by Nina Levine
I snorted, my mind suddenly moving again back to me.
For some reason, I found it far easier to focus on Blair. It came much more natural to me to be the momma bear who needed to protect her cub than it did to pretend to be confident and like I wasn’t completely shitting my pants.
“I’ll see you after school.” I nodded, inhaling deeply to try and get my heart to stop racing. “Call me at lunchtime and let me know how things are going.”
She started to back away from the car, and my heart squeezed a little tighter. Blair was my baby girl, my partner in crime, and every time I watched her walk away or disappear from my sight, I felt like a part of my world was missing. God forbid if she decided she wanted to go away for college in a few years and move across the fucking country or something like that.
I sat there, watching as she disappeared into the school office building, my hands clenched on the steering wheel.
I was scared—fucking petrified, actually.
But no one else was going to do it.
And I made sure I put my big girl panties on this morning.
2
Huntsman
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I asked, raising my eyebrow at my youngest son, Ripley.
He looked up at me with an agitated frown and a piece of dry toast in his hand. “You need to let me sober up first, or else I’m gonna end up carving a fucking finger off. Do you want that? No, I didn’t think so.”
“You know, you ain’t too fucking old for me to put my foot up your ass and send you to your room,” I dared, one eyebrow raised, challenging him to say one more fucking word.
If there was one thing I didn’t tolerate in my clubhouse, it was fucking disrespect. Especially not from my children or my men—and Ripley just happened to be both.
“Go get fucking laid, Dad,” Rip groaned, dumping his food on the table and shoving his chair back with a screech. He instantly regretting his little tantrum, his entire body shuddering at the obnoxious sound.
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Hawk, drop my dad off at the strip club on your way out of town, will you,” he groaned, raising his middle finger at me over his shoulder as he passed by the Exiled Eight Detroit vice president. “Fucking grumpy bastard.”
Hawk smirked, raising one eyebrow but keeping his mouth shut.
Smart man.
“How the hell did you end up with two boys so fucking different to one another?” Hawk intelligently started with instead of the smart-ass fucking remark I could see dancing on his lips. “Drake looks like he’s ready to take over the world in his fucking suit, Rip looks like he’s about to fucking tear it down.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Both were raised here, both experiencing the same loss when their mother took her own life and then having to grow up with me as their fucking role model—poor bastards. And yet, their approach to life was infinitely different.
Ripley saw the way people looked at us, at our colors and our family, and he felt pain he felt from their disrespect was something deep within his bones. His first instinct was to always fight back with two middle fingers in the fucking air before he started throwing fists.
Drake’s approach was much different.
While he wasn’t innocent of throwing plenty of his own punches, his first reaction to people’s criticism was to prove them wrong. He liked to have the mental upper hand, preferring to make his attack stealthy and hide his emotions away from the world.
“You think that’s fucking bad,” I scoffed, reaching for the coffee pot sitting atop the bar and pouring both Hawk and me a cup. “Their little sister, Meyah, seemed to get the best of fucking everything. Quiet like Drake, protective like Ripley, and her shot is almost as good as mine.”
Hawk’s eyebrows shot up as he raised the hot cup to his lips. “I can’t wait to meet her,” he mumbled before quietly adding, “I think. You plan on having any more?”
I choked, the large mouthful of hot, black coffee feeling like it was sliding down into my lungs. “You better shut your fucking mouth,” I hissed, gritting my teeth while Hawk seemed reasonably amused by the response. “I had to put up with Drake and Rip as kids, don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?”
“Not until you have to raise a teenage girl,” Bishop’s voice rang as he stepped out of the hall.
Bishop was the Detroit Chapter President and Hawk’s uncle. He also raised a little girl on his own after his wife died of cancer.
“You think those boys were hard. Try being a dad when your girl’s got her fucking period, her friends at school are assholes, and everyone is using this shit called bing bong.”
“TikTok,” Hawk corrected, holding up his hands in surrender when Bishop’s head snapped around like it had fucking whiplash. The man was smart and quick to back away, heading for the exit while Bishop found himself some coffee.
“You think you got everything you needed while we were at Empire?” I questioned, following Hawk as he took a step outside and into the morning sun. The boys hadn’t been here for long, but we’d made sure to make a run down to Phoenix last night, so he could get a look at the nightclubs we part-owned, to see how they were run, and to check out what we put in and what we got out.
“Yeah, we fucking appreciate the close-up look,” he praised, his head bobbing. “I needed to see that shit and how it worked, so I could take a breath and stop worrying about how much these renos were costing.”
The Exiled Eight Detroit had just stepped into legal business territory.
Was it all for legal business?
No.
But they needed to know how to run it like it was if they were going to use it and not bring along any suspicions.
The vibrating in my pocket had me standing a little taller and pulling the offending object from my pocket. Though I took one look at the caller ID and gritted my teeth.
