DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  “I know,” he replied, leaning over to press a light kiss against her lips. “I know it does. But you’re tough, right? You’re my tough girl. We’re going to get through this.”

  “Promise?” Her hand closed on his, and she squeezed it tighter than he expected.

  “Promise,” he said and kissed her again.

  Someone grabbed a tarp, and they made a litter to carry Emma down to the main entrance. There were more bodies along the way, and he expected that someone would have to explain this. Connell followed them, carrying Mia in his arms. When the ambulance came, the paramedics gave Emma a quick field assessment. They didn’t look panicked at what they saw, but they started moving more quickly, grabbing items from the inside of the ambulance and running IVs, packing wounds, and more that he couldn’t follow.

  “Sir,” one of the paramedics said to Dean. “Are you her husband?”

  “No,” Dean said, and then immediately regretted it when the paramedic shook his head.

  “We need to go now,” he said. “We’ll take her to Mercy. You’ll be able to inquire about her status there.” The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance sped off before Dean could manage to intimidate them into giving him more information or letting him into the ambulance with her. Connell went to pass Mia to Dean but then looked down at Dean’s shirt — which was the first time Dean realized that he was entirely covered with blood. He looked up at Connell helplessly, and Connell sighed.

  “Hey there, Mia,” Connell said, his big rumbly voice somehow softened enough to keep him from intimidating the hell out of the girl. “Your—” he choked off the word before he said, “father,” and continued. “Your Uncle Dean needs to go look after your teacher for a few minutes, okay? I’m gonna get you to your ma, and we’ll get you cleaned up and tucked into bed. Alright? And Uncle Dean will be along soon.”

  Mia looked between the two men for a minute, then wrapped her arms around Dean’s waist. When Dean dropped to his knees, Mia shifted her hold to his neck.

  “Hi there, little girl,” he said, the same greeting he’d given the child for years now, and for the first time wishing he dared to give her more of a pet name. But he’d have to talk to Abbey long before he gave himself permission to call the child something that indicated — well, that he was more than just an uncle.

  “I love you, Uncle Dean,” she said, and suddenly he didn’t care what he was called, just as long as he was part of this girl’s life until the day he died.

  “I love you back,” he replied, squeezing her hard before he moved to his motorcycle, mounted up, and sped off into the distance.

  ###

  It occurred to Dean that arriving at the hospital covered in blood and filth might not be a good idea, regardless of how very much he needed to be as close to Emma as possible. He’d seen enough gut wounds in his life to be fairly certain they’d take her straight to surgery, to make sure that any major bleeds were repaired. If she were lucky enough that nothing had been seriously injured, and she didn’t go septic, he thought she had a good chance of being okay, but gut wounds were tricky and unpleasant. She’d probably be in several surgeries over the next few days, depending on the damage.

  He stopped at his apartment, tossed off his dirty clothes and had a shower until the water ran clear off his hands, before redressing in clean jeans and a button-down shirt that covered most his tattoos. Combing his wet hair back, it was surprising how quickly he transformed from a motorcycle club leader to a buttoned-up businessman. He still knew how to stand and look like a model minority. He hated it but if it got him what he needed, then so be it.

  He ignored the bike for once and got into his Grand Sport. He wasn’t planning on leaving the hospital until Emma was discharged with him, and there was no way he’d be able to take her home on his bike. There was no way she’d be able to handle the bumps and turns after abdominal surgery. He didn’t allow himself to consider what would happen if she didn’t come through surgery. Her bleeding hadn’t been extreme, but bleeding wounds could be delicate. Anything could happen.

  He pushed hard and shoved the images out of his mind. He forced himself to think about Emma, whole and healed, and in his arms. That was a better thing to imagine.

  Before he turned the key in the ignition, he called Abbey. Connell had already reached out to her, explaining what had happened, and that he was bringing Mia back. That they would need to call the police and the DA, but that the worst danger had passed. Connell had been in communication with Marv from the Scorpions as well. They were “keeping an eye” on the ring leaders of this whole goddamn mess until the cops could be brought up to speed. Marv had assured Connell, who had then assured Abbey, that there weren’t enough bought cops in town that the charges would finally stick.

  Sam’s death would finally, after all of these years, be avenged. He wasn’t so macho that he had to pretend he didn’t dash away a few tears at that thought. Samara Jenner had been the first woman he’d ever loved. She’d made him want to be a better man. They’d both been wrong about what he needed to do to make that happen, but hey, what did a couple of eighteen-year-old kids know about life and behavior? Not fucking enough, was the point. They could’ve grown up together, and maybe they would’ve grown together, or maybe they would’ve grown apart and just had a baby together, but the truth now was that the relationship between them was crystallized, calm, settled — a memory of his past.

