Her Possessive Bikers

22. Tres

22

TRES

T he clubhouse dining room falls silent as Indy descends the stairs. My grip tightens around my beer bottle, watching her float down in that tight red dress that hugs every curve. Those fucking heels add an edge that's purely her - purely Brick's daughter. The black leather jacket draped over her shoulders is probably his too. She's dressed to fucking kill. She's got something up her sleeve, I just wish I knew what it was.

"Damn," Snake whispers from two seats down. "Didn't know we had an angel joining us for dinner."

I shoot him a look that could freeze hell. "Watch your mouth."

"Just appreciating the view, Prez," he mutters, but his eyes stay glued to her.

Indy takes the empty seat next to me, seemingly oblivious to the effect she's having on every man in the room. The candlelight catches the silver rings on her fingers as she reaches for a roll.

"Hope you boys saved me some food," she says, her voice light. "I've got quite the appetite."

"Plenty to go around, darlin'," Ripper calls from across the table, and I notice how he's straightened up, trying to catch her eye.

I clear my throat. "Pass the potatoes."

The bowl makes its way down, passed from hand to hand by brothers who suddenly can't stop finding reasons to lean closer to Indy's end of the table. My jaw clenches as I watch Tank deliberately brush his fingers against hers during the exchange.

"Thanks," she says, completely professional, but Tank grins like he's won the lottery.

I tap my glass with my knife, commanding attention. The din of conversation dies down as every eye turns to me. "Listen up. Got an announcement to make."

Indy shifts beside me, her fork pausing mid-bite. I rest my hands flat on the table, scanning the faces around me.

"Due to some complications with Dos Banditos, Indy will be staying here at the clubhouse until further notice. She's under our protection."

"Under your protection, you mean?" Crystal sneers from the end of the table, tossing her flea market extensions around. "Didn't take long for daddy's little princess to worm her way in, did it?"

The room temperature drops twenty degrees. My chair scrapes back as I stand, slow and deliberate. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Crystal's smirk falters as I lean forward, palms pressed against the wood. "That's O'Brien Cooper's daughter you're talking about. The man who built this club from nothing, who gave half of you ungrateful bitches a warm place to stay when no one else would."

My voice drops lower, deadlier. "If anyone - and I mean anyone - has a problem with Indy being here, there's the fucking door. Test me on this, I fucking dare you."

"But-" Crystal starts.

"No buts. Show some respect or get the fuck out. Your choice." I straighten up, letting my gaze sweep the room. "That goes for all of you. Indy's family. Anyone treats her otherwise, they answer to me. We clear?"

Murmurs of "Yes, Prez" ripple around the table. Crystal stares at her plate, face red.

I sit back down, picking up my fork like nothing happened. Under the table, Indy's knee brushes mine - whether by accident or on purpose, I'm not sure. But the contact sends electricity through my veins all the same.

The clinking of silverware fills the awkward silence until Tank clears his throat. "So, Indy, what made you choose paramedic work?"

I watch her dab her lips with a napkin, buying time to compose her answer. The candlelight catches the silver nose ring that somehow makes her look both innocent and dangerous at once.

"Blood and guts never bothered me," she says with a shrug. "Plus, I like the adrenaline rush. Desk jobs aren't my style."

"Just like your old man," I say, remembering how Brick could never sit still for club paperwork.

Snake leans forward. "You see some crazy shit out there?"

"Oh you have no idea." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Though there was this one call where a guy got his dick stuck in-"

"Maybe not during dinner," I cut in, though I can't help smiling. The tension in the room eases as a few chuckles break out.

"You got ink?" Ripper asks, gesturing to where her jacket has slipped, revealing part of a tattoo on her shoulder.

She pulls back the leather, showing a detailed anatomical heart. "Few pieces. This one's my favorite though - got it when I finished my certification."

"Beautiful work," I say, admiring how the shading creates depth. My fingers itch to trace the lines, but I keep my hands firmly on my beer.

"You ride at all?" Tank asks.

"Not yet. Dad always promised to teach me but..." She trails off, pushing food around her plate.

"I could show you sometime," Tank offers quickly.

Jacoby clears his throat from across the table. "Already got that handled, thanks for your… eagerness, Tank. He says snidely. If this was a pissing contest, Jacoby just cocked his leg and marked Indy.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke and dinner conversation, I watch Indy lean towards Kyler. Her fingers brush his arm, right where I know those fresh stitches are healing.

"How are those wounds feeling? Any pulling when you move?"

The kid's whole demeanor changes. His usual brooding expression melts away, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. Christ, she's got him too.

"Actually feeling pretty good. You did an amazing job with the stitches." He rolls his shoulder, demonstrating. "Barely notice them now."

"Let me take a look later, make sure there's no infection," she says, and I swear Kyler practically preens under her attention.

"Yeah, of course. Whatever you think is best." His voice has that eager-puppy tone I've never heard from him before.

I take a long pull from my beer, watching how Kyler hangs on her every word as she explains proper wound care. His eyes never leave her face, like she's speaking gospel truth. It's the same look I've seen on Jacoby, the same one I probably wear myself when she's around.

Brick would be laughing his ass off right now, watching his baby girl turn three of his toughest brothers into lovesick teenagers without even trying.

Jesus, we're all so fucked.

The conversation drifts to safer topics - her favorite bands, stories about Alabama, medical horror stories that have half the table groaning. Through it all, I notice how naturally she fits here, like she's always belonged at this table.

Just like her father did.