Stepping out of my office, the noise of the club assaults my ears. The sounds of women screeching alerts me that Shane must be taking something off. Thank heavens for that warning; it lets me know to keep my eyes on the bar as I make my way out.
Catching a glance over at Hammer and Coal, I give a quick chin lift. My silent acknowledgement immediately has them jumping from their stools to follow me.
Without a word shared between us, we all climb on our bikes and take off. We share a bond of brotherhood. They trust me to lead them straight through the depths of any hell, even the parenthood of a daughter. In turn, I trust them to have my back, and, most importantly, to keep me from killing a teenage boy for merely looking at my baby girl.
At the entrance to the subdivision, I easily maneuver my bike around the bar meant to keep people out. When the overweight security guard steps outside of his stand, I flip him my middle finger. He can call the cops, no problem. The Miami-Dade police department won’t touch me, especially not for picking up my disobedient daughter. Not to mention that I have connections so far above their pay grade it would make them piss their pants.
Riding farther into the upscale development, the noise of the party drowns out even my motorcycle pipes. I am surprised the stuffy suits that live in places like this haven’t called the cops themselves.
Easily following the sounds, I find the three story deluxe home with cars packing the driveway. Parking my bike on the edge of the road, I hop off with Hammer and Coal following suit. They don’t bother asking questions, because my reason for coming here is obvious as we make our way into a house full of drunken teens.
Walking inside like I own the place, I see kids in every corner, making out. The sight makes my blood boil. If I find some little dipshit with his hands all over my baby girl, it is going to take both Hammer and Coal to keep me from beating the shit out of him. I don’t care if they are teenagers; no little prick is good enough to touch Brooke.
I glance into the formal dining room to my left, and someone has one very expensive table that seats eight, making a perfect set up for beer pong. Jesus, this is the nightmare of every parent. If I see one kid doing any drugs, my head is going to explode.
“Brooke,” I call out. “Brooklyn Rayne Grady, get your ass out here… Right. The. Fuck. Now!” I roar without a second thought.
All the teens stop and stare at me and my brothers filling up this ostentatious entryway. When nobody moves, Coal steps up to be right behind me on the left.
“Brooke, find her now,” Coal clips out, giving his cold glare to every teen in the room.
At the top of the stairway, I watch my daughter meet Coal’s gaze without one ounce of trepidation. Baby girl is showing balls of steel for her friends. Her short as sin shorts make my blood pressure shoot up even higher. The camisole tank top that I bought to go with pajamas is far from hiding her buds from all these teen pricks.
“Dad—” she starts as I interrupt.
“Don’t say another fucking word. Get your ass on my bike.”
“Death of you,” Hammer chuckles behind me as he turns around to get ready to leave.
Yes, my daughter will be the death of me. I watch as she grabs her friend by the wrist and half drags her down the stairs, mumbling at her the whole way down. When the two girls reach me, I don’t move.
“Come on, Dad,” Brooke lets out a huff. “Let’s go. This is embarrassing enough already.”
“Everybody here, you have twenty minutes to get this house cleaned the fuck up. Since you dumb shits have been drinking, a bus will be here to pick each one of you up and take you home. My man Coal here is gonna stay behind and make sure you do as I say.”
“Daaaad,” Brooke whines, “leave everyone alone.”
“Brooke, I suggest you shut your mouth and get your ass over to my bike. If your friend needs a ride, Hammer will take her. Outside. Now. You’re in enough trouble, don’t add more.”
Defeated, the two girls stomp off while Hammer shakes his head at me while I turn to follow them all out. I haven’t even made it to the door when I hear some pre-pubescent shithead slur out a question.
“Do you think they are, like, real biker dudes? Maybe we can ask them to pop a wheelie or something. Wait!” His voice cracks as he gets excited. “Maybe they’re from that show on TV! We should ask for their autographs!’