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Legacy

Home means something different for everyone. For some, it’s a white picket fence, coffee brewing in the morning, and watching a sunset on the back porch after a long day at work.

For me, home is this clubhouse.

Home is music blasting so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts and being constantly surrounded by people. Home is whiskey-soaked floors and cigarette smoke in the air.

It’s living life like the next day isn’t promised and accepting it.

Home is this barstool.

Fourth from the end.

The first time I sat here, I was thirteen. My father handed me a beer and said if I was old enough to take someone’s life, then I was old enough to drink. He didn’t ease me into being a biker; he threw me headfirst at the Twisted Kings. He preached the cut above all—including family. And as I drained that first beer beside Dad and his brothers, I believed him.

Growing up at the Twisted Kings compound, the son of a ranked member, home wasn’t chicken noodle soup when you were sick.

It was bourbon to cure a cough and tough love with little comfort.

Mom was the only buffer from that reality. She lived in the neighborhood, a grouping of houses at the edge of the Twisted Kings compound. A place where the Twisted Kings are able to keep their families protected within the gates of the property line.

The neighborhood is far enough from the clubhouse that it almost feels like a different place entirely, and Mom used that to keep her distance from the club. It’s probably the only way she was able to put up with a man like my father for as long as she did.

Dad lived up to his road name, King. That’s what he was to his club and the women who chased after him.

He spent more time at the clubhouse than with his old lady and kid, so it wasn’t until I was older that I really got to know him.

Around the time Ghost moved in with us, Dad started dragging the two of us to the clubhouse more frequently because, according to him, the clubhouse is where men are made .

I was young and impressionable enough to eat that shit up .

The clubhouse represented freedom, and I loved every second of being inside these walls.

But as I lift my beer to my lips and take a sip, I can’t shake the weight settling inside me.

This used to be enough. It used to be all I needed. Until five years ago when Beatrice King struck my life like a bolt of lightning.

Unexpectedly perfect and the greatest gift. Too damn good for me and this life.

The second I held my daughter, I knew something in my core shifted. That this life started to look a little different. For five years, I’ve kept that buried behind the mask I wear for my club, and I pretend nothing has changed.

It was easy to separate until I took a bullet four months ago, and mortality took a swing at me.

One gunshot, and I was reminded how the grim reaper hangs on my shoulders. How one night can take away everything my daughter knows. Even on nights like tonight, when I know she’s safe at the house, I’m blindingly aware that one moment could change everything.

I spin on my barstool to face the room, leaning my elbows back on the bar and gripping my beer. Fans spin at full speed overhead, stirring the thick, smoke-filled air. They don’t do enough to temper the Las Vegas summer heat when this year was blistering, and it’s still unbearable in early September.

Condensation drips down the neck of my beer bottle as I take a sip .

Chaos and Soul sit on the stools to my right, taking bets on a dark-haired beauty across the room with the bachelorette party that just walked in. Soul knows that the brunette is more Chaos’s type, but Soul can’t resist a competition, so he’s making one of it.

I watch it play out like I’m caught between two sides of my life.

The biker and the father.

If I count whatever haunted version of myself hangs in the center lately, maybe there are actually three sides splitting me in pieces.

Someone across the room cheers as they all take shots. The party is starting to devolve. It’s only a matter of time before people are fucking on the pool table and popping wheelies out back.

Maybe I should join them.

I could use anything to get out of my head lately. After the bullet ripped through my leg, it took months for me to get back on my bike. And even though I’m healed, I’ve barely been in the mood to participate like I used to. Not even as a petite blonde across the room eye fucks me.

How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid?

Weeks?

Months?

Guess I stopped counting after seeing that light at the end of the tunnel and wondering if it’d be better or worse for Bea if I just stepped through it.

Eyeing the bachelorette party, I consider my options. More than a couple look ready to forget their lives for the night by climbing into bed with a biker. The girls who come to the club are usually more than willing. After all, that’s what we’re good for.

But as I glance between the collection of pretty girls in short dresses, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Something really is wrong with me.

Physically, I’m healed, but somewhere deep down, regret, guilt, and doubt are shrapnel rattling around.

That’s probably why my leg still aches every time I move it.

The bullet’s out.

The wound’s healed.

But the reminder of that night—of almost leaving Bea all alone and wondering if that was for the best—remains.

I scratch my jaw and then take another sip, trying to focus on something other than the world I’d be leaving my daughter in if I was no longer in it.

After all, our enemies are nowhere near sated, and there’s a constant threat of war between clubs on the horizon. Especially after we intercepted the Iron Sinners’ last weapons shipment, and I drained the bank account they were using to hold Rick Zane’s dirty casino money.