Regan Ballintine.
I swiped my thumb across the screen and pressed it to my ear. “The answer is no.”
“You don’t even know the question,” he threw back, his tone dripping with amusement.
“I don’t need to know. I told you last time you called, lose my fucking number.”
Regan and I went way back.
Far too far if you asked me.
There were times when the only voice I would hear for a week would be his, through a little fucking earpiece smushed into my ear. His bad jokes and constant commentary making me, at times, almost want to hand myself over to the bad guys I was hunting.
Though, I couldn’t discount the times he’d kept me sane and kept me alive. For that, I owed him.
The problem was, I hated that he fucking knew it.
“Trust me, this time you’ll be glad I called.”
“I’ll reserve my judgment.”
“I’ve got thirty trainees doing drills in a camp in the desert not far from you,” Regan continued, not for a second put off by my sharp retort. “They’re not quite up to scratch yet, and not to mention the handful of them who think they know fucking better.”
My lip curled, and I shook my head.
Ego was always a problem when it came to young recruits, especially in this case. Regan was in charge of recruiting soldiers for special teams. Teams for branches of the government that couldn’t be spoken about, teams that technically on paper did not exist. They were picked from thousands, hundreds of thousands, so you can imagine they were under the impression they were some kind of fucking special, and they thought they were pretty hot shit.
It was up to Regan to bring them back down to earth, and I did love to be the one to send them hurtling back toward the ground.
“Send me the details,” I answered, ignoring the light chuckle that came from the other end of the phone. “I’ll grab the boys and come out tomorrow night.”
3
Zoey
Even as I drove over to the construction site of the apartment building, my hands shook, but I continued to swallow back the vomit that sat at the back
of my throat, threatening every few minutes to spew out over the steering wheel and dashboard.
You’d think at this stage in my life, at fucking thirty-two years of age, that this kind of shit would become easier or that I would somehow become more confident. But nope, not a damn hope in hell.
Outside the construction site, I pulled my car to the curb and took a deep breath before reaching for my pink hard hat that I kept in the backseat. I climbed out and grabbed my design folder before heading for what I assumed was the on-site makeshift office.
“Excuse me,” I called and cleared my throat when two men turned toward me. “I’m looking for Drake?”
The temperature out here was horrendous. My black jeans and button-up blouse was clinging to my body as I tried to fight the urge to hold my folder in front of me and use it to fan myself. It couldn’t be helped, though. I’d learned early on that coming to a construction site meant wearing a certain type of clothing. Not just for safety, but for respect.
This was undoubtedly a men’s zone, and while I wasn’t wielding a hammer or a saw, I needed them to see me as a colleague if I was going to get through my time here without having to defend my capabilities.
It wasn’t ideal, no. But I was willing to do whatever I needed in order to prove I was worthy of this job and many more. I’d come too far to let my anxiety, or a bunch of men, get the best of me now.
I could already feel sweat beginning to pool under my breasts, arms and down the center of my back, not helped whatsoever by the two men who stood staring at me, examining me.
I walked closer, the younger-looking of the two standing a little taller and handing off the large design sheets to the other man whose eyes drifted the length of my body before he nodded and turned to walk away.
“I’m Drake.” He gestured with his hand for me to come forward. “Come in.”
I swallowed against the hard lump in my throat and forced a bright smile as I followed him into the small trailer, thinking the whole time that he must have been almost fucking melting in his full suit when half the men I’d already spotted on site were stripped down to at least a tank top, if not much less.
There was a small table at the end of the trailer. He took a seat on one side and gestured with me to take the other. I slipped into the bench seat and placed my things on the table before pushing my shoulders back while fighting to keep the knot in my throat from choking me.
“It’s nice to see you dressed appropriately,” Drake commented, his voice a little gravelly. “Thanks for that.”
I nodded. “Sounds like you’ve had problems before.”
He scoffed and leaned back into the seat. “Don’t even get me started. I have enough trouble keeping these assholes on track as it is without some floozy wandering around a worksite wearing a skirt, six-inch heels, and no fucking hard hat.” His brow pulled into a deep frown.
I looked down at my denim jeans and heavy worn work boots before returning my gaze to Drake with a shrug and a smile. “I’ve fought way too hard to get to where I am today. I’m not looking to waste all the crap I’ve been through.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up, and he reached for my folder, slipping it toward him before spinning it around and flipping open the front page. On the phone, he’d asked me to bring some designs—places of my own creation along with images of styles and floor plans I liked.
I’d gone through three years of school for this shit.
A lot of people thought interior designing was simply picking pretty fabrics and accent pillows, but it was so much more. I could draw plans, I could remove walls, I could completely redesign the walls in a house if I wanted to.
I understood spaces. How they worked together. How they flowed.
“These are good.”
