Dani

Visiting someone in prison, it turns out, is actually like the movies. You sit on one side of a plate of Plexiglas, and the prisoner sits on the other. You talk through a plastic receiver, like a phone.

At least in this prison, that was what you did.

The man on the other side of the Plexiglas was fifty-one—I knew that because I’d looked him up years ago. He was fit and whip-thin, without an ounce of fat on him, even in prison. He had tattoos on his forearms, where his prison-issue shirt was rolled up. Some of the ink was blurred and faded.

His hair was graying, thick salt-and-pepper. He was clean shaven. He was handsome enough, but it was very clear that anyone who underestimated how lethal he was was very, very stupid. He had dark brown eyes—my eyes.

My father, Robert Preston, founder and president of the Lake of Fire MC. Convicted murderer.

“Danielle,” he said. “I wondered if you would come to see me.”

I tried not to sweat in my chair, or throw up. I was wearing jeans, the thickest sweater I owned, and the sneakers Cavan had bought me in K-Mart. I had no makeup, no jewelry, and my hair was tied back in a barrette. My best attempt to look as much like a bag lady as possible in this terrifying place.

“How much do you know?” I asked him.

He gave a faint shrug. “Probably everything.”

That didn’t surprise me. I’d spent seven months in a motorcycle club, and one thing I knew was that they gossiped more than a bunch of old ladies. The Lake of Fire could get information to their leader inside prison walls faster than Western Union could send a wire.

“Then you know I’m married,” I said, surreptitiously touching my wedding ring under the table with my thumb. “And you know who he is.”

“Sure,” my father said. “You found yourself a rich man. I always knew a daughter of mine would be smart.”

Anger rose in my throat like bile. I forced myself to bite it back. That was what it looked like, wasn’t it? That I’d hand picked Cavan for the money he’d just inherited. I had a wad of cash and a big bank deposit for my trouble. Cavan himself would agree.

And still, the idea made me furious.

“What concerns me more,” my father said, his gaze dark even through the filthy Plexiglas, “is that you spent seven months with the president of our biggest rival. That, Danielle, was sneaky. Downright untrustworthy, some would say. Do you catch my meaning?”

I made myself stare at him, pretending I wasn’t terrified. “Are you threatening me?” I asked. “Your own blood?”

“My blood doesn’t mean much if you’re a traitor,” Robert Preston said. “I never expected you to be in the club life, Dani—I knew your mother was dead set against it. What I didn’t count on is that you’d end up in bed with the enemy.” He looked me up and down, disrespectfully. “Literally.”

He was trying to provoke me, I realized. Why? To see what I would do? To take my measure? So he could have an excuse never to see me again, or to have one of his minions hurt me? Who knew what his reasons were?

“You think that was about you?” I asked, still managing to sound bold. “Do you assume everything is about you? I make my own decisions. You’re just a sperm donor.”

He laughed, genuinely amused, and for a second—just a split second—I could maybe see what my mother had seen in him twenty-four years ago. “Pretty good, I admit,” he said, “but not convincing. I have a lot of time in here to sit and think, Dani. A lot of time. And I figured you out. I don’t even have to see you to know you, to figure you out.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And what do you figure?”

“I figure it was you being rebellious,” he said, hitting the nail so hard on the head I practically felt it. “I mean, it’s perfect when you think about it. A nice fuck you to both your mother and me at once—to hook up not only with a biker, but with the president of the Black Dog. I’d almost admire the ingenuity, if it wasn’t so fucking self-destructive. You almost got yourself killed, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted, because there was no point denying it. He already knew. “But I got out. Cavan helped me.”

“And now you have a ring on your finger, and all the money in the world,” my father said. “And here you are, sitting across from me. Why? This isn’t a sentimental visit, honey. You want something—I respect that, though I might not give you what you ask for. But the only reason I agreed to this visit was curiosity. I’d like to know what the hell you want, when you already have everything.”

