Nothing is harder or scarier than telling a parent something that’ll most likely disappoint them. I don’t care what age you are, it’s scary. There’s not much I’ve done in my life that my dad’s disapproved of, but this might be it. This might take the cake.

I’m not sure what’s worse, morning sickness, or the feeling in my stomach from keeping this secret in and away from my dad.

Walking into the shop at the club, I look around, finding him under the hood of a beat-up Honda. Hands covered in grease and wearing a pair of oil-stained coveralls.

I feel like throwing up.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say, walking up next to him. My voice gives me away, because he lifts his head slowly and looks at me funny.

“Princess.”

“Can we talk?”

He nods, pulling away from the car and wiping his hands on a rag hanging out of his pocket. “How much money you need?” he teases, smirking.

It’s been years since we’ve had those talks. “About a million,” I say, forcing a laugh.

We walk across the lot and into the club, heading down the back hall and into his office. My dad sits behind his desk and I sit in front it, feeling a little like I’m in the principal’s office.

Not one to beat around the bush, he asks, “This is about King, yeah?”

I nod slowly, a little shocked and stunned, even though I shouldn’t be. My dad’s a smart man. Quietly observant.

It’s like pulling my own teeth, getting my mouth to open and say the words. Nothing has been harder.

“Spit it out, girl,” he chuckles.

Taking a deep breath, I let the words spill out. “I’m pregnant. It’s Kings.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t start getting stabby. He looks at me and sighs, rubbing at the salt and pepper scruff on his cheek. “Fuck, Sammy.”

“I’m sorry.” The tears well up and I swear I’m one breath away from vomiting.

“Don’t do that shit. Don’t cry. It’s your fault you’re in this mess, so don’t start regrettin’ it now,” he says softly. His words are curt and short, but his voice is full of acceptance and love.

“I don’t regret it.”

“Good.”

“What about King?”

“What about him?” my dad growls, and I know this will be the sorest part of the conversation. “I knew there was something there, always has been. That motherfucker doesn’t come around often, but when he did, it was you he was coming around to see.” He shakes his head, looking at me. “I don’t fuckin’ like it, but underneath, that asshole’s shit is something decent or he wouldn’t be a part of my fucking club, Sammy. Do I like that he, that you, have been going behind my back and messing around? Hell no. But here we are, and there isn’t shit we can do about it now.”

“You’re not going to kill him?” All my life, that was the rule. Any brother who touched another’s old lady, sister, or daughter, would be put to ground. It was drilled into my head.

“You want me to kill him?” he asks, getting up from his desk.

“No.” My answer is automatic and fierce.

“Can’t promise you I won’t hurt him,” he tells me, walking around his desk toward me. “He broke a rule, baby, and for that he’ll pay. But I can’t speak for your brother.”

Shit. “Tyler will kill him.”

“He might, and that’s between the two of them. But he broke a rule.” What my dad is telling me is, what happens between T and King is going to happen, and there’s nothing I can do or say about it. I hear him, but I don’t accept it. Yet, right now, my dad is who I’m worried about.

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not happy, but I’m also not going to act like your fucking mother and lose my shit. Push you away, because you don’t do what I want. You’re an adult.” His voice sincere and soft. “This is your life, baby. You do what you want and you own up to your responsibilities.” My dad’s not a fly off the handle kind of guy. He’s thoughtful and patient. Deadly, but calm. He’s been this way my entire life. Where my mom freaks out, loses her mind easily, my dad is easy and smart. “Speaking of the cunt, you talk to her lately?”

“About six months ago.”

He nods. “Good. Don’t need that crazy in your life.” He’s not wrong. My mom left us when I was about six, and since then, we haven’t had much of a relationship outside of our few yearly phone calls. I’m good with that. She’s not a good human. I’ve got my dad and brothers, and that’s all I’ve ever needed.

“You and me?” I ask, dying to know where we stand.

My dad nods for me to stand, and when I do, he grabs me, hugging me tight. “We’re good, baby.”

“And the baby?”

He chuckles. “Is gonna look damn adorable in a mini Disciples cut.” And that’s all I needed to hear. This might not be how I saw my life going, but here it is. My dad’s okay with this. With us. And I’m okay with us.