Page 64 of Property of Tacoma

“What did he say?” I ask, pretty sure I already know what the answer is.

“Made some idle threats. Said I was too old for you. Called me a piece of shit.” Tacoma’s lips twitch slightly. “Standard big brother stuff.”

I should be angry that he kept this from me, but instead, I feel a rush of appreciation for his honesty now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His pupils dilate. “I didn’t give a fuck what he had to say. Still don’t. You’re mine, Angel. Every fucking inch of you.”

“Be serious. What if he really does pull the Saints’ business? Won’t that cause problems for you? For the Kings?”

Tacoma takes my hand, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee and talk about this on the deck.”

He helps me out of bed, and I grab one of his t-shirts from the dresser, pulling it over my head. It falls to mid-thigh, and I follow him downstairs to the kitchen.

While he makes coffee, I watch him move around the space. He’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, and my eyes linger on the tattoos covering his broad back.

Once the coffee is made, he hands me a mug and leads me out to the back deck. The morning air is warm with a gentle breeze coming off the Gulf.

Hand to god, this place feels like heaven the longer I’m here.

“Have a seat, baby.” He pats the spot on the outdoor sofa.

I drop down next to him and tuck my legs up underneath me, careful not to spill my coffee.

“To answer your question,” he starts after taking a sip of his coffee, “your brother doesn’t have as much power as he’s making you think he does.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“The Kings’ deal was made with the mother chapter in California. Riddick is the president there, and he’s the one who calls the shots. Not Chief.”

“So my brother couldn’t really pull the Saints’ business?”

Tacoma’s lips quirk up at the corners. “He could try, but Riddick wouldn’t let him. The arrangement is too profitable for both our clubs. And Riddick doesn’t give a shit who I’m fucking as long as the cash keeps flowing.”

I wince slightly at his crude phrasing, but the relief that washes over me is immense. “So I’m not causing problems between the clubs?”

“No, baby.” He reaches over and places his hand on my knee, steady and reassuring. “Your brother’s just being protective. I get it. If I had a little sister and some older man was all over her, I’d probably react the same way.”

I lean into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. “He called me a child. Said I was playing house with you.”

Tacoma’s hand tightens on my knee. “You’re not a child. Far from it.”

“I know, but?—”

The sound of car doors slamming interrupts me, and we both turn to see Eagle’s truck pulling into the driveway. A moment later, Saylor comes running around the side of the house toward the deck, Jagger following at a slower pace.

“Cali! Daddy!” Saylor calls, waving frantically.

My heart skips a beat at hearing her call me by my real name. Ever since she learned it yesterday, she’s refused to call me Foxy.

It was strange at first because nobody calls me that except my brother when he's trying to scold me like a five-year-old.

Panda, who had been exploring the yard, scurries toward Saylor, chittering excitedly. She scoops him up, giggling as he nuzzles against her.

“Hey, princess,” Tacoma calls, his face lighting up at the sight of his daughter. “Did you have fun at Gigi and Pop’s house?”

“Uh-huh!” She bounds up the deck steps, Panda propped up on her hip like a baby. “Gigi made pancakes with chocolate chips!”

Jagger follows her up, his hands shoved in his pockets. He leans against the railing, his eyes moving between me and his father, taking in Tacoma’s hand on my knee.