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Journey moves away from me and runs a hand through his hair. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Well, Stone is my enemy, my club’s enemy. So, wouldn’t that make me Wren’s friend?”
His logic might be twisted, but it’s hard to argue with. Unfortunately, before I can reply, I’m yanked from the forefront.
My muscles ache from all the tension running through my body, and I make a conscious effort to relax as I glance at my surroundings.
“Wren?” Journey is in front of me in an instant, his hands cupping my cheeks. “Are you back?”
“It happened, didn’t it?” I ask, embarrassment settling in.
“Yeah, but it’s okay.”
I pull away from him and sit in one of the chairs lined up against a wall where customers can wait while their vehicle is worked on. I’ve spent so much energy trying to avoid Journey, and here I am, switching in front of him again.
“It’s not okay.” I hand my head. “Who, um…”
“Aaron.”
“Shit.” I lift my eyes to his. “I’m sorry if I… if he… What happened?”
“Nothing bad, sweetheart,” he reassures as he squats in front of me. “He was just trying to protect you. But I think we came to an understanding.”
Uncertainty niggles at my brain. “What kind of understanding?”
“That he doesn’t have to protect you anymore because I’m here to do it for him.”
I shove him away from me. “I don’t need you to pro?—”
“Tell me about your dad.”
“What?”
“Your dad… tell me about him.”
“What can I say that you don’t already know?” I counter. “You say you don’t work with him, but I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Wren, I don’t work with or for him, I swear. Just the opposite, in fact.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rather than answer my questions, he asks one of his own. “What’s your dad’s name?”
I scoff. “Ryan Abbott. Why?”
“Right, but what’s his road name?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“Does the name Stone sound familiar to you?”
I close my eyes and try to think back to when I was a child. There isn’t much I remember about my family beyond what I’ve read or been told. But one thing that surfaces, blinking at me like a neon sign on the fritz, is an image of my dad wearing… a cut.
My hands fly to my mouth. “He was a biker.”
“And if I’m right, he’s the president of the Wingless Angels MC.”
