Page 27 of Knocked Up by Her Daddy's Friends

“Thanks,” she replies, taking a big swig and wincing slightly.

I move over to the sound system and put on some classical music. She looks over at me in surprise.

“Drifter mentioned that you like classical music before… it’s not the kind of music I’d have expected a biker to listen to,” she says, her voice laced with curiosity.

I smile slightly, “You’d be right about that. Generally, the type of stuff we play in the clubhouse bar are the genres of choice—rock, country, that kinda thing.”

“Why classical music?” Skye asks, her voice simply intrigued but not judgmental.

I take a sip of my drink and sit down next to her. I rake my fingers through my short hair, messing it up, a nervous habit I’ve had since I was a young boy. “I find it soothing,” I admit. When she doesn’t say anything, I find myself opening up a little more, “My mom used to play it all the time, I guess it reminds me of her.”

“She passed away?” Skye asks softly, reaching out to rest a hand on my leg, I leave it there.

“When I was young. Cancer. My father turned to drink, he became a mean drunk. To start with, I buried myself in schoolwork I did well academically, but then I got bored, felt unchallenged, and started acting out, getting into trouble. I went to juvie, kept on committing crimes, and jacking cars when I got out. Then, I met Drifter, he introduced me to the Angels of Havoc, and I haven’t looked back since,” I tell her, surprised to find myself opening up.

“The others were all part of the club already then?” she asks.

Talking seems to be distracting her, so instead of changing the subject or not opening up like I normally would, I continue to talk.

“Yep. Angel’s father was president and he was raised in the club, so it was natural for him to follow in his footsteps after he died. Gunner was raised in it too, his father was VP. Same as Drifter is now.”

“If Angel took over his father, why didn’t Gunner become VP?”

I look into her eyes, “That’s for Gunner to share with you if he wants to. He left the club for a while and joined the army. When he came back, he didn’t want his old man’s job, so Drifter stepped up.”

She nods, understanding. “So Drifter’s dad was a member too?”

I shake my head, “Nope, Drifter joined as a teen. A runaway that the club took in.”

“Poor Drifter,” Skye says, her voice not pitying or condescending, just genuinely sorry.

I’m grateful that she doesn’t ask more questions, as with Gunner, it’s up to Drifter to share his story with Skye if he wants to.

She looks as though she’s contemplating something before she speaks. “So, your club names, am I right in thinking these are the reasons why you got them? Gunner because of the army, Drifter because of being homeless once, and Angel because he’s the president of the Angels of Havoc. How did you get yours?”

I let out a chuckle. “Well, you’re right about Gunner and Drifter. But Angel got his before he became Prez… it’s because he’s no Angel when it comes to women, or pretty much anything else. We thought it was funny.”

Skye smiles at me, “It is, and accurate. But you didn’t tell me about yours,” she prompts.

“Damn, not gonna let me get away with that one, are ya? Promise you won’t laugh?” I reply and she shakes her head and smiles cheekily at me. With a sigh, I admit, “The guys nicknamed me Buzz because I told them how I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up.”

She looks a bit puzzled for a moment and then I remember she’s a lot younger than we are, “Buzz Aldrin, second man to walk on the moon.”

She grins, “That’s not so bad, but it seems odd that it isn’t something more… I don’t know, bike-related.”

“Well, it’s also because they tease me for being the brainiac of the group. I’m pretty good with machines, they joke I could actually work for NASA,” I admit, trying to sound humble and feeling embarrassed.

“Would you want to?” Skye asks, not laughing at me but taking me seriously which makes me feel good, most people take one look at me and think I’m a dumb ass biker.

“Nah, this is my home, my life, I’d never leave the club. Ride or die.”

“I love how you all have each other’s backs. You’re more of a family than mine is,” she says her voice wistful and forlorn.

I’m about to blurt out and say that she could be part of the club, maybe even our old lady, if she wanted, when my phone rings.

“It’s Angel,” I tell her before answering.

“Did you get Skye to the house safely?” Angel asks in his usual abrupt manner.

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