  He turned the key in the ignition and drove his classic car towards the woman he had fallen in love with over the last few days. He found a spot outside of the emergency room, assuming that was the best way to find out what was going on. It took twenty minutes of charming nurses and security guards, but he eventually got the name of a surgeon and a promise that someone would let him know what was going on when she was out of surgery. After all, they didn’t have any information on her next of kin or her family, and it’s not like he knew who to contact, outside of Cassidy, and he didn’t have Cassidy’s phone number. Magically.

  In the movies, people got a nice cut scene while surgery passed. In real life, people had to wait through every long minute, staring at the digital surgery board to see when their loved one’s code had moved out of the operating theater into recovery. After an indeterminate stretch of time, a tall black woman wearing scrubs and a cap appeared and called out Emma’s number. Dean stood, and the woman gestured him to a small alcove. Nothing like those hospital shows on TV, he thought to himself as he followed her.

  “Everything went very well,” she said as he stepped inside the small room. “She may need one or two more procedures over the next few days, and we will be watching very closely for sepsis. There was some damage, but nothing that will likely affect her quality of life. She’s a very lucky woman.”

  Dean felt himself release a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

  The woman looked down at his hands and seemed to note the bracelets circling his wrists, and the dark tattoos that marked him as a member of the Night Titans. He couldn’t cover all of them, not without a head to toe suit. “GSWs of course need to be reported to the police, so expect a detective to come by her room at some point. But I’ll show you back to recovery if you like.”

  “I like,” Dean said. He had to wipe moisture away from his eyes again, and he didn’t bother trying to hide it from the doctor. Not for a moment.

  Emma was in bed, her eyes drowsily opening and closing. She focused on the door when it opened, and a slow smile spread across her face.

  “Hi,” she said, drawing out the vowel in the word and carefully stretching a hand towards Dean. “I hurt.”

  “You said,” he replied. “They had to do some work to fix you up, I hear.”

  “Yeah,” she said back. “Said I’m gonna be okay, though. So, you’re not rid of me yet. Hope that’s okay with you.”

  He settled into a chair by the bed and took her hand tight in his. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s just fine with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six


  Emma

  Emma still winced a little bit when she stood up too fast, but other than that, she had no real reminders of the gunshot wound that had marked the end of her adventure with Soren Jay. At least, not when she was dressed. When she was naked, an impressive scar spread out over the hip where his gun had fired. In the end, she’d lost the ovary on that side, but she’d avoided sepsis, and her doctor assured her that there was no reason she wouldn’t be able to have children someday… if she wanted to. When she looked at Dean, late at night, sometimes she thought she might want to, but when she took Mia’s hand, she thought that maybe her family was already complete.

  “Ready to go, kiddo?” she asked, and Mia gave her a solemn nod. She shouldered her purse while Mia tossed on her backpack, and they walked out to Emma’s small subcompact. Emma was dropping Mia off at Abbey’s before she and Dean went out for dinner.

  Mia had started calling Dean “Daddy” a few weeks after the incident, without anyone really explaining the details of the relationship. Emma had watched Dean’s eyes well up with tears, and to her pride, he hadn’t tried to hide the groundswell of emotion from his daughter. Now, Mia spent time with both her father and the woman who had done the lion’s share of raising her. Emma was still something of an enigma in their lives. So much was in flux, she didn’t want to demand that they understand how she fit in right now as well. Besides, she was completely content with how things were playing out with her and Dean. Maybe a little way down the road, they’d formalize things. For now, everything was fine.

  She saw Mia into Abbey’s apartment, and then drove to Dean’s to change out of her dowdy school wear into something a little more fun for a night out. A loose, jersey skirt and a tunic top that flowed over her curves and in a bright blue color that made her skin shine seemed absolutely perfect. Dean appeared in the bathroom door as she was putting her finishing touches on her makeup.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said and gestured at the loose curls of her hair. “Looks like we’re taking the Grand Sport tonight, huh?”

  “Boy, you know how much I love your car,” she replied with a wink, and Dean laughed.

  “Yeah, that’s fair.” He stepped in closer, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. “You know, we still haven’t had sex in that car.”

  “I thought we were going out to dinner tonight.” She laughed, tilting her head to give him better access. He hummed against her skin, and a flurry of desire ran through her fast and hard.

  “We are,” he said. “But I could still watch you put your feet up on the dash and fuck yourself until you scream. I’d even let you bring that pretty little blue vibe you bought last time we were downtown.”

  Emma felt her cheeks heat up. She hadn’t realized that he’d seen the small bullet vibrator in her underwear drawer. “You don’t mind—”

  He shook his head, his teeth nipping gently at her skin. “Anything that makes you feel good… I’m a fan.”

  “Then take me out,” she said, turning to wrap her arms around his neck. “And I’ll show you just how loud I can scream.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  His lips came down on hers, and she kissed him back, deep and strong. She’d never wanted anything more than to repeat that kiss every day for the rest of her life.

