Page 7

7

Legacy

The fans in the garage are spinning at full speed as I wipe the sweat off my forehead. It’s dripping down the back of my neck and under the collar of my shirt. Without any natural breeze in the garage, it’s nearly unbearable. The sweltering heat of summer is starting to taper off, but in Vegas, that means the high nineties, which is nowhere close to comfortable.

The muggy heat is still in the open bays, and if I stare across the pavement, there’s a ripple of warmth making waves in the air. It baffles me how Havoc spends most of his time at Kings Auto by choice, especially in the middle of summer.

My T-shirt sticks to my back as I slide my cut over my shoulders. I took it off when I was under the hood of a customer’s truck, but now that I’m done, I slip it back on.

The only upside to a blistering morning at the club’s auto body shop is that it gives me a chance to move my body for once. It helps work out the tension of sitting in front of a screen for too long, and the relief of my blood free flowing through my veins makes up for the ache in my hands and suffocating heat.

I pop my knuckles and stretch my fingers, working the tension out of them as Havoc tosses a wrench into the toolbox beside me. He just finished an oil change for a customer, and now he’s moving on to rebuilding another client’s Harley.

Snatching my phone off the nearby workbench, I tap the screen, but there are no messages. The same as it’s been all day.

“You’re staring at that thing like you’re expecting something.” Havoc shoves the lid to the toolbox closed. “Or someone…”

My gaze moves in his direction, and I find him grinning. “Bea’s with Reagan, so I’m just making sure they don’t need anything.”

At least, that’s what I tell myself when I tap the screen for the hundredth time.

Reagan has been here for a week and is doing fine so far, so I have no reason to think she wouldn’t be today. Still, I can’t help holding my breath, waiting for something to turn on its head.

“Reagan seems capable.” Havoc leans against a large concrete pillar, wiping his hands with a rag. “Margaret trusts her.”

“Yeah, but she’s young.”

Too young .

Twenty-one and barely the legal drinking age. Something made clear by how much of a lightweight she was after one margarita. One drink and Reagan was an open book.

It probably should have made me feel guilty for using that against her by trying to get information, but I couldn’t help wanting to know what was behind those mile-high walls of hers.

I wanted to know what in her life made her so resilient that not even my club seems to scare her off.

Reagan offered me a hint of her history, and I wanted to know it all. To understand how her experiences seem to run so deep but still leave her that innocent. And the longer she talked, the more it made sense.

She’s spent her life sheltered and controlled. Playing the good girl and pacifying everyone around her.

Which is why it’s so interesting that I manage to fluster her. To bring out her bite. Fuck if it doesn’t make me want to rile her up.

“Reagan’s twenty-one.” Havoc watches me. “Don’t seem to recall you having an issue with that before.”

“Fucking isn’t the same as sticking around this place. She’s too young to be tying herself to the club.”

“Maybe.” Havoc rubs his thumb over the hourglass tattooed on the back of one of his knuckles, like he often does when he’s lost in thought. “That’s for her to decide. We were all young at some point, and we survived.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Like me, Havoc was born and raised on the compound. Tearing up the dirt and popping wheelies before we could legally drive. Lying on the lawn chairs in the back, wasted long before we could legally drink.

That land exists as its own world.

A wild west.

Something both our fathers taught us to appreciate.

But unlike me, falling into the ranks the second I turned eighteen, Havoc actually tried to escape. He enlisted in the military and swore he was going to become something more than his father—than this club—would ever allow him. And it wasn’t because he didn’t respect or care about the Twisted Kings; he just wanted to make his own decisions.

To carve his own path for one reason or another.

I still don’t know what brought him back when he got out eight years later, but clearly, he didn’t find anything better out there than this place.

A phone rings, and for a second, I think it’s mine, but then Havoc grunts at his, ignoring the call and tossing it onto one of the workbenches.

“Everything okay?”

“Reina.” He shakes his head.

“What’s up with her?”

“She’s Reina. Something’s always up with her.” He rips out his hair tie, resecuring his shoulder-length hair into a knot on the back of his head. “Something’s always wrong even when it isn’t. Who fucking knows.”

Reina has lived at the clubhouse for a couple of years, and she’s fucked her way through most of the club, trying to get a property patch. But I’ve always steered clear because, from the moment I met her, something didn’t sit right.

Besides, I stopped fucking patch bunnies altogether after Sera. It wasn’t worth the trouble of having to face them day in and day out when I wasn’t going to offer them anything permanent.

Still, I’ve watched Reina work through my brothers, trying to stake territory and playing ringleader as girls come and go.

I’d feel bad for her if she wasn’t so damn conniving.

But while the other guys seem blinded by her giant tits and eagerness to get on her knees, I’ve always seen her for who she is. Someone who will ruthlessly attack anyone she views as a threat.

It got worse when Tempe first started coming around, which pissed me off for my president’s sake. But now that she’s giving Luna sideways glances for her relationship with Ghost, I know it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a bigger problem.

“Reina’s fucking trouble. I don’t know why you bother with her.” I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead.

“Really?” Havoc grins.

“Besides the obvious.” Clearly, her looks are enough to make my brothers lose all good sense.

Havoc chuckles. “She’s still pissed about Steel turning her down.”

“And you’re gonna fuck that irritation out of her?”

“Guess we’ll see.” Havoc grins. “So long as she keeps shit to herself and doesn’t make it my problem, who am I to deny the girl a little fun? ”

“I seem to remember Steel feeling the same, and we all saw how that worked out between her and Tempe.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for an old lady then.” Havoc shrugs. “Nothing to be jealous over.”

“Whatever you say, brother.”

Havoc brushes me off just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and hate the relief that courses through me when I see Reagan’s name on the screen.

Reagan : Yes or no… It’s hot outside, and she had vegetables with lunch. But I don’t know your feelings on dessert this early in the day.

She attaches a picture of an ice cream sandwich.

Jesse : You got Bea to eat a vegetable?

Reagan : You say that like it’s hard to do. Or are you just that terrible at cooking?

Jesse : Very funny.

Reagan : I must be hilarious if the grumpiest biker on the planet finds me funny.

Jesse : More like mildly amusing, but mostly just irritating.

Reagan : You say the sweetest things, Jesse King.

I can practically feel her smile through her words as she continues to refuse to call me Legacy. What’s worse is the tightness in my ribs when I don’t really mind it.

For the first time in months, something stirs in my chest, and while I haven’t felt like flirting, much less fucking, I can’t deny the fact that this girl pushes every button and then some.

Which is why I need to shut it down.

Jesse : Dessert is fine. I’ll be back in a couple of hours .

I regret my clipped message the moment I hit send.

A breeze streams through the open bay, and I swear her sigh is floating across the city to remind me I’m an asshole. I’m always kind to Margaret, but I can’t seem to play nice with Reagan.

She opens up; I shut her out.

She plays nice; I go for the kill.

Reagan : Thanks.

One word.

No sweetness.

No irritating optimism.

It’s a good thing. That’s what I want.

Right?

I stare at her response longer than I should, knowing Reagan Brady is going to be a big fucking problem.

Because I don’t want one word from her; I want all of them.

Whether I deserve them or not.