Filthy Daddy

“Say it…” his coaxing makes me groan. Still, no words come out of my lips. “I can make it worse for you.”

He can. Of that, I’m sure.

Chapter 1

Tate

Fifteen Years Ago

I crane my neck and look up into the big man’s eyes. My dusty fists are raised, and my legs are shoulder width apart, knees bent. My eyes squint on their own, fighting to block out the blinding Nevada sun. I need to be ready.

This brawl wasn’t part of my plan. A face-off with the President of the Satan Saints Motorcycle Club was not my intention. I only know he’s Pres because of the patch sewn into the breast of his leather vest. And I know which club he belongs to because I’ve seen them all roll into town enough times before.

Shit. This beast of a man is sure to leave me bruised and maybe even unconscious for days, but I have no choice.

I have to fight.

My fate was sealed five minutes ago. I was sitting cross-legged on the dingy sidewalk, my back pressed against a concrete wall of a convenience store that hadn’t opened yet. One of his men accidentally kicked and crushed the thing I hold most dear to me in this world. It’s a tiny, outdated laptop, protected only by a thin canvas bag I keep slung over my shoulder. My laptop is slow as fuck, but it’s mine. My everything. It’s my only treasure, a means to escape from living on the streets, a distraction in between fighting for scraps just to survive another day.

Now it’s trashed. And the inconsiderate fuck who kicked it doesn’t even have the decency to apologize for what he did. Which is why I got to my feet and decided to take a stand, my shouting slurs and facing off with his Pres. This goon needs to take notice. I understand the game, and although I’m taking a huge risk, I’m ready to play.

Fear and anger well up in me, but I push them down and wait for the douchebag’s Pres to make his move. Two things I’ve learned from years in foster care and several more on the streets are to have a level head when I start a fight and to assess my opponent before doling out the first strike. In this case, I might need more time than usual. The man’s huge, for starters. Strong as a fucking ox. He stands there, feet planted on the hot asphalt a few feet from his bike, anchored like a fucking tree that won’t budge. And me? I’m a scrawny, wiry, malnourished, homeless teen. Anywhere I hit him is gonna hurt me more when he responds in kind.

But the time for me to back away and run is long gone. His biker goons surround me on all sides, waiting for their big boss to make a public example of me.

I take a breath and make my move, charging toward him with everything I have. If I can just get him to the ground, I’ll have a chance. At a minimum, my point will be made.

My point?

Just because I’m literally a piece of human trash living on the streets with no one in my corner, doesn’t give his men any right to treat me or my shit that way. Not without a consequence. Even if I’ll likely feel those consequences way more than the big man ever will.

But I find out real fast that I must be deluded about my slim chances. Somehow, he loops an arm under my elbow and spins me around, disabling me with brute strength when he locks my hand behind my body. I can’t move unless I hurt my arm or dislocate my shoulder to break free.

He turns me just enough so I can see his face, and his broad, heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?” he asks in a big rumbling voice.

I should be afraid for my life, but I’m not. “Taking a stand.”

“Why?”

“That asshole over there who works for you just broke my shit,” I shout.

“It was an accident.”

I jerk my body to one side and try to pull from his hold. “Then make him apologize. Make him fork out the cash so I can fix it.”

“Stop fidgeting around, or you’ll break your own arm.”

“Let me go, and that won’t happen.” I insist.

He gives me a rough shake to quiet my movements, quickly showing me I’m not much more than a rag doll in his grasp, a weak puppet compared to the power he has over me right now. “What do I have to do with my guy breaking your shit?”

“You’re his boss, Pres,” I say, eyeing the patch on his leather cut. “He has to do what you tell him.”