He smiles at me, in a friendly way, with respect in his eyes, because he knows I’m Tracker’s woman.
But not that I’m his daughter.
And it makes me see red.
“What’s wrong?” Tracker asks, speaking so no one else can hear.
“Nothing,” I reply sullenly, staring daggers at Quinn Rhodes. I didn’t want to get into everything right now. I’d tell Tracker when Quinn was gone, so there wouldn’t be a scene.
“You recognize him, don’t you?” Tracker says, making me freeze. “He used to be in that rock band.”
I sigh in relief. “Yeah, I know.”
My dad is a famous musician. Well, was, I guess, considering the band broke up. I heard he sings solo now, at local clubs and bars. And he’s such a bastard that he doesn’t know what his own daughter looks like. Even though he isn’t in my life, he did teach me one very valuable lesson.
No matter what, men leave.
“Why is he here?” I ask, trying to keep the bite out of my tone.
Tracker gives me an odd look, his brows furrowing. “He used to be friends with Jim, our old president before Sin took over.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, forcing a smile. Just my luck, he is a friend of the club.
“If you want to go to bed, just let me know,” he whispers in my ear. “Much rather be inside you than looking at their ugly mugs.”
My lips kick up at the corners as I show him my drink. “Let’s have a few drinks first. We haven’t had drunk sex yet.”
Tracker runs his free hand down my back and smiles lavishly. “You want me wilder?”
“I want you however you are,” I reply. “Whatever you have to give, I’ll take. And you’ll do the same with me.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “Temptress.”
I smile into my drink, “Only for you.”
“Damn straight.”
My mind returns to my sperm donor. I am a mixture of him and my mom—how the hell did he not know his own blood when he looked her in the face? I realize I’ve been staring when Tracker tilts my chin in his grip, bringing my eyes to him. His own are narrowed. “I don’t like you looking at other men.”
“I’m not.”
He’s not a man; he’s an asshole.
“Lana,” Tracker growls. “Talk.”
Am I just going to drop it on him like this? I look around, scanning the room, looking for a distraction.
“Can I tell you later? In private?” I whisper, pleading with my eyes.
I avoid looking back at the first man who ever let me down. I know my lack of a relationship with my father fueled my mistrust, the reason I tend to keep everything to myself, bottled up tight. I didn’t need a shrink to tell me that. If my own father could leave me and not care if I was alive or dead, how could other people be trusted? I’d watched my mother hurting, still in love with him after he left us, working hard to get by while he made it big. We saw him on TV, and she would cry. Still, she never sold her story or asked for a handout. My mom was and is a damn strong woman, and if I’m half the woman she is, I’ll be satisfied with that. It hurts that my own father didn’t care about me. Still doesn’t. I knew it had nothing to do with me—all to do with him—but it still hurt like a bitch.
And to see him sitting here, nursing a drink, not a care in the world . . . I kind of want to throw something at him. I want to yell. Scream. Demand answers. Instead, I cut off my emotions as best I can and pretend my chest isn’t hurting, that my mind isn’t racing with old memories, old pain.
From the look in Tracker’s eyes, I know he wants to know what’s going on with me right now. When he stands and takes my hand in his, pulling me in the direction of his room, I know I’m right. Dreading telling him the truth, I lag behind him, allowing myself to be gently pulled. I know I have to open up to him about it, and I want to, it just isn’t my favorite subject to discuss. I’ve tried not to even think about my dad over the years and the lack of relationship we had, and had spent most of my life pretending I didn’t care about it. When we enter the room, I put my glass down on his chest of drawers, then sit down on the very edge of the bed. Tracker, on the other hand, stands there with his arms crossed, drink still held tightly in his hand, expression brooding. Did he think I found Quinn good-looking or something?
So very awkward.
“Why were you staring at him like that?” he asks in a low tone, studying me intensely.
“Tracker, I—”
He starts to pace.
“Remember I told you I had nothing to do with my dad?” I start, rushing the words out. “Quinn Rhodes is my dad. And he hasn’t seen me in so long he doesn’t even recognize me. So yeah, I was staring at him.”
I growl the last line.
He stops, expression softening, then hardening again. “That motherfucker. I’ll kill him.”
I stand up and grab his forearm. “You will do no such thing.”
“He hurt you. He still hurts you, I can see it on your face,” he says, downing his drink, then placing the glass down next to mine.
I shrug, playing it off. “So? He’s still my father. You can’t hurt him, Tracker; just let him be. And remember that the way you handle this will determine how much I tell you in the future.”
His jaw clenches. “You want me to go out there and sit with him, have a fuckin’ drink with him, acting like everything is okay?”