Claimed By My Father’s Outlaw

Chapter 9

Raine's POV

The sound of that guy's bike... my bike, faded into the rain, and I immediately turned around to face my father. He stood there with his arms crossed, his men clustered behind him.

This was my garage and my space, and he was acting like he owned it.

"You can't just beat up every single customer who walks through that door!" I yelled, pointing at the entrance. "This is a business, Dad. Not your personal fight club."

He laughed in my face "You're not this big of an i***t, are you, Raine? That piece of s**t is a Revenant. Do you want me to stand there while some bastard from Ambrose's crew puts his filthy hands on my daughter?"

"He wasn't—" I started, but the words died in my throat because, okay, fine, he kind of was touching me. He was kissing me, and damn if I hadn't been enjoying it. If my dad hadn't walked in, I would have probably taken it further than just a kiss. But that wasn't the point.

"He came here to fix his bike, that's all." I told my dad. "You're the one who made it into something else."

"Watch your mouth!" Dad warned.

"Or what?" The words came out before I could stop them. "What are you gonna do, huh? Drag me around some more? Yell at me in front of your boys? Oh wait, you already do that."

One of the guys behind him coughed and another one looked down at his boots nervously. But Dad didn't even care.

He walked closer, and I had to tilt my head back just to keep looking at him. God, I hated how tall he was. I hated how big this man was. It made me feel like I was ten years old again, small and powerless and wrong about everything.

"I am warning you again, girl. Watch your damn mouth!"

"If you want me to stop talking to you like this, maybe stop treating me like I'm some kind of joke!" I yelled in his face angrily. "I work my ass off in this garage every day. I fix bikes for your crew, I fix bikes for strangers, for anyone who shows up. And what do I get? Nothing. Not even a thank you. Just you bursting in here and screwing everything up."

My father let out a growl. "You're not special because you fix machines!'

"I think I'm the only one who does any real work around here!" I shot back. "Your men owe me money, Dad. Hundreds of dollars. And you don't do a damn thing about it."

"They're family."

"They're not my family!" The words exploded out of me. "They're freeloaders who treat me like trash, and you let them. You let them walk all over me because it's easier than actually standing up for your own daughter."

His jaw tightened. I could see the anger building behind his eyes, but I didn't stop anymore. The words just kept pouring out of me.

"Someone sent me ten thousand dollars yesterday," I blurted out. My hands were shaking, but I kept going. "Ten bloody grand. That's more than all your guys combined owe me. You know what that says? It says you're useless. You can't even make the men under you pay their debts. What kind of president does that make you?"

The garage went deathly silent. My father's jaw twitched once. Then his hand came up and hit me across my face.

The slap knocked me sideways. My arm slammed into the edge of the workbench, and pain exploded up my elbow. It was sharp and hot and blinding. When I looked down, blood was already soaking through my sleeve.

"Get up!" He snarled.

I tried, I really did. But before I could even push myself off the ground, he grabbed my injured arm and yanked.

I screamed with pain, I couldn't help it. The pain was white-hot, it was like someone was shoving a knife into my elbow and twisting, over and over again. Tears poured down my face before I could stop them, and God, I hated that. I hated crying generally, but I hated crying in front of people even more. But I couldn't stop.

"You think ten thousand dollars makes you special?" Dad hissed. He dug his fingers in, and I felt fresh blood seep through the fabric. "Do you think that money means something to me? I could sell you to any bike lord in this city for a hundred bucks, and they'd take you without a second thought. So don't you ever talk to me about what you're worth! Do you understand?"

He shoved me backward before I could affirm that I did. I hit the ground with an agonized gasp, my vision swimming with tears and pain.

"Let's go." Dad barked at his men.

They filed out, one by one. A couple of them glanced back at me, their faces tight and uncomfortable. But none of them said anything. None of them helped me up. All of them were terrified of my dad.

I sat there on the concrete for another minute, maybe two. I hated the fact that he could still do this to me. I hated that I was still here, still trapped in this stupid garage, still waiting for him to see me as something more than a mistake.

"Screw this!" I roared, wiping my face with the back of my hand. The blood on my elbow had dried into a dark, sticky mess, but I didn't care.

I grabbed a tire iron off the workbench, felt the weight of it in my hand. Then I screamed and hurled it across the garage, and it crashed into the far wall with a metallic clang that echoed through the empty space.

It didn't make me feel better. Nothing ever did.

I stared at the dent I'd just put in the wall. Then I turned and walked over to the corner where my old spare bike sat, half-covered in a tarp and gathering dust. It wasn't pretty, but it ran. That was all I needed.

I threw my leg over the seat, jammed the key in and twisted. The engine came to life, and I drove out of the garage.