Page 14 of Inked Daddies

That’s how I used to think of her—this sweet, curious kid who thought the world of us. But she’s not that kid anymore.

She’s twenty-six. A grown woman with a life of her own. And ever since she came back from Boston all those months ago, I’ve been having a harder and harder time convincing myself that I don’t notice the way she’s changed.

She’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it. Those long legs, that thick body, her smile, her hair, those eyes. She’s the whole package, physically.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way she carries herself—quiet, confident, a bit shy around the edges. She’s got this softness to her that makes me want to shield her from anything that could hurt her, but there’s steel underneath too. She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for.

And I…I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.

Not just because of the age gap, though that’s bad enough. I’m forty-two, just four years younger than her father.

And that’s the real reason, the one that keeps me up at night—Preacher.

He’s one of my best friends. He got me in with the right people when I needed them the most. We’ve always had each other’s backs when the chips were down.

And Marie? She’s his whole world.

If he ever found out that I’ve been looking at her like this, he’d kill me. And I wouldn’t blame him, wouldn’t even fight back, because he’d be right to do it.

So, I can’t let this become anything more than it already is. Iwon’t.

The ride to Preacher’s house is quiet, with the three of us in my pickup, tailing Marie in her car. The tension in the truck is thick enough to cut with a knife. It’s been a long night, to be sure, but we’re never quiet for this long. Silence is never a good sign between the three of us.

Trick is in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio, and Hugo is sprawled out in the back, his arms crossed over his chest. It’s times like this I wish I’d learned about things like small talk. When I need to think, I like to clean. It keeps me focused. But right now, I’m following Marie to her house, so I can’t clean. If I can’t clean, how am I supposed to think?

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Trick says suddenly, breaking the silence.

I glance at him briefly, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Trick shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “I mean, she held it together out there. Most people would have fallen apart.”

“She’s Preacher’s daughter,” Hugo says from the back. “She’s got grit.”

“Yeah, well, grit doesn’t mean she’s okay,” I mutter, gripping the wheel tighter.

“You worried about her, or are you just worried she saw you go full caveman on that guy?” Hugo asks, his tone sharp and teasing.

I don’t answer, because the truth is, it’s both.

The last thing I want is for Marie to see me as some violent, out-of-control psycho. I’ve worked hard to keep that part of my past behind me, to be the kind of man who solves problems with words instead of fists. But tonight…tonight, words weren’t enough.

And if I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t want them to be. I wanted to beat the shit out of that kid for scaring Marie. He deserved it. And more.

Preacher used to tell me it’s one thing to see something needing to be done. It’s another to need to be the one to do it. And I always needed to be the one to do it back then.

I always took one for the team, always the first to volunteer. If there was an ugly mess, it was my privilege to clean it up. Whatever that mess might be. A building that needed breaching, a rookie who needed his ass handed to him, whatever. Didn’t matter if it made me an asshole. I handled shit. I was the man for any job.

Still am.

We pull into Preacher’s sugar-sand driveway, and before the truck is even in park, Hugo says, “I want Marie. And I want you two on board with that. Green?”

I blink at Trick, no time to say a word before Marie is out of her car and running toward Preacher. We pop out of my truck,following behind her. My head is swimming. What the hell did Hugo mean by that?

“Dad!” she calls, her voice breaking.

Preacher meets her halfway, his arms wrapping around her like a fortress. “Marie, what happened? Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, burying her face in his chest. “I’m fine. There was this guy—he followed me to my car, and he wouldn’t leave me alone. He had a knife.”

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