Long Lost Daughter

It’s kind of funny, seeing the supposedly scary man in front of me turn into a statue after I told him he was my big brother. Still, I keep my stone-cold mask on and glare at him.

After a minute or so, he recovers and glares back.

“I don’t have a sister.”

Too bad he doesn’t sound very convinced by his own words. He should work on that.

“Yeah, well, like I said... that’s what I’ve been told. If you want, we can do a fucking DNA test. Just to be sure.”

I’m not 100% convinced either, even though we do have the same eyes.

He’s a big man, a handsome one, with a dark and dangerous air about him. Dark hair, a medium-length beard, and an old-school mustache that suits him surprisingly well.

“As far as I know, I don’t have a daughter.”

A deep, cold voice suddenly cuts through from somewhere behind the line of big bikers. I take a step back so I can see past my brother and find another huge man staring daggers at me.

He’s older, with salt-and-pepper hair. If this is my father, then damn, he’s aging well. He doesn’t even look like he’s fifty. Strong, muscled build, the same height as my brother, and intense eyes.

The same eyes as mine. The same eyes as my brother. That same cold look must run in the family.

I sigh and pull out the envelope my private investigator gave me, stepping around my brother. He doesn’t stop me but immediately follows when I move toward the man I assume is my father.

I look up at him, ignoring everyone else, and hand over the envelope. He snatches it from my hands and opens it roughly.

While he studies the information inside, I glance around. The bar is spacious, with leather couches and a sleek, black wooden counter. Three stripper poles stand in the middle of the room, each carefully positioned so you can see them from every angle. A pool table sits in the corner, cues neatly hung on the wall, the balls arranged in a perfect triangle. The bar looks spotless, and the alcohol bottles are lined up with military precision in glass cabinets hanging above the counter.

This place is clean for a biker bar. Only the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and cigars gives it away.

I turn around and spot the massive logo of the MC painted on the wall: a black, realistic-looking skull grinning on a red background. Behind the skull are huge black angel wings, and a blunt hangs out of the creepy grin. Above it reads "Highway Demons," and below: "MC" and "Nevada."

All the men around me wear that same logo on the backs of their cuts. Some have many patches on the front; others only have their names. But every one of them bears the infamous 1%’er patch. I know enough about MC culture to recognize that only fully patched members are present and I haven’t figured out if that’s a good thing or not.

On the opposite wall, there's another heavily decorated space. A trophy wall… or more accurately, a hunting wall.

I know what it means. I’ve seen it before.

Different cuts are nailed to the wall... colors from rival clubs, marked as enemies. Some of them also have Highway Demons patches... traitors from within. Those patches are slashed through, probably with a huge knife, and the front patches are burned, leaving only charred fabric behind.

Every club has traitors, if you ask me, so it’s no surprise this one does too. You can’t trust everyone.

I look back at my father, whose face is now contorted with fury. My brother’s turned pale, still angry, but now also shocked. I guess my sweet mother managed to keep me a secret from them too. Bitch.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

My father’s roar shakes the room. A few of the bikers take a step back. I don’t flinch. “My private investigator gave it to me. Problem?”

Some of the bikers look at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. Joke’s on them. I lost my mind a couple of years ago.

“THAT FUCKING BITCH!”

He slams a punch into the beautiful bar, splintering it slightly. Such a waste.

“I totally agree,” I say, nodding, until I catch a warning glance from my brother who seems to be waking up from his shock.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” my brother says, and I frown.

“Why are you apologizing for something you had no control over?” I ask him. Humans are weird. Sometimes I really don’t get their behavior.

“…Right. Anyway, while our dad’s over there losing his shit, I should probably introduce myself. I’m the President of this club, but you already knew that. I go by Devil, but you can call me whatever feels comfortable. Our dad goes by Chaos… and well, you can probably guess where that name came from.”

I blink. Is he serious?

“You’re awfully trusting for someone in your position. Shouldn’t you, like, demand a DNA test first?”

Devil smirks, amusement flashing in his eyes. “We probably will, but I knew our mother and she was a bitch.”

Yeah, I figured.

I glance behind him to see Chaos pacing back and forth like a caged animal, mumbling to himself.

Huh. So crazy really does run in the family.

“Calm down,” I say.

He stops and glares at me with eyes that almost burn my skin, but I’m not intimidated. “Lose your shit after we know for sure.”

Devil actually has the audacity to laugh. But Chaos marches up to me and towers over me.

Before I can move, two massive arms wrap around me and lift me clean off the ground.

“What the fu--”

“I don’t need no goddamn test. I should’ve known the moment I saw you with Devil. You were mine. That bitch left around the time she probably started showing, and I didn’t think much of it. She always walked out, sometimes for months at a time. To think she actually hid away to give birth to you and never even told me? That pisses me off. I should’ve fucking known.”

“You have a fucked-up taste in women,” I inform him. Also, I really hope he puts me down soon... I’m starting to lose air.

Thankfully, he does. He puts me down and stares into my eyes. It’s strange, being looked at by someone with the exact same eyes as yours.

“You’re home.”