Page 39 of Daddy Issues

I wasn’t. Never would be.

Puck

They’d taken the cuts. Whoever had jumped Pork Chop and Ditch, ripped the leather from their backs. It was more than a simple insult, more than a slap in the face. It was a declaration of war.

Or one really stupid ass fucking mistake.

I didn’t believe that. Archer and Preacher were gone, somebody thought we were weak, and took a swing.

“God-damn it, we’ve got to find these fuckers.” Band Aid’s shrill shout echoed through the kitchen.

I fired off a text to my mom, too, to make sure Eli was good and let her know I might be late picking him up. I knew he was safe, but until I knew what the fuck was going on that silenced the nerves.

The heavy door creaked as Cam rolled out of it. They had descriptions and a general area of the attack, they’d go looking for trouble. Literally. Merc stood in the corner, phone to his ear, talking quietly.

The industrial kitchen had turned into a med tent. The man splayed out on the large steel table in the middle, bitching like the cantankerous bastard he was, was instantly recognizable.

Pork Chop, a mouthy, stout fucker with big ass sideburns and a pissed off disposition wasn’t the sort of guy that other people fucked with. Not even that close to the county limits. Seeing that he was the one Band Aid was hovering over and patching up was the biggest surprise.

“The fuck happened?” I asked him again. Because information came in fits and spurts when adrenaline ran high.

He glanced up at me, spitting blood as he spoke. “I already fucking said that shit. Some asshole ran us off the road, right before we hit the county line. Came out of nowhere, blacked out new Challenger. Kid had to ditch it, took a hard roll without a brain bucket. Buncha assholes jumped out. Started swinging. I swung back, kid could barely get up and they went at him.”

I straightened, I’d seen that fucking car, and whistled sharply across the chaos. Merc turned, dropping his phone into his pocket and making his way to me, dodging Dekes who flew through the door, eyes wide.

“Anyone get the bikes?” Dekes, older and wiser piped up.

Younger patch, named Charlie, stood up. “Gonna need a trailer to get Chop’s, but I got his saddle bags.” Good guy, barely old enough to drink, down for whatever we asked whenever. Knew when to shut the fuck up and when to act. “Called the ambulance for Ditch, he was all fucked up.”

The irony of Ditch, being run off the road and fucked up, didn’t sit well with me.

Pork Chop spit and sputtered from the table, fighting to sit up, Band Aid shoving him back down to sew up the open gash on his forehead.

“Ditch needs a fucking CT. Kid got clocked so hard he can’t remember the day of the fucking week.” Band Aid blustered, his voice growing louder.

“I told them he wrecked out, nothing else. Got enough cactus rash they’ll buy it.” Charlie started to panic, his eyes wide like he’d done something wrong.

“Nah, you made the right call.” I smacked a hand on his shoulder. “Glad you were right behind them.”

“No shit.” He swayed, the adrenaline wearing off, so I moved him to a stool in the corner and sat him down.

“Someone get the kid a shot.”

AP ducked out toward the bar.

“Anything yet?” Pork Chop grabbed at Merc’s cut, nearly sliding off the table.

“Jesus, brother, they just left. Get sewn up, we got this.”

AP came back with a bottle of whiskey. “Kenna took Cam’s ole lady home. Clubhouse is clear. Someone tell the probie to get the truck and trailer, grab a couple of guys, and go pick up the bikes.”

Dekes gave a curt nod, gesturing he was rolling out.

“Nobody rides alone. Everyone stay strapped.” AP pointed at both of us.

“And you stay here.” Merc’s face was serious, stoic.

His father’s eyes narrowed, deep lines forming at the corners. “I am, but not because I take orders from my fucking kid. Someone has to run the show.”

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