The MC Vice President’s Stripper: Son’s Of Doom MC Book 2

Chapter 1

Lola

My mother came back to Nowhere to be buried.

Eight years after I left her in El Paso, I sat in the front pew of the little church where she’d been baptized, staring at a casket covered in white roses and wondering when she’d stopped liking yellow carnations.

Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe whoever ordered the flowers simply hadn’t known her well enough to remember.

Emilio sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched without actually doing it. Behind us, enough Sons of Doom had shown up to make black leather stand out among the funeral clothes. Nobody had asked them to come. They just had.

The church doors opened while people were still settling into their seats, and I glanced back.

Octavio Lopez walked in.

Eight years had changed him. Gray had spread through his hair, his face was heavier, and his suit strained across a stomach I didn’t remember. But the pale scar above his left temple was exactly the same.

So was the way my body went cold when I saw him.

My fingers crushed the funeral program as a memory hit hard enough to replace the church around me.

His hand clamped around my upper arm while beer burned across my nose.

“You think you’re gonna come into my house acting like that?”

“It’s my money.”

“You live under my roof.”

“I worked for it.”

“And I said give it to me.”

His other hand caught my shirt. Fabric tightened against my throat as I shoved him, but he yanked harder and something tore near my shoulder. My hand searched blindly behind me until my fingers closed around the beer bottle on the table.

I swung.

Glass cracked against the side of his head.

“Lola.”

Emilio’s voice dragged me back into the church. I blinked down at the program crushed in my fist and found his hand resting on the pew between us, close enough if I wanted it, but he hadn’t touched me.

He knew better.

“You with me?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

His gaze followed mine toward the back of the church, where Octavio had taken a seat. “That him?”

“That’s him.”

Emilio’s jaw tightened, and I hooked two fingers into the edge of his cut.

“No.”

“I’m sitting here.”

“You’re thinking about not sitting here.”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

“Well, think about them from this pew.”

He glanced at me. “You want him gone?”

“This is my mother’s funeral. You are not dragging my stepfather outside and beating his ass.”

“I never said outside.”

A laugh nearly escaped me, which was probably exactly why he’d said it.

“You’re an asshole.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The priest stepped to the pulpit before I could answer, and the church went quiet. I turned toward Mama’s casket, but I could still feel Octavio behind me.

Eight years ago, I had driven until El Paso disappeared in my rearview mirror.

Apparently it hadn’t been far enough.

The priest spoke about Mama’s kindness, her family, and the people she had loved. I tried to listen, but grief kept tangling itself with anger until I couldn’t tell one from the other.

The last time Mama called me, she’d asked whether I was happy.

I told her I was.

There had been a long pause before she said, “That’s what matters, mija.”

I’d almost asked whether she was happy too. I hadn’t, and now I never could.

When the service ended, we followed the procession to the cemetery at the edge of town, where Mama’s family had been buried for generations. Aunt Rosa found me after the graveside prayer and pressed a yellow carnation into my hand.

“I remembered,” she whispered.

My throat tightened. “Thank you.”

I carried it to the casket and laid it among the white roses.

“I love you, Mama,” I whispered. “I was still mad at you.”

The wind stirred the cottonwood branches above me while I stared at the yellow flower.

“I wish you’d given me more time to figure out how not to be.”

I stepped away before my knees could decide they were finished holding me up.

Emilio was waiting where I’d left him. He didn’t ask what I’d said. He only stayed close while people began drifting away from the grave.

Then his attention shifted past my shoulder.

I turned and saw Octavio walking toward us with a plastic cup in one hand.

His tie hung loose now, and his eyes had the familiar glassy shine that told me he’d been drinking. I had spent years learning which version of him was walking through the door based on nothing more than his eyes.

He stopped several feet away. “Dolores.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He took a drink, and I could smell the whiskey from where I stood.

“Still got that fucking attitude.”

“Mama’s barely in the ground, Octavio. Could you try not being drunk until people leave the cemetery?”

His mouth curled. “There she is. You disappear for eight years, don’t bother coming home, don’t give a shit what happens to your mother, and now you wanna tell me how to act?”

“I talked to my mother.”

“When it was convenient for you.”

“You don’t know anything about my conversations with her.”

“I know she cried over you plenty.”

That landed exactly where he meant it to.

“She’d sit there waiting for you to call while you were off doing whatever the fuck you do now.”

“You mean living somewhere you weren’t?”

His eyes narrowed. “That why you think you ran?”

“You know why I left.”

He laughed into his cup. “Yeah, I remember. You cracked a bottle over my fucking head and ran off like some crazy little bitch.”

My stomach turned.

That was his version. Nothing about his hands on me, my torn shirt, or Mama seeing exactly what happened and still choosing him.

Just Lola went crazy, hit him, and ran.

Emilio’s voice came low beside me. “You might want to watch your mouth.”

Octavio looked him over, his gaze lingering on the cut. “What, this your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter what I am,” Emilio said.

Octavio laughed. “Whole damn cemetery full of bikers.”

“This is Nowhere. They live here.”

“And apparently you fit right in.”

His gaze slid down my body, making my skin crawl.

“I heard what you do.”

“Congratulations.”

“You shake your ass at that strip club.”

“Yes.”

“For men.”

“That is generally how strip clubs work.”

His jaw tightened. “Your mother deserved better than spending the last years of her life knowing what her daughter turned into.”

Emilio shifted beside me, and I caught his arm.

“Walk away, Octavio.”

He stepped closer instead, whiskey heavy on his breath.

“You always were trash. Your mama spent years making excuses for you, and you still ended up exactly where you belonged.”

My grip tightened. “Octavio.”

He smiled.

“She died knowing her daughter was a fucking whore.”

Emilio ripped his arm out of my hand.