Fallon (Henchmen MC Next Generation 3)

That was the kind of person you wanted riding shotgun with you when you took control.

"I'll go tomorrow," I said. "Once everyone has had a chance to sober up."

"With as much booze as that fucker has been drinking, I don't think Dezi is going to dry out for a month."

"It's fine. He'll be distracted by Billie's mint lemonade."

"Mint," my father said, looking out at the yard, then back to me. "So that's what all that shit is growing along the border of the property. That kid," he said, shaking his head the way all of us did when we talked about Billie and her antics. "Just like her mother."

"I don't know. I don't think anyone could top Billie."

"No?" my dad asked, pushing off the wall with a smirk. "Next time you see Sugar, why don't you ask him about Gregor getting stuck to the counter," he suggested, chuckling as he moved back inside.

I had a gut feeling I didn't want to know the answer to that.

Maybe I'd have Dezi ask.

On that note, though, I went back to the party.

Where I spent the rest of the night trying to imagine what a conversation with Danny might be like after we'd fucked.

Whatever that conversation might be like, though, I would be finding out in a few short hours.

Chapter Five

Danny

I felt like I could still smell him on my skin.

I'd showered twice since I'd gotten home.

Once just to wash off the sweat and sex.

The second because I felt like I could still feel him all over me.

But even after a night of restless sleep and my second shower, I still caught a whiff of him when I moved around.

I knew, logically, there was no way there was any trace of him on me after I scrubbed my skin red, but it was there, a scent memory that refused to go away. So I went about my morning with a constant reminder running through my head about what we'd done.

Which was the stupidest thing in my entire life. Which, let me tell you, is saying something. I wasn't a woman who'd played by the rules, stayed in her lane, and did what was expected of her. I'd gotten myself into one sticky situation after the next. I'd done a lot of shit that could have been life-ending, not only life-ruining.

But fucking the president of a rival MC?

Yeah, that topped the cake.

For many, many reasons.

But a lot of it boiled down to the obvious fact that it wasn't a predicament any other MC president would find themselves in. So if my club—or any club—found out what happened, I would lose all credibility.

Hell, I might not even live to suffer the humiliation of that discovery.

I held no illusions about my place in the boys' club known as an outlaw motor club.

I didn't get to make mistakes like the men could. I didn't get to show weakness. I didn't get to have flaws.

I always had to be on my game. There was no such thing as an off day. There damn sure was no way that I could screw up to this caliber and keep chugging on.

I needed to find a way to compartmentalize it in my head. And then I needed to move forward like nothing happened.

It was the only way.

"Thinking about the shooting?" Grandpa asked, making me whip around, finding him leaning against the wall near the steps, two cups of coffee in his hands.

"The only reason you're not getting chewed out for not knocking is because you brought me coffee," I said, taking it from him.

"I did knock."

"Oh."

"You were busy pacing."

"I do that," I agreed, taking a deep breath, then letting it out, trying to shrug the weight off my shoulders.

"I know. I remember thinking you were going to wear through the floor of the old clubhouse when you were a kid. So, what are you pacing about? The shooting? You've lived through worse."

That was true.

I'd gotten out of the whole ordeal unscathed.

Physically, anyway.

"No," I admitted, knowing that I was too worn out to lie convincingly.

Grandpa, being who he was, didn't push. Instead, he waved his mug toward the whole of the basement and declared, "I really like what you've done with the place."

Alright. Admittedly, I was nobody's interior decorator. I had never been around enough women in my life to pick up tips on house making. I mean, sure, there had always been the clubwhores. But they were always more interested in talking about dick size or tongue game than throw pillows and wall colors.

I'd done some work since Grandpa had last been down, though, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was a little disappointed that he didn't seem to notice. Even if a lifetime around men had taught me that they really weren't the most observant creatures the world had to offer.