  THE END

  Read on for your FREE bonus book – SAMSON’S BABY

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  SAMSON’S BABY: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance

  By Evelyn Glass

  SAMSON WON’T RELENT UNTIL I GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS: A BABY.

  He owned me from the very beginning.

  With his eyes, his lips, his brutal hands.

  I couldn’t say no.

  And I didn’t want to.

  What I wanted was more of him, all of him.

  And he made sure I got it.

  But I didn’t know back then who he was.

  Or rather, WHAT he was.

  Samson wasn’t just a random man.

  He was a cold-blooded killer.

  And somehow, he’s the only thing keeping me alive.

  If I want to stay in one piece, I have to do EXACTLY as he says.

  Go where he commands.

  Give him what he needs.

  But Samson’s protection comes at a price.

  A steep one.

  And by the end of all this, I’ll have a killer’s baby in my womb.

  Chapter One

  Anna

  I try to focus on the book as the locker room jostles with life around me. Elle is especially bad. Maybe it’s because she’s tired of seeing me with my face buried between its pages, or just because she likes to hear me swear. But as I study the anatomy of the dog, she peers over the edge of the book, wriggling her eyebrows and honking to the tune of the announcer’s voice.

  “We’re almost on,” she says, and her eyebrows do a dancelike side-to-side.

  “Fine,” I say, closing the book. Every time I close the book and go to dance, I feel as though I’m becoming someone else. One moment I am the woman who has to be persuaded to turn away from studying; the next I am a cheerleader for the New York Nicks, smiling, empty-headed, vacuous, nodding. One moment I am a mind; the next I am a body. Or maybe I’m just getting overly philosophical about all this and I should take Elle’s viewpoint as my own: Just get on with it, she often says.

  “Soon your life will be hurt paws and aching doggy jaws.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hopefully, Elle, hopefully.”

  There’s about a minute to spare until we begin our bouncy procession out onto the basketball court, to be gawked at by thousands of people, many of them red-faced and hungry-looking men. The changing room is alive with activity as the girls put on finishing touches. Many of them stare into little pocket-mirrors, brushing their cheeks, testing their smiles. Elle hops from one foot to the other, contorting her face as she always does, making sure she can plaster it with her fake ear-to-ear grin. I lean against the lockers, the metal cool and oddly comforting on my back, and think about dogs.

  It calms me.

  First, I think about dogs in general. Not even a particular breed, just dogs. I imagine I am standing at the turnstile of a giant field, a horizon-touching field, the grass stark and bright and lush. Then, as I walk farther into the field, hordes of dogs bound over the horizon toward me, tongues dangling between smiling teeth, tails wagging. They jump around me, bumping into each other for attention. I stroke as many as I can, giggling like a maniac. I know this would be some people’s idea of hell: being mauled by dogs. But I can’t stop smiling—in the dream. But soon my smile spreads from the daydream and into the locker room, and Elle taps me harshly on the shoulder.

  “Earth to Anna,” she says.

  My head snaps up and I see Elle staring down at me, her lip curled in mock disapproval. Elle is tall, sleek, and red-haired like some kind of Viking princess: an inversion of me, in many ways. I am short and blonde and busty.

  “You were thinking about the field of dogs again,” Elle comments, with a small grin.

  “Maybe.”

  I made the mistake of telling Elle about the daydream while we were drunk about half a year ago. First she nodded along, listening. Then she began laughing, and then chortling. But she never told any of the other girls, and that’s how I knew Elle saw something in my daydream, the peace of it, maybe. It doesn’t matter that this is her aspiration, she is living it; she wants to be a cheerleader. It doesn’t matter that perhaps I make the other girls feel uncomfortable when I talk about veterinary college, but I think Elle sees the sense in my dream.

  What in the name of all that is holy am I doing? I ask myself, as the girls begin to file out of the locker room.

  I’m standing here, caught up in my thoughts. Elle tugs at my wrist and I grin sideways at her. “I was miles away,” I say.

  “Oh, I know,” Elle says.
“You had that goddam puppy love look in your eye. Makes me sick.”

  People who don’t routinely work with crowds will see them as one big bulk of a thing, one beast, sprawling and many-armed. Like a giant mound of insects whose movement becomes something larger than any individual ant. But whenever I stand in front of a crowd, I see the individual people. As I walk onto the court today to the raucous cheers of thousands of Nicks’ fans, I see a man with his collar pulled up around a sausage-fat neck, face beetroot-red, clutching onto a huge pot of popcorn with two hands. I see a mother sitting with her daughter on her knee, both of them looking up at the man to their side, who leans forward and ogles us and even licks his lips. I see half a dozen frat boys, each of them with a letter drawn on their chest, red cups clasped in their hands. I scan their expression, and in each one there is something subtly different: open lust, resentment, shame, and anger.