The drive to Las Vegas took six hours. It was long, but with Dakota, I couldn’t say it was boring.

Mainly because we had the same taste in music, and we both had a love for singing extremely loud on road trips.

A couple of motorcycles followed behind us the whole way, but not directly. I couldn’t decide if Huntsman had asked them to be discrete, or if they just didn’t want people to know we were associated. It was only when we reached Las Vegas that they pulled in front, one motioning for Dakota to follow them. Which was fair enough, given I hadn’t bothered to ask Huntsman for directions or ask for his cell phone number.

The riders weaved through traffic, Dakota kept right on their tail. I don’t know if they were impressed or scared with the way they were ducking and diving between vehicles until we finally reached an off-ramp at the edge of the city and pulled off into an area that looked like train yards and old style factory brick buildings.

We drove past a few construction sites with cranes and the metal structures of new buildings, a couple of club members pulling out of one of the sites and watching us pass by before pulling in behind us.

Two streets down, we drew up in front of some large metal gates. The kind with spikes that looked almost impenetrable. It was like entering a fortress as they eased open, and the guy standing outside watched us carefully as we pulled in.

The club members all roared past, each finding their place in the line of twenty or more sparkling Harley’s which sat outside an old school orange brick factory. The style was old, but the closer we got, I started to realize that the structure looked reasonably modern. The windows, the large roller doors that opened the space up. There were double roller doors out the back too, which looked like it opened onto some kind of concrete patio and backyard.

I was reasonably impressed.

More than impressed actually.

Our clubhouse back home was amazing. The boys looked after it, it was often renovated—sometimes due to bullet holes and explosives, other times because the old ladies said so.

But this, I had to admit, was next level.

“Where shall I park?” Dakota questioned, casually turning in circles in the oversized clubhouse lot.

“Um… anywhere?”

She slammed on the breaks and threw it into park, looking over at me with a wide grin. We were smack dab in the middle of everything. People coming and going would have to go around the car.

Instead of making her move, I just shrugged. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“You’re a lot less freaking out than I thought you’d be.”

Maybe because this is the kind of place where I felt comfortable. It wasn’t home, but it was similar, and honestly, that at least kind of made me feel happy.

Huntsman stepped out of one of the roller doors as we climbed from the car. His eyes looked at the car first, then to me, then to Dakota, where I felt like he decided he needed to pick his battles, and instead just waved us in.

“How was the drive,” he asked as we stepped inside.

Dakota and I both looked up and around at the enormous space, our mouths hanging open.

About a third of the place was left open from floor to ceiling, exposed metal beams and other stuff uncovered. There looked like there were offices or rooms which lined one side, while stairs led up either side of the building to a second level which was closed in. I assumed where the mens’ rooms were located.

I still couldn’t quite gauge how big this place was, knowing we hadn’t seen it all when we came in and even now, wondering if there was more hidden away. Curious, I walked toward the doors that went out the other side of the building, stepping straight out onto a well looked after concrete patio. It had a barbecue area, a firepit, with plenty of tables and seats around.

“You have a lot of parties?” I asked loudly, not even bothering to look over my shoulder and see if Huntsman was following.

“You always this nosey?”

“Not nosey,” I argued, turning on him with a wide grin. “Curious.”

“You know what curiosity did?” he asked, following me toward the grassed edge.

“Killed the cat,” I acknowledged before adding, “I’m more of a dog person myself.”

“She ever stop talking?” I looked over to see a guy with dark overalls on, holding a white torn piece of what looked like a towel, wiping his grease-covered hands on it. He had long hair which was pulled back into a ponytail, a dirty blond color, and streaks of all kinds of oil and dirt across his face.

Over in the corner of the yard, I could see more asphalt and a couple of bikes parked outside a two bay garage. There were a few guys in there working, the low thump of music coming from inside.

“Not really,” Huntsman grumbled, making the man laugh.

“Spark.” He held out his hand to me, and I reached out, shaking it firmly.

“Meyah.”

A smile quirked in the corner of his mouth, and he looked over my shoulder at Huntsman. “She passes.” He took a couple steps back, saluting me with his fingers before wandering back toward the garage, leaving me terribly fucking confused.

I narrowed my eyes and turned on Huntsman who was actually smirking as he leaned against the doorway. He nodded to my hand, and I looked down, finding it covered in a black handprint.

“The boys like to weed out the prissy princesses pretty fucking quickly around here.”

I scoffed, wiping my dirty hand on my jeans, not giving a shit about the big black marks. “It’s gonna take more than a bit of grease to scare me.”

I loved to get dirty.

When I worked with the horses, I was always the first offering to do the hard yards or help clean the stables. I wasn’t afraid of a little hard work or a little mess. Things just continued on into my drawing and the way I used my fingers and hands to smudge my shading or to blend colors, and I always ended up walking out of my room with it all up my arms, all over my face and often on the carpet. I was nowhere near a princess, and if they thought that’s what they were going to get just because I was Huntsman’s daughter, these boys were going to be seriously mistaken. And I was about to show them just why they didn’t need to play any more games to figure out what kind of girl I was.

“Do you have a 9mm on you?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at Huntsman whose eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Back home, the boys had gotten used to me borrowing the odd gun or two when I had the itch to practice. Hadley wasn’t always around, but the guys had all done their part, offering their advice on techniques and stances until I found one that worked for me, and worked pretty damn well.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Meyah,” he growled, his tone turning severe and gruff.

I pointed out across the yard to where I spotted a line of beaten up cans sitting on top of a fence. There was a purpose-built wall behind it made out of what looked like a mixture of materials and which appeared as if it had taken a pretty good beating over its lifetime.

He looked apprehensive enough already, but then Brewer stepped out from behind Huntsman, and my gut tightened just a little. His glare wasn’t as harsh as it had been the last time we met when I held my gun against his chest and threatened to pull the trigger.

He reached into his club cut, and my body tightened a little as he pulled out a black pistol, 9mm, and held it out to me.

Huntsman was quick to turn to his club brother. “Brew,” he scolded, but he was ignored.

Brewer stepped forward, waiting for me to take the gun from his hand. “You told me you were a good shot,” he drawled as I plucked it from his hand and felt the weight of it in my palm. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dakota stood off to the side, her eyes moving from one person to another nervously chewing her lip. I swallowed the now nervous lump in my throat. I didn’t know why it was there. I was a good shot, I knew I was. But I did it for fun, to help calm my nerves, or more importantly, to make myself feel that little bit more like I had control in a world that was uncontrollable.

Now, though, I could feel the eyes on me.

Not just Huntsman and Brewer, but the boys in the garage had stopped, and a handful of men inside were watching from the bar and sofas.

I wasn’t so cocky anymore. I walked forward, stepping down onto the grass and brushing my hair back from my face before I took my stance. I’d done this before. A million times.

Hell, I’d even outshot half the members of the club back home, including Ham.

Not that he cared.

He was proud as hell of me, and I think the fact that I could handle a gun made him feel a little better about me being able to keep myself safe.

Inhaling deeply, I pulled back the chamber, loading the gun and lining up my shot.

Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.

Line up your sights.

Take a deep breath.

Breathe out.

Ting. One can.

Ting. Two cans.

Three, four, and five followed in quick succession, and I lowered the gun with a smile.

“Well, fucking shit,” Huntsman muttered in quiet awe.

Despite the way Brewer initially made me feel when I looked over my shoulder and found him grinning and scratching his beard, I couldn’t help but smile back. “Think she’ll fit right in.”

Huntsman nodded. “Think she might.”