“That’s him? The president?”
Cam nodded. “Ex-president, but yeah, that’s him.”
She shook herself before dropping her self-confident mask back into place. Her steps were sure and steady as she clomped across the wood floor toward the two men, stopping right next to their table.
“Are you Walter Arborough?”
Scrap scowled at the interruption to his game. He raised his head from the board at a sharp angle, partially hiding the black patch that covered his empty socket. He stared at the woman with his one good eye.
Both of them glared at each other like snarling dogs, and Cam’s stomach dropped. A sense of foreboding hit his gut as he noted that the woman’s shocking blue eyes matched Scrap’s single iris.
“Who the fuck are you?” Scrap sneered with such contempt, Cam thought the woman might burn from the acid.
But she spat back with just as much ire as Scrap. “I’m your fuckin’ daughter. That’s who, asshole!”
CHAPTER
TWO
Cam pulled a glowingred spike from the furnace with long, thick tongs and laid it on the anvil. The bandana across his forehead had already soaked up as much as it would, and sweat dripped down his face from the heat. He’d knocked off early from the machine shop so he could make a few blades. Knife-making was a hobby he loved that helped him de-stress and also earn some extra money.
He reached for the heaviest cross-peen hammer and started pounding and shaping the hot metal. The crack of the hammer hitting the spike filled the empty forge, sparks flying freely in the air as he drew out the shape, making it long and flat. He picked up the half-formed blade and placed it back in the roaring furnace. He would repeat this process several times before he was ready for the grinder.
Cam stretched the stiff, sore muscles of his shoulders. He’d spent the day turning some custom fixed axles on the shop lathes for several classic cars, which included forcing on the bearings. His back protested that job already. Coupled with swinging a hammer for an hour, he was hurting.
The tendons in his lower back complained as he put the metal into the furnace to reheat once again. The forge hada pneumatic power hammer, but the compressor had to be replaced. Those suckers were expensive, so better to maintain it than to buy a new machine. Someday, he wanted to own and operate his own forge, but that was a long way off. For now, he had to work any metal manually until Quillon fixed the hammer.
Suddenly, his back seized up, and he cursed the cramping muscle. The last time he went to a doctor, he got a prescription for muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatories, but they didn’t help with the chronic issue. He was out of the medication anyway.
Melter will have something,he thought as he hobbled over to sit on one of the shop stools and relieve the pressure. The man always seemed to have a supply of pot and pills, although he wasn’t a dealer. At least he said he wasn’t. No one knew for sure, but if someone in the club wanted fennies or oxys, Melter usually had them.
Cam’s thoughts reverted to the events of last night, and he wondered what had happened to the woman who’d barged into the club and announced she was Scrap’s long-lost daughter. The old man had actually been speechless for a moment before exploding in the biggest fit of anger anyone in the club had ever seen. That was impressive, given Scrap’s reputation for a permanent bad temper. The woman hadn’t backed down an inch, though, and both of them proceeded to yell and curse at each other.
“I don’t have a gawddamn daughter!”
“Ya damn well might. Raquel told me she wasn’t sure. My dad told me about you and said he wasn’t sure either.”
“That fucking jagoff can go piss up a rope!”
“He’s dead, asshole.”
“Good!”
Cam had listened to a few stories about Scrap’s old lady. No one talked about it much, as any mention of Raquel’sname would send Scrap into a cursing frenzy. From what Cam understood, the woman cheated on him with regularity and finally ran off with some man she met on the internet. Rumor had it that she ended up in Florida, but no one knew for sure.
Shortly after Raquel took off, Scrap had the accident at the steel plant that left him with half a hand, one eye, and a myriad of scars all over his body. He used the settlement from that accident to buy the titty bar and invest in the machine shop. Raquel’s name became forbidden, and Scrap had soured on women in general.
It didn’t make a lot of sense to Cam. Scrap spent every day in a club looking at topless women he had no interest in and didn’t like. Perhaps it was proximity to the strippers that eventually numbed whoever worked there. Cam himself thought it was really cool when he was a prospect that he got to see naked women all the time, but now, after so many years of working security at Attic, he was kind of over it too.
Cam slowly leaned over to snag a bottle of cold water from the mini fridge under a workbench. He drained half of it as his back spasm finally started to let go, still thinking about last night. The woman was definitely a surprise, and he could see the family resemblance. Cute, feisty, and built like a brick house. She wasn’t a little woman, but not a big one either. Lots of rounded curves and a nice-sized rear end with the perfect shape to fill a man’s hands. He wondered what her name was.
“Listen, jackass. Do me a favor and take a DNA test. If it’s false, I’ll take my happy ass and leave. If it’s true, I’llstilltake my happy ass and leave, but I’ll have the answers I need.”
“Fuck off and get lost!”
Cam frowned as he drained the rest of the water from the bottle, letting his cheeks bulge out. He wasn’t above confronting a woman about bad behavior; it happened at Attic more than once when a dancer got mouthy or broke the house rules.But cursing at your daughter—or potential daughter—wasn’t something he agreed with, especially when one simple test would put the question to bed. A cheek swab that took less than three seconds and a week to get lab results. Quick and easy.
The problem? Scrap’s legendary stubbornness. The man could drive a saint to murder.
