“Yeah, Cheyenne,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows. “Is your dad home?” To this she snorts.
“Oh man,” she says, “Today is so not the day for a house call. Seriously, Dad’s going through some stuff.”
“Listen, kid, I’ve been trying to meet with your dad for months now, and since he’s had trouble with his phone, I figured I better drop by before Mr. Beck goes through with expelling your ass.”
“Okay, but he’s not here. So we should do it another day. I can let you know when he’s free.” Her eyes are wide and she blinks nervously the more she speaks. She’s a gorgeous girl, really. And as long as I don’t push too hard about her grades, she doesn’t give me too much lip.
“And you’re actually going to give him the message?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and huffs. I’m about to explain to her my next step should she not deliver the message to her father when the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine sounds from down the road. Motorcycles aren’t uncommon in Fort Bragg—we’re a coastal motorcycle town known for our hometown outlaw club. Being barely over seven thousand strong, we’re a big enough town to vaguely know everybody’s business, but not small enough to know all the gory details. My knowledge of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club begins and ends with two things: A.) They’re outlaws, totally disregarding of the law and its purpose; and B.) They party hard, loud, and don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of them. Other than that, I’m basically clueless about the club.
Despite sharing the same small town as the club for my entire life, I have avoided all things club-related. Still, I’ve always been curious about them and have even come to some conclusions of my own over the years. But in not one of them did I ever assume that a member would have any business in this part of town. I always figured they’d live in either the trailer park or in town in the less expensive housing. The roar of the bike nears as Cheyenne fidgets. I realize too late that the bike is pulling into the driveway.
“Do you know this guy?” I ask Cheyenne, immediately worried for her safety. The large bulking man turns off the bike, removes his half helmet and glares at my Jeep. My hands clutch at the paperwork I’m holding and my breath catches. As he climbs off and stands to his full height, I’m able to fully appreciate his size. He’s tall, that’s for certain, but it’s the bulk of him that has my attention. He’s all muscles and tanned skin with a thick neck and black hair that curls slightly and tucks behind his ears. I move to stand between he and Cheyenne just in case he’s someone who intends to harm her. Though it would be a shame if he were that awful of a human being. So much pure male beauty wrapped up in one package to be a psychopath, but you never know.
“Not you, too,” Cheyenne mutters. I move to look at her, but can’t take my eyes away from the man walking toward us. He walks up in dark blue jeans with a black tee shirt and his leather cut over top. He places his hands on his hips and fixes his glare on me.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks. His eyes travel from my face and linger on my breasts, then down to my waist and right on to my exposed legs.
“Holly Mercer from the high school,” I say and nervously reach out to shake his hand. The man emits intimidation and sex appeal like they’re disposable, yet charm is something he lacks. He looks down at my hand and then back up at my face.
“Cheyenne in trouble?” he clips.
“No,” I stutter and instantly regret it. She is in trouble, actually. I make the attempt to correct myself, but don’t get far. He barks out to Cheyenne and then to me to explain my presence.
“Are you Sterling Grady?” I ask.
“Grady,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“Don’t call me Sterling,” he says. I fight back the urge to do it just to spite him, but think better of it.
“I’ve been calling to speak with you regarding the welfare of your daughter for months now, sir. I just need a moment of your time.”
“The welfare of my daughter? Let’s get a few things straight, lady. My daughter’s welfare is perfectly fucking fine. You want to talk about her grades? Tell her to bring them up. You want to talk about her attendance? Tell her to get her ass to class. She thinks she’s damn grown, so she can take responsibility like she’s grown.”
“She’s seventeen,” I respond.
“She’s totally right here,” Cheyenne quips from beside me. Grady’s eyes don’t even bat her way, but he lifts his arm and snaps his fingers and points inside the house. She waits a moment, huffs, and then stomps off and lets the door slam behind her.
“You telling me how to raise my kid?” he asks, taking a step forward.