Page 19 of Property of Tacoma

I should have known better than to trust a biker. My father was always stepping out on my mother. That’s why she left.

I promised myself I’d never make the same mistake.

And yet here I am, feeling this ridiculous chemistry with Tacoma, a man who probably has women in every corner of this tiny town.

The blonde from earlier who showed up for a roll in the hay is a stark reminder of why I don’t fuck with bikers anymore. They’re all the same—different pond, but always the same frog. Also, Mason warned me to be on my best behavior, and I’m pretty sure hooking up with the Kings’ president doesn’t fall in line with being on my best behavior.

A knock on the RV door interrupts my thoughts. Tacoma is standing there on the other side with his eyes trained on a beautiful older woman with wild auburn hair and a man who looks like an older version of Tacoma.

“That’s Grandpa and Gigi!” Saylor squeals, carefully handing Panda back to me before rushing to the door.

When she shoves it open, Tacoma and his parents are waiting at the bottom of the steps.

“Mom, Dad, this is Foxy,” Tacoma says, appearing beside them. “Foxy, my parents, Roxy and Eagle.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, stepping down from the RV.

“Likewise, honey,” Roxy says warmly, her voice carrying a slight Southern drawl.

Eagle nods at me respectfully. “Ma’am.”

“We’ve gotta go handle that thing,” Tacoma tells his father, and I don’t miss the meaningful look that passes between them.

Eagle nods. “Go on. We got the kids.”

I hand Panda back to Saylor and smile when she starts talking a mile a minute about how he eats animal crackers and sleeps in a tiny bed. Jagger follows more slowly, but I can see he’s just as taken with the animal as his little sister.

“You ready?” Tacoma asks, his voice all business now.

“Yep.”

Get it together, Foxy.

You’re here to do a job, not the client.

Tacoma takesa turn down a side street and pulls into an alley.

As I follow behind him, I glance towards the front of the building and catch the sign on the front.

Anarchy’s Pretty Kitties.

I snort. “Seriously?” Pretty Kitties? Why am I not surprised?

Turning into the alleyway behind Tacoma, I maneuver my RV into the narrow space and cut the engine. Through my windshield, I watch him dismount, remove his helmet, and run a hand through his hair in a gesture that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

He swaggers over with that loosey-goosey hip sway that makes my mouth go dry. It’s criminal for one man to have that much sex appeal.

When I open the door, he’s waiting at the foot of the steps, hands shoved in his pockets and his expression unreadable.

“I just gotta grab my bag,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.

I move to the back of the RV, hearing him climb the steps behind me. I can feel his eyes on me as I open one of the many hidden compartments built into the custom cabinetry, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze.

“Your parents seem nice,” I say, pulling out a large black leather duffel bag containing some of the tools I’ll need.

“They’ve been a lifesaver since I got custody of the kids,” he replies, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I think back to his ex-wife showing up earlier. What a bitch. The way she dismissed her beautiful children as if they were an inconvenience made my blood boil.