Page 16 of Wild Ride

Among other illicit things.

In all truthfulness and transparency, the shop is a front for trafficking stolen shit. We have stuff coming and going at all hours of the day and night. It works for us, and it’s our main source of income.

What we don’t need is Shade’s long-lost daughter coming in and fucking shit up. That’s what we don’t need. So, as a club and business owners, it seems as though some decisions need to be made.

And as much as I want to just run the bitch out of town, I’m confident that Shocker wouldn’t allow it, especially after talking to him today, and Ivy will throw some legal mumbo-jumbo at me about it, too.

Parking in the back of the shop, I disengage from my bike and make my way toward the door. Stopping, I look around, over my shoulder, and at the door in front of me. All is quiet, a little too quiet. There is a stillness in the air that is unnerving.

Tugging the door open, I step inside and not only close it but lock it behind me as well. Then I go in search of Viking, who is supposed to be working the counter and phones today. It doesn’t take me long to walk to the front of the store, and when I do, my gaze lands on Viking.

He’s right where he’s supposed to be, and I wonder if it’s just all in my head because of Dakota’s sudden appearance in Thunder Rock. Viking’s gaze finds mine, and he jerks his chin toward me.

“You good?” he asks.

“Just came in to do some inventory.”

He grunts but doesn’t say anything else. Making my way to the storage room, I flip on the light and grab the iPad.Everything is hidden and encrypted, but it still has to be logged because shit is going out on a truck tomorrow night, and then it’s going to fall off, and we’re going to get paid.

DAKOTA

As I pull into the driveway, my car moves forward at a crawl. I don’t know what to expect as the car inches forward. In fact, when I reach the house, I slam on my brakes as if I’ve been flying down the street when I’ve been driving at the slowest crawl.

It’s a house.

A real one.

I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it.

A two-story house with cream-colored siding, an attached garage, a full front porch, along with square pillars. Complete with black rocking chairs and black shutters. My hand shakes as I shift the car intoPark, afraid that my foot will slip off the pedal.

I’ve never seen anything so picture-perfect in my entire life.

This is a family’s home.

This is my dad’s home.

Something that I don’t recognize fills me from the inside out, almost bursting out of me. I’m not sure if it’s pride or sadness. Tears stream down my face at the sight of this amazing home. It’s mine now, but even sitting here in the driveway looking at it, I know it’ll never be mine.

This will forever be his and, at the same time, better than anything I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life.

Taking the front door key out of the envelope, I open the car door and unfold from the front seat. I walk slowly toward the door and climb the three steps to get to the porch. Reaching out,I glide my fingers over the arm of one of the wooden rocking chairs.

Shoving the key into the bottom lock, I twist it, then I do the same to the dead bolt, but I don’t push it open. Not yet. I’m not sure what I’m going to find when I open the door. It could be a complete disaster. It could be perfectly clean.

I just don’t know.

But also, I’m scared to death.

I feel like I’m invading his world. I don’t belong here. I know that I don’t. Bullet is right. I don’t deserve any of this. And with a decision made, I twist the knob and push the door open. Stepping into the small foyer, I close the door behind me and lock it.

Before I turn the lights on, I inhale a deep breath, taking in the scent of my father’s home. Leather and oil. Much like Bullet, except Bullet had a sandalwood scent mixed in with it. Lifting my hand, I touch the side of the wall next to the door and flip the light on.

The room becomes illuminated, and my breath hitches.

The brown leather furniture is warm and inviting, with a matching recliner and a sofa. There is a solid wood coffee table in the middle of the room, a stack of magazines in the center. The television takes up most of the wall, and there is a cabinet beneath it with doors that I assume hide DVDs and whatever else is needed for TVs to do their thing behind them.

Pressing my lips together, I roll them a few times. I feel like I’m doing something naughty. Something bad. Like I’m breaking into his home, invading his space. Forcing my feet to move through the house, I step into the kitchen.

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