I cross my legs and tuck my tire iron into my lap, taking in the room. It isn’t really how I pictured a biker’s office to look.
He looks down at my coveralls. “Murphy’s,” he says slowly and then looks back up at me curiously.
I swallow. This guy is not the guy I need to provoke with a tire iron. He is the human equivalent of big dick energy, while the prick is needle dick energy. Pint’s mean to dogs, and that’s all I needed to see to know he’s a bad dude. Anyone who means harm to animals is never good. I should have hit him in both kneecaps.
Then, the man before me widens his eyes slightly in recognition. “You’re Sully’s daughter?”
My jaw tightens, and I look away. “I don’t like being associated with him.”
That finally gets his full attention. He straightens a little, toothpick shifting. I can see the wheels turning. Measuring. Connecting dots.
“Why?” he asks quietly.
The room goes very still.
Finally, I say, “You want the long version or the short answer?”
He says nothing, the silence stretches, and I decide he’s getting the long version. If he’s associating with my dad, he should know what kind of shitbag he’s dealing with. Maybe he cares, maybe he doesn’t. But he should know. I wish I had known and had a chance.
My hands curl tighter around the tire iron, knuckles aching. “Because he’s a really bad man,” I say quietly. “The kind of man who abandons and steals from his own kids. He’s a bully who only picks fights he knows he can win with smaller people he thinks he can manipulate. He stole my tools, my money, and ruined my childhood. He hurt me any chance he could and called it ‘teaching me how the real world works’.”
My throat burns, but I keep going because once I start, I can’t stop. Hot tears prick my eyes, and I don’t know why I’m confessing all of this to a scary stranger, but it feels right in this moment, and I feel like I can’t stop now. I have to get it all out.
“He drinks, gambles, and steals. He looks at me like I owe him just for existing. Like I’m his property. Like my shop, my work, my life is his, and he can show up whenever he wants and ruin my life over and over again.”
I glance down at the tire iron in my hands, then back up.
“He’s a scumbag,” I say, softer now. “And the saddest part is I spent a long time believing that because I’m his daughter, I was scum, too.”
I sniff and shake my head. “So yeah. That’s why I don’t like being associated with Sully. Because I’m not a scumbag. I pay my bills, do honest work, and take care of my brother. So, by the way, if you plan on killing me, he’ll be without a sister, and without a mother, so consider that before you murder me, scary hot guy.”
His mouth twitches at the last part and he watches me foranother long moment, then leans back again, eyes never leaving my face.“Well,” he says calmly, “this just got interesting.”
I swallow and wait for him to talk.
He watches me for a long second after I finish speaking. He doesn’t rush it. He leans back in his chair, leather cut shifting, the edge of a black T-shirt showing underneath. The toothpick moves to the other side of his mouth.
“So, what do you want?” he asks.
My throat tightens. This is the part where pride is supposed to stop me. Or fear is supposed to tell me to run or not have come in the first place. It’s too late. If I’m going to get my dad to leave us alone, I’m going to have to go to someone bigger than him. Not the law, but someone who can make him stop. The law is slow and won’t protect me. I want to be able to take my little brother to the grocery store without worrying about him showing up and trying to intimidate us. We deserve better than that.
“I want you to make him leave us alone,” I say. “I came here to beg you to make him stop.”
His eyes stay on mine, and I swear I can see his thoughts churning in there.
I keep going. “I don’t care if I owe your club. I don’t care what it costs. I can save up and pay you back. I just need help. I need you to make him stay away.”
The words come out smaller at the end, and I hate that. I hate how asking for help always feels like shrinking.
His eyes flick down to my hands. To the tire iron I’m still gripping like it’s a security blanket.
“How old’s your brother?” he asks.
“Eleven.” I tilt my chin up. “He’s a good kid.”
That changes something in his expression. Not softer exactly. Sharper. Focused.
“You know what you’re asking?” he says. “This isn’t a favor you pay back with cookies.”
