Jordan glanced back, pausing at a red light, meeting my gaze. Yeah. He knew what was happening.

We were following our crew member.

Chapter Forty-Six

BREN

I had no plan. I just knew that when Jordan pulled up outside The Twister Sister, I needed to talk to my dad. Ignoring the entire row of Harleys backed up and parked in front of the door, I headed inside. A few bikers were at the door. I recognized the cut and emblem of the Red Demons. Two had the word ‘prospect’ across the back of their cut. All of them stopped, skimming me over, but I walked past.

They didn’t stop me, or Cross and Jordan.

One of the guys was pulling out a phone just as I stepped inside and waited for my eyes to adjust.

The inside was a stark contrast from the sunny outside.

The music in the background was at a soft lull. It wasn’t overbearing, and neither was the smoke. The smell of stale booze lined with a faint trace of sweat and dust. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed different groups inside. A few pool tables were smack in the middle of the room, with different bar counters placed throughout the bar. A large main bar ran the length of the back end of the room. High-top tables and lower tables were placed all over. Some dartboards were on the far side of the room, alongside the jukebox. A stage was in the corner, running the length of a wall. The hallway to the bathroom was just beyond where the stage was set up. An open floor area was in front of the stage.

A few guys were playing pool, and all paused to stare at us.

A group of people were bellied up at the bar, sitting and talking with the staff. Some waitstaff were handing out drinks. There were maybe twenty people inside, maybe a few more. For the large room, it didn’t seem like that many.

I heard movement behind me, a page being turned, and I looked.

My dad was sitting at a high-top table in the corner. He was alone. His arm was bandaged, and some of the papers from earlier were all spread out in front of him. A beer bottle was next to him, but unopened, and there was a coffee mug sitting beside it.

“Can I help you folks?” A waitress was heading for my dad, a coffee pot in hand. She paused, her black hair in two thick pigtails resting just beyond her shoulder. She had a white shirt tied in a knot underneath her rib cage, as well as tight purple shorts that just covered the tops of her thighs. Her makeup was red, rosy, and cheery. All three words came to mind. She looked like a ’50s pin-up girl, and her eyes were warm. Her smile was welcoming.

“Bren.”