Uncle Clive isn’t the type of man who responds well to “sass.” Fortunately, years ago, I got used to his pushy personality. That’s how I work. I find a groove and settle in.
And that’s what I did in Elko. I moved into my apartment, started my job, made a good friend, and lost the urge to face my father.
Except I can’t hide forever. My interest in Lowell is too obvious. Yet, somehow, I hide my lust for Conor just fine. Most people never seem to notice me checking out his fine ass. But I can’t so much as glance at Lowell without everyone eyeballing me for being a stalker.
I blame my mom for building up my father’s image in my head. Back when I was a kid, she would tell me how Lowell was the most handsome man in the club—tall and muscular with dark hair and eyes. She always had stories about the Executioners fighting and fucking. Mostly, she shared how being close to them made her feel important in a way nothing else ever had.
“Then, why did you leave?” I asked, especially when I got older and started to push back against her fairy tales of a bygone era.
“Because I wanted you more than I wanted to feel powerful,” she would answer.
Sigh. My mom has always been my favorite person. We’re a lot alike. She said she wanted a best friend, so she made a mini-Needy Hobbs to hang out with. I was her gift to herself.
No matter where we lived or whose thumb we were stuck under, I never worried as long as Needy was at my side. But then, after she visited Branson with her sister, my life went to crap. Returning to Minton alone, Immee claimed Mom fell for a guy. My aunt is a terrible liar. So much so that Uncle Clive had to tell me the same crap in his naturally smooth bullshit way.
Even without Needy around, I didn’t ditch Minton. I’m a rutter, after all. Time ran out when Uncle Clive promised me to some dork from Bismarck. That’s when my get-up-and-go returned long enough for me to decide to search for my dad.
Now, I’m rutting in my new life, waiting for the right time to tell Lowell my truth.
The change-inducing trigger comes in the form of Topanga Sinema’s manicured hand. The loudmouthed blonde has been Lowell’s “honey” going on eighteen years. I’ve seen her twice when the bunnies were invited to club events. The honeys are fully aware of the bunnies’ dick-related duties. Rather than secret mistresses, we attend the Woodlands’ less family-oriented functions.
Most nights, the honeys don’t hang around Rooster’s Tavern. After eight is party time for the bunnies. Not me, of course. However, the other bunnies fondle the Executioners, listen to their stories, and go to side rooms for sticky activities. Through it all, I bring drinks to the club guys while sending subliminal messages to Lowell that he’s my daddy.
Even though the honeys don’t normally hang around, Topanga pees all over the guys’ routines by refusing to leave.
Days ago, Jena warned me to keep away from Lowell. Topanga thinks I’m a stalker. Makes sense. I do keep hoping by staring at him that he’ll mentally sense our connection. Instead of him picking up on my signals, his wife arrives to eyeball me all night.
I ought to be nervous with Topanga around, but I’m mostly thinking about Conor. This evening, he’s wearing a dark gray CBGB T-shirt that fits snugly over his broad chest. I don’t know what my problem is—maybe my body thinks it’s ovulating despite the pills I take—but I’m obsessed with the idea of peeling that shirt off him and giving his skin a lick. What’s that sexy sonovabitch hiding under his vintage tee?
My mind is so solidly on Conor that I don’t notice Topanga stand up when I approach the table to drop off drinks for her, Lowell, the Executioners’ president, Bronco, and the club’s giant blond Sergeant at Arms, Anders.
I never see her hand coming. The slap echoes in my head. The people around us stop moving. I feel the sting of her palm against my cheek. I stare into Topanga’s outraged blue eyes and restrain my urge to punch her angry face. I don’t know how they roll in Elko, but I was raised to believe turning the other cheek was a loser move.
“You scheming little whore,” Topanga growls, snarling like a wild animal. “How dare you flirt with my man right in front of me? Do you want to get fucked up? Because I’ll have him kill you if you disrespect me again.”
I don’t dare look around. What is Conor thinking? Are my fellow bunnies ready to cut me loose? Do I look as embarrassed as I feel? Is it obvious how much my hands want to form fists and start swinging?
Topanga feels vindicated, I guess. She hit me. I look stupid. Her husband’s honor remains intact. Life is great for all of them. But, sometimes, I can’t control my temper. I try so hard to eat the shit fed to me by stronger people. Years living in Uncle Clive’s house taught me to gobble down the crap and smile as if I’ve never tasted anything better.
But my temper assumes I won’t live to twenty-five. Why go down polite when I can rip apart the world on my way out?
That’s why I don’t let Topanga sit back down, feeling superior. Instead, I blurt out, “I don’t want to fuck Lowell.”
Outraged for me to even speak her man’s name, she leans forward and asks, “Then why, ya basic bitch, are you always slobbering over him, huh?”
“I think he might be my dad.”
Topanga gasps super dramatically as her big moment shatters to pieces. She came here tonight to reclaim the pecking order in Elko. Honeys first, bunnies last. I needed to learn my place. Except now, I’ve complicated her big plan. Rather than slap me again, she turns to Lowell.
“You sloppy fucker,” Topanga hisses, and I wonder if she’ll slap him next.
I notice the club’s president snickering behind his hand. A few years ago, the sexy, dark-haired Bronco had a surprise baby turn up. Now, his VP is balls-deep in the same situation, except I’m long past the cute phase of childhood.
Topanga swings around to look at me again and asks, “Wait, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Topanga goes from crazy Stepford wife to easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy in a flash. “Oh, then, that’s fine. You were conceived during the pre-Topanga era,” she says and strokes Lowell’s back.
Bronco suddenly stands up, looking as if he’s having a fantastic time. “Let’s take this discussion into the side room for a little privacy.”
With no choice, I follow him to the area of the tavern where the men normally talk business or bang bunnies. I feel Topanga and Lowell behind me. Before I walk past Conor, I notice him standing. After weeks of hiding from reality, I’m finally face-to-face with my dad.
Based on Lowell’s expression, I’m about to receive a rude awakening on those childhood fantasies.
CONOR
Do I get a reward for being right and does it involve Monroe riding my dick?
With Monroe’s secret out, my uncle takes the conversation to a private side room. Skipping an invitation, I follow Lowell, Topanga, Monroe, Bronco, and Anders inside. There is zero reason for the last two to join the party. Bronco just wants gossip, and Anders follows his president everywhere. At least, I have some stake in what happens next.
Wearing her Rooster’s work uniform—a tight, black T-shirt, too-short shorts, and black heels she can’t quite get the hang of—Monroe stands full of awkward energy in the corner. Topanga sizes up the younger woman while Lowell looks unconvinced.