The screen door opens and a second later, Oz’s mother, Izzy, pops her head into the kitchen. “Are you ready, Olivia?”

“Doctor’s appointment,” she says and stands. “Go help Oz find my glasses. The clubhouse is the large building across the yard.”

Olivia pats her hand over the notepaper on the table. Izzy leaves the room and I stop Olivia before she walks out of the kitchen. “What is that?”

“Incentive to stay.”

From the living room, Izzy asks if Olivia needs her jacket and Olivia informs her that she’s not a “fucking child” and Izzy reminds her that “fucking children” are easier to take care of. Something about the ticked-off, heartfelt fondness in Izzy’s tone causes me to grin.

The two of them continue to bicker as the screen door opens then bangs hard against the wooden frame. In front of me, the folded paper appears absolutely harmless. Lots of things seem innocent, but in the end are deadly.

My fingers tap against the table. Curiosity is bad. Curiosity is dangerous.

I could visit for a week, tell Dad that I talked to my bio family and then return home, but evidently I’m more of a McKinley than I thought myself to be. With a slam of my hand against the table, I grab the paper and slowly unfold it.

Oz

I TOSS A black bra that’s more holes than fabric off the bar and still come up empty. Short of digging through the trash, Olivia’s glasses aren’t here. I take that back, they could be a million places within the clubhouse, but I’m not searching anymore. An itch in the back of my brain tells me that Olivia wanted one-on-one time with Emily and I just got played.

A car engine starts and I silently curse. Olivia left Emily alone. Not even a few hours into my first job for the club and I’m already failing. I stalk over to the door, grab the handle, yank it open—and my body rocks as someone runs into me.

My arm snaps out to catch the form and my other hand lands on the hilt of my knife. One breath in and my mind conjures up images of beaches and sand castles and seagulls eating my lunch. It’s a great smell. It’s a calming smell. And damn if that scent, along with the warm pressure of soft breasts against my chest, doesn’t make me go hard.

I glance down at wide-eyed Emily. Every time I peer into those dark brown eyes a part of me is lost. I better stop looking or I’ll start losing pieces I’ll miss.

“Sorry.” Ah hell, Emily’s voice is all soft and please-kiss-me breathless. “Olivia left and she told me to help you find her glasses.”

A tickling sensation on my chest and that’s when I notice her palms flat against me. She must have been trying to break her impending fall. One of her fingers moves and lightning licks up my veins. Her scent wraps around me and my fingers twitch with the desire to slide them through that thick silky hair.

Damn, I’m attracted to her, and by the way her body subtly shifts in my direction, she’s feeling it, too. I imagine pushing her away. I need to push her away, but my body is not listening to my brain.

Emily blinks like she’s waking up. I loosen my grip as she simultaneously steps back. Her hair brushes along my arm and I go up in flames as a fantasy overtakes my mind—Emily kissing her way down my chest and that hair drifting along my bare skin.

“I’m sorry.” She twists her fingers. “For kissing you and then threatening to use it against you. That wasn’t nice.”

The red in her cheeks confuses the hell out of me. She radiates good girl—the ones I purposefully stay away from—but that kiss had bad written all over it. Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. She’s Eli’s daughter and she’s trouble.

“Don’t worry about it.” I pivot away and head to the bar. Emily and I—we require distance. Lots of distance. As in oceans between us. I pick up a stack of papers to check for Olivia’s glasses though I’ve already canvassed the entire bar.

“You can look over there.” I point to the couches on the other side of the room. The area that’s the farthest from me. “Sometimes Olivia likes to sit in the recliner.”

Emily stands there appearing as dazed and befuddled as I feel. Doesn’t take her long to snap out of it and move toward the corner. Midway, she hesitates and her spine straightens.

I scan the room, hunting for the unseen threat. “You okay?”

“What is on the walls?” Hands to her hips.

“Bras,” I answer, stating the obvious. A wide variety of them. From A cups to triple D’s. Bright pink to black as night. Satin and lace. Conservative to see-through. Clasp in the front and hook in the back. Won’t lie. At the age of thirteen, I found it quite educational.

Emily goes openmouthed with pissed-off round eyes. Shocked outrage. That would be the reason why I won’t date or do good girls. There’s a life I’m going to live and good girls want to break down, rebuild and reform. I’m not interested in being changed and I’m not interested in crushing the spirit of some girl so I can lead my life. I’ve seen both situations happen in the club and it usually ends in nuclear fallout.

“Why are there bras on the wall?”

“Where else would we put them?” I shoot back.

“Why would you even have them?”

“After a girl goes through the trouble of taking it off and giving it to us, it would be tacky to lay them on the floor.” I’m screwing with her now, but my words are true.

Emily wraps her arms around her stomach as she assesses the clubhouse. Neon beer signs alongside posters of naked girls. Our skull with flames is painted floor to ceiling on the wall nearest her. Bordering the outside of the emblem are wooden plaques with pictures of deceased members. For Emily, it’s possibly the most normal part of the building.