Her Possessive Bikers

17. Tres

17

TRES

T hrough the clubhouse window, I watch Indy's Chevelle pull into the lot. She races around to the passenger side and helps him get out of the car. Damn, what kind of man am I, jealous over a kid who got carved up like a rotisserie chicken because he got to spend time with Indy.

Kyler's looking rough, but he's alive and moving, which is a step up from last night. My jaw clenches seeing him lean on her shoulder as they walk up.

"Looking better, kid," I call out as they enter. "Those stitches holding up?"

"Like new," Kyler says, wincing as he straightens up. "Doc Cooper here knows her stuff."

Indy rolls her eyes. "Just keep them clean and dry. And remember what I said, no more bar fights for at least two weeks."

"Yes ma'am." Kyler gives a mock salute before limping toward the back room.

"Make sure he heeds my warnings Mr. President," she says, her fingers pointing inches from my face.

"Noted. I would hate to have to feel the wrath of Indiana Cooper." I say with a smirk. I don't miss her intake of breath when I use her full name.

"I should head out," she says, fishing her keys from her pocket. "Got some errands to run."

"Let me walk you out." I move to open the door for her.

The sound hits before I can process it - that distinctive pop-pop-pop of semi-automatic fire. Pure instinct takes over. I grab Indy around the waist and yank her back inside, my body covering hers as bullets pepper the doorframe where she was standing seconds ago. Wood splinters rain down as I slam the heavy door shut.

"Everyone down!" I roar, keeping Indy pinned behind me. The familiar weight of my piece presses against my back, but I won't draw until I know she's safe. "Jacoby, get her to the safe room!"

"No, I can-" Indy starts to protest.

"Not fucking happening Indy." I push her toward Jacoby. "No lip, now go."

More shots ring out, shattering the front windows. Glass tinkles across the floor like deadly rain.

"Move! Now!" I order as Jacoby grabs her arm. The look she gives me before they disappear down the hall makes my chest tight. But there's no time for that now. I draw my gun and signal to the prospects taking cover behind the bar.

"Everyone armed?" I call out, getting scattered affirmatives. The shooting stops, leaving an eerie silence.

"Come out and play, Tres!" A voice like nails on a chalkboard bellows from outside. It's fucking Lupe. The Prez of Dos Banditos. "Let's talk business, eh?"

Lupe is a piece of work who's been pushing boundaries since Brick passed. Thinking he has the upper hand now because he has seniority under his belt.

"Cover the rear," I order two prospects before moving toward the shot-up entrance. "Kyler, you good?"

"I got your six," he grunts, positioning himself despite his injuries.

The sun's blinding as I step onto the porch, gun ready but pointed down. Lupe stands in our lot, flanked by six of his guys. All armed, all itching for blood.

"Quite the welcome wagon," I drawl. "Usually folks just send a fruit basket."

"Cut the shit." Lupe spits on the ground. "Your boys roughed up my men last night."

"And Emerald nearly killed one of mine. So I don't want to hear a goddamn word from you." I adjust my collar, it suddenly feeling tight. "Your men were dealing in our territory, and not respecting our women. We had a chat about manners."

"Well, here's another chat." His grin turns ugly. "Keep your nose where it belongs, away from my men, or O'Brien's pretty little girl might find herself in trouble. Be a shame if something happened to her."

The rage that floods my system is white-hot. My trigger finger twitches, but I keep my voice steady. "You threatening a dead man's daughter, Lupe? That's low, even for you."

"Just friendly advice between presidents." He backs toward his bike. "Think it over. Next time we won't miss."

My blood runs cold as Lupe's bikes roar away. The threat hangs in the air like gunsmoke. I holster my piece, but my hands are shaking with barely contained rage.

"Everyone inside. Now." My voice comes out gravelly, strained.

The memory of a conversation with Brick hits me like a physical blow. Three years ago, sharing whiskey in this very clubhouse. His eyes serious as he made me promise to keep Indy out of club business if anything happened to him. Now here we are, and I've failed him in less than 2 weeks.

"Jacoby!" I bark, turning to find him already moving toward me. "Get Indy from the safe room. Meeting in five."

He nods, reading the tension in my shoulders. "On it, boss."

"And Jacoby?" I catch his arm. "Don't tell her what Lupe said. Not yet."

"Copy that." He disappears down the hall.

I survey the damage - broken glass, splintered wood, bullet holes decorating our walls like abstract art. But all I can see is Indy's face, those eyes so much like her father's, trusting me to keep her safe. And now she's got a target on her back because of who her father was. Because of who we are.

"Kyler, get the prospects cleaning this mess up," I order, heading for the meeting room. "Then join us inside. We need to figure out how to handle this shit storm."

The weight of leadership sits heavy on my shoulders as I push through the double doors. Brick would've known exactly what to do. But Brick's gone, and his daughter's safety is in my hands now. I won't let him down again.