Page 4 of Wilder's Promise
"Right," I say, taking a sip of my coffee. It's surprisingly good for a roadside diner. "And how long does my father expect that to take? I have a life to get back to."
Wilder, or Rex, though I can't bring myself to use his real name when the road name is so fitting is staring right back at me. He's different from my father's usual associates. Younger, for one thing. There's an intensity to him that isn't just menace. Like he's constantly calculating, measuring, preparing.
"Hard to say," he finally answers. "These Vultures MC aren't the type to give up easily."
"Vultures MC? Great." I lean back against the vinyl booth. "Dad's pissed off another MC now? He's really working his way through the criminal organization bingo card, isn't he?"
A muscle in his jaw tightens. "It's not a game, Emma."
"Don't you think I know that?" I snap, louder than intended. The elderly couple glances our way, and I lower my voice. "My entire life has been disrupted because of my father's choices. Again. So, excuse me if I don't show the proper respect for his latest war."
Our food arrives, saving Wilder from having to respond. The waitress sets down plates heaped with food, giving me a sympathetic smile like she thinks I'm having relationshiptroubles with the dangerous-looking biker across from me. If only that were the extent of my problems.
"Can I get you anything else, honey?" she asks.
"No, thank you. This looks perfect." I manage a smile, waiting until she walks away before continuing our conversation. "What's your role in all this? Dad's chauffeur service?"
Wilder takes a bite of his burger, chewing before answering. "I do whatever the club needs. Today, that means bringing you home safely."
"It's not my home," I correct him. "I haven't lived with my father since I was sixteen."
He nods, accepting this without comment, which irritates me more than if he'd argued. I take an aggressive bite of my sandwich instead of pursuing that line of conversation.
"You mentioned trafficking," I say after swallowing. "You sure my father wasn’t involved in that?"
"Not the way you're implying." Wilder's eyes harden. "He shut it down. Hard."
"And now the traffickers want revenge." I put the pieces together. "Right? That’s what you said.”
He nods, dipping a fry in ketchup. "A Club with connections to organized crime in Europe. They were running girls through our territory. Your father took exception to that."
I absorb this information, conflicted. On one hand, stopping human traffickers is objectively good. On the other hand, I know exactly how my father "takes exception" to things—with brutal, excessive violence.
"These women he saved," I say. "What happened to them?"
"Some went home to their families. Others are in protective custody with various agencies." He hesitates, then adds, "One is staying at the clubhouse."
My eyebrows shoot up. "At the clubhouse? Why?"
Wilder focuses intently on his food. "That's something you should ask your father."
"You keep saying that." I stab a fry into my ketchup. "But my father and I aren't exactly known for our heart-to-heart conversations."
"Things change." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "People change."
"Not my father." I shake my head. "Jackson Kane has been exactly the same since the day my mother left. Cold. Distant. Married to that damn club."
Wilder smirks. "You really haven't talked to him in a while, have you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He seems to consider his words. "Just that you might find some things different than you remember."
I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher what he's not saying. Before I can press him further, his attention shifts to something behind me. His posture changes subtly: shoulders squaring, hand sliding toward his side where I assume he's carrying a weapon.
"What is it?" I ask, resisting the urge to turn around.
"Two men at the door. They've been following our car since we left the station." His voice is calm, but his eyes have gone cold. "Don't turn around. Finish your food like nothing's wrong."