They’ve yet to make a move, but it’s coming. And if I don’t get my head on straight before they do, it’s going to get me killed.

Just like my father.

Chaos elbows my arm, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Brother, you’re way too fucking serious right now. Get drunk or get laid.”

“I’m fine,” I lie .

He shakes his head, blatantly pointing at a girl across the bar. “That blonde practically begging to get on her knees every time you look over there is fine . Do something about it.”

“I said I’m fine.” I take another sip of my beer.

Chaos narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything more as Ghost comes from around the corner, aiming for the barstool on the other side of me.

Ghost and I are brothers beyond the patch. After his parents died in a car crash when he was ten, my family took him in. So even if I feel a brotherhood with every member of the Twisted Kings, Ghost is as close to being blood family as it gets for me.

“Want one?” I tip my beer at Ghost.

“I’m good.” He shakes his head, sliding onto the barstool next to me.

We watch as Soul approaches the bachelorette party, already making a fool of himself in an attempt to get under Chaos’s skin. I sense Chaos is about to hop up and steal the brunette away when another girl turns the corner and pauses directly in front of us, drawing all our attention.

“Hello.” Her voice is sweet as honey.

Polite.

So quiet, the music nearly drowns her out. And when she spins to face the three of us, she smiles so big; I wonder if the room is really that dark or if she’s just that fucking bright .

One thing is clear: this girl doesn’t belong anywhere around a place like this with her big doe eyes and fluttering daisy-covered sundress.

She’s too sweet.

Too innocent.

If I had to guess, there’s not one bad bone in her whole damn body, and it’s a fucking temptation.

While it’s not unusual to get the occasional good girl coming by the club, looking for revenge on an asshole ex-boyfriend by sleeping with a biker, I don’t get the impression that’s why this girl’s standing in front of us.

She looks more lost than turned on.

And when she glances around the room, something edging on fear flares in those big brown eyes of hers. She scans her surroundings before her eyes land on me. And when they do, her perfect pink lips part with a sharp inhale. Her chest expands, and it pushes out her tits.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

Short, and all curves that beg me to dig my fingers in.

But she’s also young.

Too fucking young for me to be thinking the things I am about her. I’m a thirty-one-year-old biker, and I’ll be surprised if this girl can legally drink.

“Well, if it isn’t the farmer’s daughter.” Chaos chuckles, taking a sip of his beer.

He’s joking. I know this.

Still, the sudden urge to break a beer bottle and shove it through his neck crawls through me.

Chaos looks her up and down. “How old are you, babe? ”

She glares at the nickname he gives her, tipping her chin up in defiance. “I didn’t know bikers were so worried about underage drinking.”

It’s cute that she thinks that’s what we’re worried about. Alcohol is the least of the trouble she can get into at the Twisted Kings clubhouse.

Chaos elbows me in the arm, and I shake my head because we’re clearly thinking the same thing. This girl has no idea what she just stepped into.

“Honey, you barely look eighteen, much less twenty-one.” Chaos grins.

Her eyes narrow further. “Well, for your information, I turned twenty-one last week. Besides, I’m not here for a drink. I’m looking for Jesse King.”

My name on her lips has me pausing my beer bottle at my mouth.

Hitching an eyebrow, I finally take a sip and look her over again. Barely anyone calls me by my legal name. Not even my mother—unless she’s really pissed at me.

So why this girl thinks she has any right gets under my skin.

She pulls her purse strap up her shoulder, clutching it to her chest as she straightens her spine. Once more, she tips her chin up, showing off her perfectly innocent heart-shaped face as she waits for one of us to answer.

We don’t.

“Do you know where I can find him?” she asks after a beat of silence.

Ghost smirks in amusement while Chaos chuckles, taking a sip of his beer .

“Sure do.” I set my beer bottle on the bar behind me, not taking my eyes off her.

Those brown eyes land on me, and my cock stirs. This girl’s attention is a fucking aphrodisiac when I shouldn’t want anything to do with her. She’s too confident in a room filled with men who have blood on their hands.

But she doesn’t look away. Her cheeks blush, and I want to know if it’s because of the heat in the clubhouse or the thoughts in her head.

“Well, are you going to tell me where he is?” Her tone is all annoyance.

Defiance.

“Depends.” My gaze narrows. “What do you want with him?”

My cock waits for one answer, while my brain wants her to get the fuck away from me before I ruin her.

She opens her mouth to answer but is cut off by a high-pitched burst of excitement as Luna rounds the corner.

“Reagan?” Luna jumps up and down as she runs over to the girl she just called Reagan.

