Without lifting my head from the sketch, I tell him to come in.

He enters and out of the corner of my eye, I see the color of crimson beside him. That color makes my blood run cold. My chest instantly aches. The color of something . . . someone . . . I never want to lay eyes on again. Lower, I see a pair of feminine legs and confirm it’s her.

The woman I hate with every beat of my blackened and damaged heart.

White-hot rage fills me, rushes through my body like water down a river filling every part of me. A barrel of emotions I’ve long kept at bay threatens to break the dam I’ve forged to hold them back. For the last five years, the ever-present ache in my chest, which has been plaguing me on and off, is now throbbing and screaming for attention.

I envision exploding out of my seat and lunging toward her, choking the life out of her with my bare hands. Or using the knife on my belt to mar up her alabaster skin.

I reach for my cigarette knowing it will help calm me the fuck down.

How dare she fucking come here. How dare she show her face and breathe the same air I breathe. After what she stole from me. From Edge.

Just thinking about it causes more murderous thoughts to run wild through my mind. Does she not realize I’ve fantasized about delivering her death a thousand times? That I’ve strangled her and buried her in my dreams? Thrown dirt over her cold, dead body? For the last five years, every waking moment of my life has been poisoned by this bitch. Now she’s here. Why? To stomp on what little is left of my heart? To snuff out what’s left of my soul? To send Edge back to prison the second he gets out?

Slowly, while trying to contain the rage I feel, I sit up, turn, and face her. Only my eyes find slightly tanned and freckled skin, not white alabaster. My gaze lands on eyes the color of the sea, teal, not the deep brown I anticipated. A pretty face sans make-up.

The ache in my chest cools for an instant.

Who the fuck is this?

Confusion floods through me, and I take in the girl standing beside Dozer. She’s not Dana, but there are similarities. The hair for one. The state of desperation another.

The blistering hatred for Dana is all I feel though, and I can’t help but cringe at the sight of this girl. A reminder of all that I’ve lost. Of who I was, and what I am now. All because of one fucking redheaded girl.

I can’t help but see every woman with hair like fire as poison ivy in disguise. A disease. A fire starter. A plague ruining all it touches. Not something I want within ten feet of me.

As my eyes travel down her body, I take in her cheap and ragged clothing. She’s short, and thin, but tan for a ginger. I can’t deny she’s attractive. She’s everything I’ve always been attracted to, long red hair, toned petite body, beautiful innocent face, and a nice handful of curves.

Only now, some of those attributes I despise.

The girl is young, maybe late teens or early twenties. The way she’s dressed . . . reminds me of . . .

I can’t even think about it too long, or what’s left of me may shatter into a million fucking pieces.

The girl looks like she’s been living on the streets. Malnourished. Dirty. Desperate. Red eyes and sunken cheeks. A junky?

I loathe junkies. They’re like zombies. Starving and greedy for what they crave. And they’ll hurt anyone to curb their craving. They’re the worst possible version of themselves at that point. I’m not a hundred-percent sure that she is one. But I’m not a hundred-percent sure she isn’t either.

The only thing I’m certain of is she’s definitely a stray. Like Dana.

That she needs help is evident. Something about her screams for it. And some caveman instinct inside me tries to rear its ugly head to tell me I’m just the strong male to take care of her. Clean her up. Feed her. Bed her. Claim her.

Yeah well, fuck that.

Been there. Done that. Got the Lesson-Fucking-Learned-Because-The-Bitch-Tore-My-Heart-Out T-shirt.

Blowing out the drag I pulled in, I shut an impenetrable gate over that instinct and tell it to find some other fucking idiot to do its bidding.

But the attraction’s still there. On simmer.

For some reason, this alley cat, with her fiery mane of hair and cinnamon-dotted skin have an effect on me.

Looking back up at her face, I find her biting her lip. She’s also checking me out. Yeah, babe, I’m not harsh on the eyes, am I? Girls love the tattoos. Love the cut. Love guys that look like they’ll treat them like shit and can fuck them into oblivion.

But I definitely don’t want this girl looking at me like she wants to be in my bed.

My cock twitches as if her hand and not only her eyes are passing over me. It pisses me off . . . my body stirring to life. Rising for her. This girl who reminds me of all that I’ve lost and how far I’ve fallen.

I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on my desk and decide I need to do everything in my power to get this chick as far as fuck away from me as humanly possible. I need her out of my office. Out of my club. Fuck. Out of this city preferably.

And it looks like I’m going to have to go toe to toe with a friend to do it.

“What’s this? A fuckin’ tabby cat, D? We’re not takin’ in strays today, brother.”

The girl cringes. Pain and fear flash over her features. But she quickly masks it and tries not to show how my insults affect her. I follow the line of her shoulders down and see her tiny fists curled, and then I notice slash marks, scars over her wrists.

Great . . . she’s fucking suicidal.Of course she is. Why would I expect any different?

Whatever reason she’s hitting the drugs is probably why she’s attempted to take her own life. She’s merely looking for her next fix and thinks a bunch of bikers will have plenty of drugs she can score. Well, she’s in for a rude-fucking-awakening.

It’s my job to protect the club. And this club doesn’t need any more trouble than it already has.

“What you lookin’ for, Doll, your next fix? Think we got the goods here? That it?” I shake my head, and add, “You ain’t gonna find that shit here. Just turn your ass around and keep on walkin’.”

Drugs ruin lives. Weaken clubs and member loyalty. You can’t be loyal to anyone, a brother, the code, or the club when all you give a shit about is getting high.

It’s the reason I joined this club and not any other. We don’t allow hardcore drugs into the clubhouse. Yes, we revel in chaos. Always have. We run weed, guns, and launder money, which is our main source of green. But we don’t bring trouble, chaos home. Not to the clubhouse. Not to our families. Not if we can help it.

Dozer spits out some shit about me being an asshole and her being a friend of Lil’s, and that he’s already told her she can stay.

My blood fucking boils. Of course he did. He wants authority but no damn responsibilities.

“Not your fuckin’ call, brother. It’s mine. Ain’t no fuckin’ way that”—I point at her—“is welcome here.” I will not relive my past. I do not want one reminder of it whatsoever.

Goose, who’s standing behind D, mutters, “Fuck. Here we go.”

“That’s where you wanna go with this?” Dozer snaps.

“I’m just statin’ a fact. You fuckin’ lost the right to have a say in who fuckin’ stays and who goes when you cut your patch off and left me to deal with this shitstorm alone.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get her the fuck out, D. I said no outsiders. I meant it. We already got enough of our share of shit to deal with right now. I don’t want anybody but brothers and clubpieces in the clubhouse. She could be a snitch. GBs are breathing down our necks. I can only hold them off so long before they take action. I wouldn’t put it past them to send a piece of pussy to be their eyes and ears.”

I pick up my pencil and turn back to my work, because if I don’t, I can see this escalating and us coming to blows.