I bit my dry, cracking lip and came out with it. “McMurphy is going to kill my husband,” I said. “I want him called off.”

He gave me a small smile. “Wrong club, honey. I don’t run the Black Dog MC.”

“No, but the Lake of Fire is yours,” I said. “If you put out the word that anyone who harms Cavan—or me—gets retribution, you can put a stop to it. I spent a long time in the Black Dog. McMurphy is paranoid and half crazy, but he doesn’t want war.”

My father tapped the table in front of him with a fingertip. “I’m listening,” he admitted.

“The Lake is bigger than the Black Dog,” I said, spilling all of my plans. “You have more men, more connections, more firepower if it comes down to it. The Black Dog only functions because the two clubs have separate territories and a truce. You can make it so that any harm to Cavan puts an end to that. You can do it literally with a word. It costs you nothing. You just have to say the right thing to the right people and it’s over.”

“Sure,” he said. “And what do I get in this deal?”

I adjusted my sweaty hand on the handset. He was listening, actually listening, at least for the moment. This was my chance. “Weren’t you paying attention?” I said. “I have money now. All the money you want. Just name a figure and I’ll pay it.”

He kept calm, as if he could take it or leave it, but I knew he was really listening now. It was my first lesson, I realized, in how having money makes people pay attention. My father had never had the time of day for me, but he was talking to me today because I had money. Money suddenly made me important. That was fine with me, because I was finally past my little girl’s wish for her daddy’s approval. I was on my own now.

“You got what you wanted already,” he said, and I could tell he was probing the idea, the way someone with a toothache probes a sore tooth. “What does it matter if this guy lives or dies? You don’t even know him.”

“I know him,” I said. “And yes, it matters.”

“Even though you’re already rich?”

“Even though I’m already rich.”

He frowned. Men in MCs understood the idea of loyalty and brotherhood, but the concept of loving someone—selflessly—was foreign. Most of them hadn’t seen it in action in their own lives. “What’s your angle?” my father asked, proving my point.

“My angle is that I don’t want my husband killed,” I said. “I want a marriage and a home, like other people have. And as a side note, if you don’t do this for me, I’ll show up at your next parole hearing. I’ll make a victim statement about how you getting out will make me live in fear of my life. About how your poor, sweet, innocent daughter is afraid of you.”

His eyes flared, his pupils going dark. “You’re a bitch,” he said, and then he added, “Nicely done.”

I was sweating so hard I could feel my sweater sticking to my back, even in the morgue-like chill of the visiting room. “Just do this, and you never have to see me again,” I told him.

Robert Preston made me wait for a long minute. A minute that felt like a hundred years.

Then he gave me a black-hearted smile. “I think a million dollars would do it.”

A million dollars? To this piece of scum? But this was what I had come for. I didn’t even know if I had a million dollars—but if I didn’t, then Devon Wilder certainly did. I didn’t know Devon Wilder, but if he didn’t want to give me the money for his brother, there would be hell to pay—from me. “Fine,” I said to my father. “A million.”

He kept smiling. “Have a nice life, Dani,” he said. “Someone will be in touch about the money.”

And that was how I bought my husband’s life, from my own father, with my newfound money. And how I finally settled my daddy issues so I could get on with things.

I walked out of the prison half an hour later and got into my car—Cavan’s car—in the parking lot. My hands were still shaking, but the sweat had dried cold and uncomfortable on my skin. I pulled off the sweater—I’d probably burn it—and looked at my phone. There was nothing from Cavan. I wondered where he was right now.

I thought about calling him.

I had all of my belongings in the back of the car. I’d checked out of the hotel in Vegas this morning, knowing I would never go back. I’d done what I wanted to do there. The memories were both too good and too bad for me to stay.

I hadn’t thought about where I would go next, but now that I’d left the prison, I realized I knew. I was on a road trip, it seemed, from my past into my future, back into my past again to put things right before I ended up where I needed to be.

I started the car and headed in the direction of L.A. It was time to visit my mother.