chin toward Wiz before I bring my gaze back to Hawk.

“Deal was successful so instead of spending another night in a motel, I decided to cut and run. I gave Leftie copies of the signed contracts for the club’s books.”

Leftie is one of the original members of our charter. When my father, Preacher, held the gavel, he appointed Leftie our treasurer. Over the last few years arthritis got to Leftie’s hands, making it nearly impossible for him to ride. But you don’t put an old dog down just because he can’t play fetch anymore, you keep him close because his loyalty knows no bounds. Leftie may not ride on the brink of mayhem, but he controls the chaos and remains our treasurer.

---