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You can see deep in their eyes, right to the very heart of them.
That you can feel every emotion they hold.
Your dreams, your wants, and your hopes are all reflected in that being.
So that was why I could never forget the first time I ever laid eyes on her.
What I couldn’t have imagined was that life had a sense of fucking humor.
Now, hear me out before you hear about the start of something that I never saw coming.
I’m not a pervert. Far fucking from it.
A friendship was started. Nothing fucking more.
A friendship that I fucking treasured.
Because when you grow up the way I did, you’re able to realize things like no other.
You’re able to understand things that make no fucking sense to others.
And all of that happened one summer day, and for the rest of my days, I would always hold the man that brought me here in high regard. Because neither of us knew the twists and turns that life was going to throw our way.
She was eight compared to my nineteen, almost twenty.
I had been away at training for the last nineteen months. And my body was enjoying a week of relaxation after the hell I had put it through.
I had just taken a long-needed shower and was walking out to the garage to get started on a bike project of mine. I knew it wouldn’t be done before I had to report to my duty station, so that meant working on it every spare second, I could while I was home.
And yes, before you ask, my room at the clubhouse held the most comfortable bed one could find.
That was the day I realized why I was put here on earth.
She was sitting there with Storm, her father, and her mother, Beka. I respected the hell out of her father, he was neat as fuck, but a fucking hard ass.
Hell, he could give my Chiefs a run for their money in BUDs training. But I didn’t have a high opinion of her mother due to her lingering eyes and the mannerisms she showed. However, she was his wife.
But… she wasn’t his old lady. She didn’t have a property patch on. So, from what I had learned, she had the respect of the club, but she didn’t have full protection.
They were sitting in front of a bike and at first glance, the little girl oversaw handing Storm wrenches and sockets.
Her hair was in pigtails and upon closer inspection was auburn like her mother’s, but it had a deeper tint to it to match her father's jet-black hair.
She had on cut-off denim shorts that were frayed at the ends, a baggy t-shirt, flip-flops, and grease smeared on her cheek. Already, she was the quintessential biker princess.
She had a little button nose that was scrunched up because she couldn’t find the wrench that she was looking for.
Walking over, I tagged the wrench she needed, the handle was scuffed through years of use, so reading the measurement was almost impossible.
When she looked up and smiled wide with some of her teeth missing and braces on them with black bands, she said “Thanks.”
Offering a chin lift, I said, “Welcome.”
Softly, she asked, “Are you, Tank?”
Damn, but I missed talking to people that weren’t screaming and yelling non fucking stop.
Knowing I was a big son of a bitch, I got down to her level, and then said, “Yeah. What’s your name?”
