Page 51 of Inked Daddies

“My thoughts exactly.” He readjusts in his seat, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Because I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure her out.”

I swallow, preparing to deceive my old friend. “You say she’s been different since the attack. Perhaps a bit of professional counseling would benefit her. She’s a civilian, after all.”

He sits back, sighing. “That’s not a bad idea. The trauma of that incident…I thought she’d brush it off, but that’s my training, isn’t it? We got good at forgetting that kind of thing. She’s never really had to.”

I nod, relieved he’s run with the hint I left him. The front door opens, and my attention snaps to the entrance.

Four men walk in, their leather jackets scuffed and their boots heavy against the tiled floor. They’re quiet, but their presence changes the atmosphere immediately. I recognize the tattoos on the backs of their left hands before seeing their faces.

Hell’s Hammers.

I straighten in my seat, my eyes narrowing as I take them in, clocking each one. Crow is not among them.

Is he still in jail or simply not here?

The tallest of the group has a shaved head and a jagged scar running down the left side of his face. The second is stockier, with a thick beard and eyes that never stop moving, scanning the room like he’s sizing up everyone in it. The third is lean and wiry, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a lazy smirk that makes me want to smack the taste out of his mouth. And the fourth—the one bringing up the rear—is younger than the others, his face still boyish, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that doesn’t belong there. He reminds me of a child soldier I met many years ago. He’s fourteen at the oldest.

Too young for that kind of life, but he’s got the tattoo just like the rest of them. Just like the one that hurt Marie. That marks him as my enemy.

I jut my chin in a quick upward nod, and Preacher’s on alert, clocking them too. He might be a man of the cloth now, but old instincts die hard.

To their credit, they don’t start anything upon arrival. They grab a booth in the corner, speaking in low voices as the waitress takes their order. They take turns flicking their gaze over the restaurant, casing the place.

Setting up for a robbery? Or worse?

Their presence sets my teeth on edge. Preacher’s eyes narrow on them. Watching. Waiting. We both are. Granger might be their current stomping ground, but Auclair ismine.I refuse to let them take what’s mine.

Preacher shifts in his seat. “You know them?”

“Not personally,” I say, my voice low. “But I’ve seen their kind before. Same gang of traffickers Crow belongs to.”

His jaw clenches. “They’re here for a reason, then. Making a statement. Telling you that you can’t stop them from being here.”

I glance at the group again, memorizing every detail of their faces, their posture, their movements. Checking for any gun bulges under their jackets. “Maybe.”

Preacher looks at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “Hugo…”

“Only keeping an eye on them,” I say, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not the one who came in here looking for a fight.”

He nods slowly, but I can see the concern in his eyes. “Just…be careful.”

I smirk, leaning back in my seat. “Always.” But the truth is, I don’t feel careful. I feel ready.

21

TRICK

“You’re brooding again, Sam,”I say, throwing myself onto his couch with enough force to make the cushions protest. I kick my boots up on the coffee table—just to annoy him—and lace my fingers behind my head.

Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s standing by the window, staring out at the driveway like he’s expecting some divine sign to show up and give him all the answers. His arms are crossed tight, his shoulders stiff as a board, and if I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d say he looks angry.

But I know better. He’s not angry. He’s lost.

“I don’t brood,” he finally says, his tone clipped.

“Sure. And I’m the Pope.”

He shoots me a glare over his shoulder, but it doesn’t have much heat. He’s too distracted, too wrapped up in his own head, and I know I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight. He grunts, saying flatly, “Didn’t know I was talking to the Pope. I woulda made myself all pretty for you.”

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