She had long accepted her father wasn’t the kind of dad who’d take her to go and sit on Santa’s lap, or even pretend he existed. She never got the Christmas treats growing up. Her parents spent most of their time arguing. Her mother hated Bear with a passion. Of course, it didn’t help that Bear was in fact a really good dad as well. He always made sure she was provided for, and in his own way, he cared for her.

Bishop didn’t speak. He didn’t even put the radio on to fill the truck with noise. He liked heavy metal music that was a bunch of noise and yelling, or at least to her it sounded like it. She was very much a ballad and pop girl herself.

Why are you thinking about pop music?

Holding onto the car door handle, she waited for the time to pass. Bishop, when he wasn’t being an ass, could drive really well; however, he was traveling toward the clubhouse erratically.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asked.

“Shut up.”

She pressed her lips together.

Bishop had a bit of a temper, and it never normally bothered her. Why would it? They were the best of friends and deep down, she knew he wouldn’t dream of hurting her, but hearing his sudden snappish attitude, she didn’t like it. It wasn’t her fault he’d been naughty. She didn’t ask him to come and kidnap her from school. He liked to piss people off and to push them as far as he could to see who would be the bravest one to bite, but he’d then complain about how they didn’t respect him. He hated being compared to his father.

One of the worst things anyone could say to him was “Preacher’s son.” She hated to break out the obvious, but he was indeed Preacher’s son, and no matter how much he tried to fight it, there wasn’t a chance in hell he was ever going to get away with it.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking going back there. I’m not one of his members. I don’t come when he snaps his fingers and hollers for my attention. I’m an actual person. I’m not his fucking slave.”

She was used to this. Bishop liked to talk the talk, but when it came to staring at his father and doing the whole face-to-face talk, he was useless.

Running fingers through her hair, she looked across at him and tried not to scream as he swerved around a truck, only for there to be another one coming in the opposite direction and he had no choice but to put his foot down.

He missed him by a finger width, she was sure of it.

Her heart raced, and she felt her stomach turn.

“Fucking asshole.”

Bishop kept on calling his father all those wonderful names he wouldn’t dream of saying to his face. Deep down, she knew Bishop was a little jealous of his father.