Her Possessive Bikers

5. Tres

5

TRES

T he moment that Chevelle rumbles into the lot, my breath catches. Only one person would have the balls to drive Brick's prized possession, and there she is - his little girl, all grown up. The sunlight catches her dark hair as she steps out, and for a moment, I'm transported back twenty years to when she used to run around the clubhouse with pigtails and scraped knees.

Except she's not that little girl anymore. The woman climbing out of that car moves with a quiet confidence that makes my mouth go dry. That black dress hugs curves that definitely weren't there last time I saw her, and the leather jacket... damn.

"Jesus Christ, Brick," I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. "You'd have my head on a pike for even looking at her like this."

I watch as those two idiot prospects start giving her grief, my jaw clenching. The disrespect makes my blood boil - not just because she's Brick's daughter, but because no woman should be treated that way at her father's funeral.

"Hey!" My voice booms across the parking lot as I stride forward, grabbing both prospects by their cuts. "That's O'Brien's daughter, you fucking idiots."

The guilt hits me immediately after. Here I am, defending her honor while having decidedly dishonorable thoughts about her myself. Brick was my best friend, my brother. He trusted me to look after the club - and by extension, his daughter. These thoughts I'm having? They're a betrayal of that trust.

"Thanks for that." Her voice is soft but steady, those hazel eyes - Brick's eyes - meeting mine without hesitation.

"Tres Reynolds." I extend my hand, pushing away the warmth that spreads through my chest when her smaller one fits into it. "Your dad's VP. Well, was his VP."

"Right, he mentioned you." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "In his calls, he'd say 'Tres kept the boys in line today' or 'Tres handled that situation like a fucking natural.'"

My throat tightens. Brick never shut up about his little girl either. "Come on, everything's set up in the back."

I guide her through the clubhouse, hyper aware of her presence beside me. The leather of her jacket brushes against my arm, and I catch a whiff of something floral mixed with motor oil - probably from driving that Chevelle.

The backyard transforms as we step through the door. Hundreds of candles line the paths between chairs. One of Brick's bike sits prominently displayed, polished to a mirror shine, with photos arranged around it. The club's colors drape everything in black, red, and gold. His urn sits on top of the seat.

"Oh." The word escapes her like a punch to the gut. Her eyes sweep across the scene, glistening. "He would have..." She swallows hard. "He would have loved this."

"Yeah, he would've." I watch her profile, seeing echoes of Brick in every feature. Those same expressive eyes, that determined set of the jaw. "Your old man never stopped talking about you, you know. Every achievement, every milestone - we all heard about it."

She turns those eyes on me, and damn if they don't hit me like a physical force. "Really?"

"'My girl's saving lives down in Alabama,'" I mimic Brick's proud tone. "'Did I tell you she made lead paramedic? That's my girl.'"

"That's all I ever wanted to do was make him proud," she says rubbing her wrist, a small key tattoo that looks eerily similar to the necklace Brick wore around his neck.

"Well, mission accomplished." I respond with a sheepish grin. Damn, she's got me flustered like a fucking school boy.

I watch her scan the crowd, her fingers twisting the ring on her right hand. The same nervous tell Brick had when he was uncomfortable, though he'd deny it to his grave. Members and their old ladies fill the space, most of them strangers to her now. Some remember her as a kid, but twenty years changes people.

"Would you..." She clears her throat, those familiar eyes finding mine. "Would you mind sitting with me during the service?"

My chest tightens. "Of course."

We make our way to the front row, and I catch Victor's envious glare as we pass. Half the younger members are practically burning holes in my back. Can't blame them - she's got that rare combination of beauty and strength that draws attention like a magnet.

"Quite the turnout," she whispers, settling into her seat. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I fight the urge to shift closer.

"Your dad was respected. Loved." I lean in slightly, keeping my voice low. "Though I'm pretty sure some of these guys showed up just to get a look at the infamous daughter he wouldn't shut up about."

A small laugh escapes her, followed immediately by guilt, like she shouldn't be finding anything funny today. I want to tell her it's okay, that Brick would've wanted her to laugh, but the chaplain steps up to begin the service.

She straightens beside me, chin high, shoulders back. Pure Brick Cooper stubbornness right there. But I notice her hands trembling in her lap, and without thinking, I reach over and cover them with one of mine.

She tenses for a moment, then relaxes, turning her palm up to grip my fingers. The contact sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I'm acutely aware of every point where our skin touches.

Christ, I'm going straight to hell for the thoughts running through my head right now. But I can't bring myself to let go of her hand.

I reach into my kutte and pull out the pressed handkerchief I keep there - old habits die hard. Her shoulders shake as the chaplain finishes speaking about brotherhood and legacy.

"Here." The white cloth looks stark against her black-painted nails as she takes it. "Keep it. Something tells me you might need it later."

She dabs at her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup. "Thanks. Didn't expect to fall apart like this."

"You're holding up better than most." My thumb traces circles on her knuckles where I'm still holding her other hand. "Your old man would be proud."

The service wraps up, and people start filing past to pay their respects. Indy stands, accepting the polished wooden urn with trembling hands. She traces the engraved MC logo with her fingertips.

"Want to come inside?" I nod toward the clubhouse. "Might do you good to sit for a minute before heading out."

A sad smile tugs at her lips. "Actually... would it be weird if I wanted to have one last beer with my dad?"

"Not weird at all." Something in my chest tightens at the request. "Come on. I know just the spot."

I guide her through the clubhouse to the bar where Brick and I spent countless nights solving the world's problems over cold ones. His favorite stool still sits empty - nobody's had the heart to claim it.

"This was his seat," I say, pulling it out for her. "Every Friday night, right here, telling stories about his little girl saving lives down in Alabama."

She settles onto the stool, setting the urn carefully on the bar. "Got any of his favorite?"

I reach under the bar and pull out two bottles of the cheap domestic beer Brick always insisted tasted better than the fancy craft stuff. "Wouldn't be a proper sendoff without it."