Page 51 of Wild Ride

“Good,” Goose states. “I like her for you. Really like the fact that she got into a fucking brawl with Exorcist. That’s fucking amazing.”

My eyes widen as my lips part. I start to ask him how the fuck he saw that shit, but he answers my question before I can even ask it.

“Prospect recorded that shit and sent it to us all.”

I should beat the absolute fuck out of that prospect, except I’m fucking impressed because I don’t know that I would have thought to record any of it. “Send it to me,” I demand, jerking my chin toward him.

He snorts, and I watch him take his phone out of his pocket, and almost instantly, mine dings with a new notification. I’m going to watch that shit when I’m alone. And savor it. Because I knew that when I walked through the door, my woman was winning. She’d already won, and I want to see how that shit truly went down.

“Now, we need to discuss who is going to Oregon. I talked to the NorCal club, and they can spare five guys to join us in Oregon. I talked with the Portland club, and they’re able to send five guys down to the cult as well. That’s ten from other clubs. Didn’t bother calling Idaho. They got their own shit going on. Washington is a little too far.”

Shocker clears his throat, and I look over to him, dipping my chin slightly to give him the floor. “What about talking to South Carolina? We bring in five of theirs we should only have to send five of ours. That’s twenty men, and I think we can take that pedophile fuckin’ piece of shit with twenty men.”

“I like the sound of that,” I agree. “I’ll call them. Send out a message to see which four men want to go with me.”

“Three,” Shocker announces. “We only need three because I’m going.”

My lips twitch into a smirk. “Three then.”

And that is fucking perfect because with only five of us going to Oregon, that keeps our people and our place well-staffed, well-armed, and ready for whatever the Bloodhound crew thinks they’re going to blindside us with.

Next up, I need to talk to my contact again. It’s time to handle business, kick ass and take some goddamn names. I’m ready to settle and get my woman here to stay. Because I may not knowher all that well yet, but I don’t need to know a goddamn thing other than she was made for me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DAKOTA

Sittingon the edge of my father’s bed again, I can’t stop staring at the picture of me on his nightstand. There is something absolutely beautiful about the fact that he had me beside him—always. After a good long sit with my picture on his bed, I decide to do what I came here for, and that is to discover more about this man.

Making my way back to his closet, I use the small step stool I found in the garage and stand on it to look around. There are some boot boxes and a couple of motorcycle helmets, but nothing as noteworthy as the box of letters I found.

Stepping down, I slide my fingertips over the tops of his shirts that are hanging neatly. Then, something extra soft causes my touch to pause. Reaching for the shirt, I tug the hanger from the rod and look at the shirt.

It’s a band tee. A worn, faded, well-loved band tee.

Mötley Crüe.

I’m not sure about anything else in this house as far as clothes go, but I’m keeping this shirt. Folding it, I make my wayto the kitchen and slip it inside my purse that is sitting on the countertop.

I start opening up the cabinets and drawers around the kitchen and living room but don’t find any other treasures. In fact, everything seems void of any personal touch. The picture, the letters, the clothes, those are his personal things. Everything else in the house just seem like items he needed to use.

It is all very purposeful.

Chewing on the corner of my bottom lip, I start to make my way to the other side of the house, where there is an office and makeshift gym, but a noise at the front door causes me to pause.

Then there is a knock.

Frowning, I make my way there, assuming that it’s Bishop. I wrench the door open and open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing here. I’m annoyed as hell because I told him that I needed some time here to collect myself, to connect myself to Nathan, and he’s here bothering me.

But the moment the door opens and my eyes connect to the broad chest standing in front of me, my breath hitches. I don’t recognize this man. I don’t recognize the little patches on his jacket, and I think I just made a terrible decision by assuming it was Bishop and opening the door.

“Can I help you?” I hesitantly ask.

His eyes find mine, and my heart leaps into my throat. There is something inherently evil about this man just based on his eyes alone. He doesn’t speak, either, which isn’t helping his bad-guy vibes. Instead, he moves into the doorway, forcing me to take a few steps backward.

“Dakota Vaughn?” he growls when he’s made his way into the room.

This is the moment when I realize that two other men have come up behind him, and they’ve formed a semi-circle aroundme. I take that moment to ask again, even though I’m pretty sure they aren’t here to sell me cookies or popcorn.

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