Page 46 of Property of Tacoma
Always telling me and Bane we need to find good women and settle down. Always fussin’ that none of us is getting any younger.
Lord knows I feel every one of my forty-three years of age tonight.
Why am I suddenly hoping Ma’s craziness worked this time?
Chief’s warning bounces around in my head.
My sister is off limits. Make sure your club knows.
Oh, they know she’s off limits, all right.
But it has nothing to do with Chief or his warning.
I made sure every fucking one of them got the message that she wasn’t on the menu.
I’m the only one who’s getting a taste of her sweet pussy.
Fucking Chief.
He might as well have painted a target on her back.
I’ve never been one to take orders.
I’m the man in charge around here.
Nobody else. And sure as fuck not him.
Foxy’s fingers flex in my hand, drawing me out of my thoughts.
I look down to find her watching me, those green eyes almost glowing in the moonlight.
She’s so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Where are we going?” she asks, as we follow the gravel path that winds through the compound.
“My place,” I reply, nodding toward the row of houses at the edge of the property.
As we walk, I wonder if she has a place of her own back in Jacksonville or if she lives in that fancy RV full-time.
Then a more troubling thought hits me—does she have a man waiting for her back home?
The green monster inside me rears its ugly head.
“Saylor was so excited to show me her room earlier,” Foxy says, breaking into my thoughts. “She made me promise to come back so we could have a sleepover.” Her face softens with genuine affection. “That Hello Kitty collection is something else.”
Warmth spreads through my chest.
My daughter doesn’t usually warm up to people so quickly. “Yeah, she’s obsessed. Her room looks like Hello Kitty threw up in there.”
Foxy giggles.
My house comes into view—a modest two-story with white siding and black shutters. I had it built after I got out of prison, wanting a real home for my kids. The clubhouse was great when it was just me, but it’s not a place to raise a family.
The porch’s motion light kicks on as I lead her up to the door. Fishing my keys from my pocket, I unlock it, push it open, and motion for her to go in first.
I stand in the doorway, watching as she immediately gravitates toward the photos lining the entry wall—pictures of me with the kids at the beach, Saylor in a pink tutu at a dance recital, Jagger covered in mud on his first dirt bike.
“They’re beautiful, your children,” she says, tracing a finger over a frame.
