My father shrugged. “Was skimming coke from his shipments. The Guerreras were starting to sniff around, wondering why their deliveries were always running just that little bit short. Next thing I knew, you had a target on your back. I couldn’t let that slide so I had you followed and tried to make sure you were okay. You and that Ryan boy led us on a fucking song and dance.”
We’d been followed by the Guerreras and Satan’s Knights?
Jesus Christ.
Not for the first time I found myself impressed with Ryan’s abilities to keep me safe. Where the hell was he to protect me now?
I’m here, honey. I’ll always be here.
I clenched my eyes shut at his voice. It was both terrifying and comforting that he could do this to me.
Reaching up, I rubbed at my eyelids where an ache had gathered.
“What’s your name?” I asked softly.
He cleared his throat. “Martin Graves. My road name’s Lucifer.”
I stared at him. “She named me after you, didn’t she?”
His mouth tightened. “I figure as much.”
It was stupid, pathetic, but somehow, that floored me more than anything. I took a step back from him then dropped to the ground. Considering the move I’d pulled earlier, I wasn’t surprised when some of the bikers surged forward, but I wasn’t aiming for a knife—I was unarmed. Instead, I just plunked down on the gravel, uncaring that it was biting into my ass, uncaring that the sun was burning hot, and that my hair felt like it was on fire with the heat of the Texas sun.
I pressed my elbows to my knees and leaned forward, just trying to compose myself.
Bomber had sold me down the line to save his ass, and my father, Martin, Lucifer, had started a campaign to take him down.
“You’re at war with the Rebels because of me, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
There was no doubt, nothing that could make me question his intent.
Fuck.
The unfairness of it all hit me. I’d been raised by a bastard who had killed my mother, who’d treated me like shit, neglecting me until he could use me to save his own ass.
Then, my own father had shored up his power to become Prez, all so he could go to war with my adoptive father.
He’d even gone to these crazy fucking lengths to bring me to safety.
“You’re dedicated, that’s for sure,” I muttered to the gravel rather than him.
Martin squatted down in front of me. “We can go inside,” he told me. “I have a place set up for you in there.” I cut the warehouse a look and he grimaced. “Temporary residence while we fucked around with the Rebels. Our clubhouse is up in Fort Hancock.”
My mouth worked. “Didn’t your MC—”
“Were they pissed at me riding the Rebels hard?” He shook his head. “No. I used the intel I had on them because of Bomber to our advantage. When the Guerreras cut off the Rebels, I was there to take over their distribution lines. It’s made us a lot of money over the years.”
“Can’t you talk to the head? Make him leave me alone?”
Martin sighed. “I would if I could, but Carlos Rodriguez makes Bomber look friendly. Bomber sold him a story that he believed. There’s no proof to the contrary, not now that the cunt is dead, so Carlos just wants honor restored if he’s sent someone after you.”
I licked my lips as I tried to figure out where the fuck this was going, and a thought occurred to me. “You have a rat in the Rebels, don’t you?”
He blinked at me. “Shit, they know about that?” He reached up and rubbed his chin, then before he said another word, grabbed his cell from his back pocket and typed out a text.
Within seconds, he had a reply that had him grunting. He texted an answer then shoved his cell back in his pocket.
“Thank you. You saved my man’s life.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing considering the bastard, whoever he was, had given Martin the intel I was back, information he’d used to get the cartel on my ass.
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why would you bring the cartel down on me?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, a foot soldier appeared out of nowhere for a reason,” I snapped.
“Not on me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been trying to take you out of danger, not add to it.”
Did that mean there were two snitches?
Fuck, could this be anymore complica—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Triple fuck.
Jodie-goddamn-May. Holy shit, how hadn’t the guys seen that? I’d watched her last night, making a fool of herself all over a jerk she hadn’t seen in years. Sure, he was her baby daddy, but the bastard was married, had a family, according to Flame, in New York and Mexico, and then had a shit ton of bastards all over the place too.
When I’d asked Flame if the man hadn’t heard of condoms before, he’d just smirked at me, but I knew he was laughing.
Inside.
That was usually where Flame laughed, and I already missed that pinched look that came over his face when he was amused.
Tears wet my eyes and I reached up to rub them away. “Let me go home.”
I hated that I was pleading, but I would. I’d fought so hard and for so long, had waited until my father’s death to be able to come back here. This? It was just the nail in my coffin.
“You are home,” Martin growled. “This is your new home with me.”
My nostrils flared in outrage. “I’m twenty-four years old, Martin. I don’t need another father. I’ve had one, even if he was shit, and the last thing I need is some other male thinking he can make decisions for me,” I yelled at him, so loud it was more of a scream. My face turned red from the strain, and his eyes flashed with a temper—that I could understand. I’d been born with one.
“I’m your father—”
“No. You’re not. You’re my sperm donor. It sucks,” I snapped. “I get it. It does. Especially if you loved Maria. But I never even knew her. Not really. I have zero memories of her, and to be honest, I don’t want any. I’ve had enough misery in my life to want to add more to it.” My throat tightened as one question popped into my mind. One singular question that I shouldn’t care about, but I did. I really fucking did, and the bastard sensed it too.
“What is it?”
I licked my lips as I pondered how wise it was to raise this topic. There was only so much shit one person could stand, and the truth was, the answer he gave me would hurt me either way, so, to ask? Or not to ask?
“It’s okay, you can ask whatever you want,” he soothed, and the tone put my back up even as it did prompt me to reply.
“Did Bomber know?”
“Know he wasn’t your father?” His hardened jaw softened at that, and he blew out a breath. “I figure so.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“How could I? Never even spoke with the man, never mind talked about whether he was in the know that the kid he’d raised wasn’t his biologically, but I believe so.”
“Why?”
“Something triggered him killing your mom. Only figures that would be it.”
Jesus.
Reaching up to rub at my suddenly aching eyes, I whispered, “At least, if he did know, he didn’t sell me out thinking I was his daughter. Just some bitch he’d had the misfortune of raising.” I cleared my throat, dispelling the emotion that had gathered within, and grumbled, “I need to go home now.”