I swallow hard and drop my head. He’s right. This mission might have been successful because we managed to get the baby held hostage out safe and returned to her mother, but we lost Abe. He’d been a part of this MC for over three years. Though, he was my friend way before that.
We served together and that’s the reason he became a prospect with Broken Deeds MC. Usually, we took cases together as a team, like the hostage situation. He was the only one who would treat me like one of the guys. Unlike everyone else around me.
It’s as if they keep reminding me I don’t have a dick and therefore am incapable of being one of them. Hell, within the MC I even have the title Princess because I’m the president’s daughter. I bet they don’t even realize they treat me with kid gloves, but Abe never treated me as such; he treated me as an equal.
The reminder of Abe’s loss makes my anger drain away along with the lack to care about that pencil-pecker who is out to stir trouble. CIA or not, he’s still an asshole in my opinion.
Yet, I know what my father is implying, the whole “upper-hand, fucked-up situation” where he needs all of his attention to focus on. The easiest way to do this is to sideline me. I swallow hard in an effort to ignore my emotions. Pain. Grief. Anger. I need to focus and get this handled. Chin high, swallow hard, and move forward.
“Fine,” I tell him in a monotone voice and head for the door.
“Esmee.” The way my name falls from my father’s lips is both a warning as well as a plea.
I glance over my shoulder and tell him, “I’m fine, Dad. You need to focus on who screwed us over higher up the chain, but mostly why. Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself. Besides, you’re right. I need time to myself and to not interfere since I’ve done enough already. Talk later.” I slip out the door and let it fall shut behind me.
Ignoring everyone in the clubhouse, I stalk out and head for my bike. I need the wind in my face and to let everything flash by to clear my head and heart. I might look like a hard bitch on the outside and fight for my place in this man’s world I grew up in, but deep down I know very well I’m still the little girl my father sees in me.
A little girl who’s seen more death and destruction this world can inflict than most males in my perimeter. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t date; because they can see it in my eyes or smell it on my skin.
Oh, who am I kidding? My standards are high if I would even consider having a boyfriend, and I’m always surrounded by alpha male bikers who feel the need to watch over the princess of Broken Deeds MC.
Though, I’ve showed everyone over the years I’m very capable of handling myself. Eight years in the military, MMA training, competitions, and the added years of training I’ve followed outside the US make me a weapon instead of the blonde, tiny and delicate flower everyone sees.
Outer appearances are the thing this world thrives on while no one ever actually takes a moment to see and appreciate, the strength and value within. Great, now I’m throwing a pity party, for and by myself. I need a goddamned drink.
I finally arrive at my apartment and throw my keys on the floor right next to the door along with my helmet, jacket, and boots. I slam the door—shutting out the rest of the world—and head for the bedroom to change into something comfy.
A few minutes later I’m wearing sweatpants along with a tank top and my favorite socks. They are tangerine and have the face of a pig on them, tiny ears on the rim along with it. I don’t care if they’re childish or not, pigs are my comfort; my private boost of joy. I glance at the wall of my bedroom where my other weird, disarrayed quirk is displayed.
My whole apartment’s interior is serene; minimum furniture which basically is my only necessity. The wall of my bedroom on the other hand resembles the inside of my head; a freaking mess of memories.
All different sizes and shapes of frames with pictures, text, or an item behind glass. There are souvenirs in between and there’s barely any space left. I can stare at this wall for hours. Either for comfort, to clear my head, a trip down memory lane, or like right now…to let my heart feel the loss of a good friend.
“Dammit, Abe.” My voice is strained and my throat feels like it will close up at any second.
I want to cry, let my emotions run free, but for some reason I can’t. I feel my eyes sting but nothing spills out; everything stays locked up and on the inside.
I hear a key in the lock and right after a voice flows through my apartment. “Hey, Es. Care to tell me why I am getting text messages from both your mother and your father asking me to keep an eye on you?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before slowly releasing it. Spinning on my heels I head for the living room.
“Because my dad benched me,” I tell my best friend, and neighbor, Sona.
“Great,” Sona sighs and places the bottle of Baileys on the table. “I knew I should have grabbed the vodka instead of the Baileys. Dammit. I thought it was a spiked coffee moment, but this calls for the strong shit.”
Without another word she pivots, rushes out, and leaves the door open. She lives right next to me and we have been friends ever since I moved into this apartment four years ago. Sona stalks back inside and kicks the door shut with her foot because her hands are overflowing with necessities.
“What do you have in mind?” I groan, knowing I’m about to become her test subject.
Sona likes to experiment with stuff she finds on social media. Well, mainly when it comes to alcoholic beverages. I really think she has the desire to prove people wrong about their taste or something, because sometimes she adds videos on her timeline where she talks about stuff going bad or when it’s absolutely the best thing ever invented.
Good thing she’s her own boss. Otherwise it would become awkward at some point in life if they ever check her social media for credits. She’s an editor and uses a pseudonym to keep it separate from her personal life.
All of her business is handled online. She works hard but plans her own time, for which I’m thankful because she’s always there when I need her, like now. The watermelon bounces softly on the counter as she places different items next to it, including a bottle of vodka.
She shoots me a grin. “It’s a watermelon vodka keg kinda day, don’t you think?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. She mentioned the watermelon vodka keg a few days ago too but with everything going on and the recent funeral, I’ve been trying to keep my head clear. Sure, I’ve had a few drinks here and there, but I always have my limit of three drinks.
You can say I’m never off duty. The need to have a clear head and to be ready at every waking second is something I grew up with. It’s both a blessing and a curse. A blessing since I’ve been called in loads of times to be ready for action the next minute. That is the very reason I’ve been given more jobs than many of the club brothers.
A curse because I don’t let myself go. Not ever. Yet now? The fact someone called me incapable…a liability. On. The. Freaking. Record. We don’t do records, reports, files to justify our actions or wait for a court order.
We simply get the job done with minimum risk and minimum casualties. Who the hell does this CIA guy think he is? Starting a damn fire that might burn away everything Broken Deeds worked hard to accomplish.