“Thank you.”
“Probably better than the designs we have, to be honest,” he mumbled under his breath, his fingers pinching at his brow. That was the first time I noticed the tattoos peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his business shirt. They were bright, colorful, and quickly snapped away the second he noticed my gaze linger a little too long. “The woman who did up these designs, she was the daughter of the company. Barely a year into her training but forced to work when Daddy threatened to cut her off financially.”
My entire body visibly cringed. “Can I see the plans?”
Reluctantly, he pulled the floor plans from a briefcase next to him and slipped them across the table. This was going to be a large apartment building. Not only was the designer expected to design and decorate the lobby and conference areas on the first floor, but there were also going to be at least six levels with a range of different sized and shaped apartments above it.
The second I looked at the apartment plans, I knew I was about to face a challenge.
“These have already been approved by the engineer,” I noted out loud, flicking through one after another.
“Did you see the construction site outside?” he growled before sucking in a sharp breath and easing his tone. “This is what we have. Is it that fucking bad?”
They weren’t bad, but they were nowhere near good.
“I can work with them.”
“Drake?” a young man poked his head through the door. “The foreman is here. He wants to finalize plans before they start doing things that can’t be changed later.”
“All right, Zoey,” Drake announced, getting to his feet. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I scurried to gather all my things and shove them back into my folder before answering, “But I’ve only just taken a glance at the plans. I need to take a good look, get a feel for the room,” I exclaimed, rushing out after him and almost face planting into the dirt.
“Well, what better way to get a feel for the room than standing in it.”
Fuck.
4
Huntsman
“Round them up.”
Though it was almost pitch black, I could see the smiles on my boys’ faces light up like fucking kids on Christmas morning.
They sunk back into the darkness, their black clothing disappearing into the shadows. It was almost too easy.
The middle of the desert.
No street lights.
No cars.
Nowhere to fucking run.
I stood in the center of the three cabins, which were organized in a U shape. One was the mess hall and a couple of rooms for Regan and his team. The other two housed the thirty men and women who I was about to possibly make cry.
It was only a few moments before the silence of the night lit up with angry protests and shouting as my men embraced the chance to be total fucking bastards.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“What the hell is going on!”
I stood still, watching on as the troops stumbled from their sleeping arrangements in confusion, tripping through the desert sand while my brothers shoved them forward in their fucking tighty whiteys to stand in front of us.
“Boys… let me introduce you to Huntsman,” Regan announced with a wide grin, the motherfucker taking absolute delight in handing his fucking job off to someone else. “If Nevada had a King, it would be this man right here. Not only is he an ex-Navy SEAL. He’s also the president of one of the most notorious motorcycle clubs in the country. Do you know what that means? Assholes.”
They didn’t move.
Not a single word.
Or a single sound leaving their lips.
Just the way I fucking liked it.
“It means that if you piss him off, you aren’t getting stood down or sent home…” His low, raspy chuckle had a couple of the boys’ eyes growing wider. There was one though, one little fucker who was fighting a smile. “You piss him off, and your face is going on the side of a fucking milk carton. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Are. We. Clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
Regan looked over his shoulder at me with a smug grin. “They’re all yours.”
I stomped forwa
rd, my heavy boots scuffing at the dusty Nevada sand, hitting a handful of the boys in the face before I reached some shithead with the twitching grin. “And what might your name be?” I questioned, getting right in his face. He was a good four inches shorter than me, his eyes directly in line with my mouth.
“Cooper, sir.”
Oh, good. Shit for brains had a fucking attitude.
“You almost cracked a smile a few minutes ago. You wanna share with the group what you thought was so funny?”
His gaze held strong to my mouth, and I could see his brain ticking over, considering his options. “The fact that you were once a SEAL, but now you’re a criminal, sir.”
“You find that funny, do you?”
“I’m wondering how you can serve your country, then turn your back on it…” finally, he lifted his narrowed gaze to meet mine, his dark stare full of accusations and disgust for my choices, “… sir.”
I could hear Ripley standing a few feet behind me, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. That was the thing about my boys, my fucking men, when they signed up to join the club, the first thing they fucking learned was that respect came first. Ain’t got time for no little bastards assuming they knew me, knew what the hell I’d done for my country.
Accusing me of turning my fucking back on it doesn’t go down well.
“Here’s my first little tip for you, Cooper,” I growled, leaning a little further into his space, at the same time, pulling my 9mm from the back of my jeans and letting it hang by my side. There was something so goddamn satisfying about the way his energy changed, his breath hitching for a second. The smug little asshole was in for the shock of his life if he thought he was going to mouth off and walk away unscathed. “Next time you assume something about me, without knowing what the fuck you’re talking about… I’m going to take my gun here, and I’m going to shove it so far up your punk ass, you’ll be calling me Daddy.”