Page 18 of Property of Tacoma

Growling, I unlock my phone, open the message, and punch out a quick reply.

Me: Yes! Jeez, Louise, I’m working!

His response is immediate.

Chief: B good.

Rolling my eyes, I shove my phone across the counter.

“Cool,” Jagger says more to himself as he drops down onto the reclining loveseat and turns my television to ESPN. He’s the spitting image of his father.

Mr. Hot Biker President.

Tacoma.

Sweet baby Jesus, the man is a total beefcake.

Six-two of pure muscle wrapped in worn denim, and black leather, with dark hair peppered with flecks of gray.

Yum!

It’s all messy in that way that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it.

Those cobalt-blue eyes of his are absolutely sinful, and when he smiled at me earlier, I felt it all the way down to my toes.

The man is sex on a stick in that rugged, bad-boy way that screams trouble with a capital T.

He’s older than me, too—probably by fifteen years or so—which only adds to his appeal. I’ve always been attracted to older men. They know exactly who they are and what they want.

“So what kind of job are you doing with my dad?” Jagger asks from where he’s kicked back, flipping channels on the flat screen hanging on the wall.

“Well…” I start.

He pops an expectant brow.

“Uh…” I try again, but come up short. I’m so far out of my comfort zone here. I don’t usually come in contact with my clients’ families. And Jagger’s got me backed into a corner because I can’t exactly tell him what I do now, can I?

Well played, young Padawan. Well played.

His lips twitch. Probably because he knows it’s illegal as fuck, and he wouldn’t be wrong. But he’s not my kid, so I evade his question like a motherfucker. No way I’m telling Tacoma’s mini-me that there’s a dead guy in his father’s club and I’m there to clean it up so nobody knows it ever happened.

Nope, I’m not saying a word. My lips are sealed.

Like the smart woman I pride myself on being, I turn to Saylor, who’s feeding Panda animal crackers from a little baggie.

The little glutton loves to eat. “He loves animal crackers,” I tell her.

“I love them too!” Saylor admits, giggling when Panda snatches another cracker from her fingers.

The butterball is such a porker. He’s gonna make himself sick.

“Is this your house?” she asks, her blue eyes curious as she takes in the space around her.

“It is,” I confirm, trying not to think about how I ended up living in this thing.

The King Aire has been my sanctuary since my breakup with Zane last Christmas. I’d been so sure he was the one—a nomad with the Saints MC who swept me off my feet with his charm and promises. That’s all they were. Bullshit promises he was never going to follow through on. For six months, I actually believed I’d found the perfect man for me. I didn’t have to hide who I am and what I do.

It was a lie, though. Every bit of it. Something I learned on Christmas Eve when a very heavily pregnant woman showed up at the clubhouse. I’ll never forget the gut-wrenching pain I felt when she dropped the bomb that Zane was the father. Turned out he’d been seeing her the entire time we were together. I ended things on the spot, my finger itching on the trigger of my Sig as I aimed it at his crotch. If my grandfather hadn’t stepped in, Zane would be singing soprano in the Saints choir.