It’s not a name I would have guessed for her. It’s strong when she seems so sweet and fragile.

“It’s been forever.” Reagan and Luna hug, and now I’m thoroughly confused.

Reagan is here for me, but somehow, she knows Ghost’s old lady. It doesn’t make sense when Luna isn’t even originally from Vegas.

“What are you doing here?” Luna pulls back, still gripping Reagan’s arms .

“I came to see my great-aunt, Margaret. She’s not doing well.”

Fuck .

Margaret is my daughter’s live-in nanny. She’s mentioned her great-niece a few times, but I’ve never met her. She said she lived in Arizona, working for a school or doing something with kids. We’ve had no reason to be around each other.

But after Margaret was diagnosed with cancer this year, I notified her family of the situation as a courtesy so they could reach out to her if they wanted. Little did I know that text would result in this girl standing in front of me right now. The girl who is apparently visiting, as evidenced by the small suitcase I’m just now noticing behind her.

Reagan frowns at Luna, glancing briefly at the party raging around her. “What are you doing here? You hang out with bikers now?”

Luna’s gaze finds Ghost, and her whole face glows. “I found my home.”

That look is going to result in something I have no interest in seeing between my brother and his old lady later tonight.

Ghost and Luna are worse than Steel and Tempe. At least Steel keeps his relationship private. Ghost and his woman don’t share that same level of discretion with their sex life. I won’t be surprised if they’re fucking on the couch in an hour or two.

“You always did like getting into trouble.” Reagan laughs .

It’s haunting.

It fills every inch of the room. It crawls into my ears and swims through my ribs. That sound is dangerous.

Reagan crosses her arms over her chest, and it pushes her full tits higher. “Maybe you can help me then. I’m looking for Jesse King.”

There it is again.

My name.

She really needs to stop saying it.

“Jesse, huh?” Luna glances over at me with her eyebrows pinched.

“Yeah, I told Aunt Margaret I’d help out since she can’t get back to work anytime soon. I’m his new nanny.”

“Fuck no.” The words fly out of me.

I stand up so fast that the barstool hits the back of the bar. There’s no way in hell this girl is sticking around. Regardless of what she’s stirring in my jeans, the last thing I need is a twenty-one-year-old firecracker helping me.

Reagan’s smile falls, but she doesn’t so much as flinch at my sudden movement. “I’d really like to talk to Jesse about this, so if you could—”

“You’re looking at him, sweetheart.” I step forward. “And my answer is thanks , but no way in fucking hell.”

I’m too close. I need to step back, but I can’t .

The room smells like stale cigarettes and spilled beer, but she smells like honey, summer rain, and hope.

Reagan tips her head back to glare up at me. “Why not?”

“If I had to guess—” I shove Chaos before he can finish his sentence.

“Because I said.” I don’t break her stare.

“Jesse—”

“The name’s Legacy. Not Jesse. And I don’t need your fucking help.”

Brushing past her, I walk away. No good can come from staring at this girl. Smelling her has my head swimming. Her eyes are time capsules that make me wish I could step inside them and come out a better man.

I storm down the hallway and out to the front porch, climbing on my bike. My fingers grip the handlebars, and I’m pissed Margaret would invite her here without telling me.

Bea needs someone who will stick around. Not some girl chasing whatever sounds exciting this week before moving on to do something better with her life.

Why would Margaret do this?

Margaret .

Guilt swims through me thinking about the woman who has basically raised my daughter. The woman who taught me how to be a father when mine was a shit example.

Reagan is Margaret’s great-niece, and I just left her alone in the clubhouse. As much as I hate why this girl is here or what her proximity does to me, I care about Margaret too much to leave her in there alone.

Climbing off my bike, I grumble as I start back up the steps, resolving to drop her off at a hotel before driving her to the airport tomorrow .

Whatever it takes to get her to leave—because she’s not staying.

I never asked for help, and I sure as hell don’t want it from some twenty-one-year-old girl who is naive enough to walk through these doors in the first place.

Walking back down the hallway toward the bar, Reagan is the first person who comes into view. I blame it on the bright white sundress in a dim bar.

Not that it explains how I hear her voice above everyone else as the party gets louder.

“Is he always that charming?” she asks no one in particular.

“On a good day.” Chaos laughs. “You need a ride home, honey?”

She rolls her shoulders back. “Nope. I’m here to help my aunt, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“That so?” Chaos meets my gaze over Reagan’s shoulder, amused.

She nods. “Anyone have Jesse’s number so I can figure out where I’m supposed to be staying?”

Fucking hell.

I’m in trouble.