“I was so scared you wouldn’t come back,” I whispered into the darkness, covering his hands with my own. His hand was twice the size of mine and yet they looked as if they were made for one another.
“I’ll always come back for you, Lace. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when I know you’re better off without me,” he whispered huskily against my ear. I turned in his arms, fueled by the desire to look into his eyes and trust his words. His hair fell in front of his face as it usually did, forcing me to run my fingers through it and push the unruly locks from his expressive eyes. Blackie’s eyes were hazel, changing colors like the tides, depending on his mood. They were the color of caramel as they stared back at me, a shade they only turned when he was at peace, a sign of contentment, a rare occurrence.
Peace.
I could give him that.
“Lacey, sweetheart wake up.”
I heard my father’s voice say, jolting me awake and away from my dreams. I felt his hand gently shake my shoulder, trying to wake me from my sleep. I buried my face in Blackie’s pillow, breathing in the smell of cologne, wishing I could sleep forever…wishing I can dream forever.
“Lacey,” my father said louder, forcing me to lift my head, roll onto my side and look up at him.
He looked exhausted, like he had been up for days, yet when our eyes met his lips curved upward. It was always a mystery to me when he took off on his bike. I thought he was just a man on a bike, a man who loved the open road. This whole ordeal has enlightened me to what it means to be a part of a motorcycle club. The patch on his cut labels him a one percenter, telling me ninety-nine percent of the shit he does is illegal and dangerous.
Which means, today he cheated death. Today he fought and today he won and I’d like to think a piece of him was fighting for me.
The look in his eyes before he left, that murderous look that told me his maker was in control—faded away and he was just my dad. Jack Parrish, the man and father not the president or the man controlled by his mind. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly as the scent of gasoline assaulted my senses.
“It’s all over, Lacey…everything is going to be okay,” he reassured me as he pulled back and studied my face. “You don’t have to worry.”
“What about Blackie? And Reina? Are they okay?”
He kept his eyes pinned to mine a moment before diverting them away.
“They will be,” he said, voice full of conviction as he dropped his hands to his knees.
“Come on, get your stuff together. I’ll take you home,” he said, rising to his feet and started for the door, making it clear he would not give me much more information than that.
“That’s it?” I scrambled off the bed. “They will be? That’s your answer? That man was looking to take me and if it wasn’t for Blackie he would’ve. What happened to him?”
He paused as he reached the door and turned around, glancing around at the room before his eyes found mine. He bit the inside of his cheek as he stared back at me. He wasn’t an easy man to read, looking at his face rarely ever gave his thoughts away. It was that stone cold look that worried me though, the one that told me the wheels in his mind were turning and nothing good ever came from that. The more my father thought the worse things were—for everyone.
“We’ll talk more in the car,” he insisted, continuing to stare at me in deep thought. “Why Blackie’s room?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s closest to the stairs,” I lied, shrugging on my leather jacket.
He didn’t say another word, holding open the door for me and following me out of Blackie’s room. I led him down the stairs, my stomach twisting in knots as I thought of all the possible things he would tell me.
The common room had emptied out for the most part. There were a few stragglers still here, like, Anthony Bianci who I overheard tell my father he was waiting on Riggs.
“Don’t shoot the poor bastard,” my dad told Anthony as he slapped him on the back. “Kid, might just surprise you. Who knows? Maybe he found his heart,” he added, turning towards me. “Let’s get out of here.”
Bianci threw my father his keys, and we walked out of the Dog Pound. I have never been on the back of bike. Never. Well, that’s a lie. I have a photo of my dad holding me on his bike. But take a ride on one? No, never.
I slid into the front seat as my father adjusted his mirrors and seat. He looked ridiculous sitting behind a steering wheel, almost comical and it doesn’t matter how many times I tell him, or tease him he always insists that I’m being ridiculous. The man was born to straddle a Harley. It was like his god given right or something.
I waited for him to start the truck up and peel out of the lot before I spoke.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” he clipped.