Marked as His by Em Petrova Page A

down in the Hell’s Sons—a member nominated a prospect. Then once he was voted in as a full member, he kept getting pushed forward by his sponsor.
    Except Paxton’s sponsor was dead. He’d been killed a while back, shot during a raid gone wrong.
    Feeling his prez’s stare on him, Paxton kept his face blank and kept inking.
    “Harris is going out of town. He could take his place for a few nights,” Tommy suggested.
    “I got someone else covering that. But another mission comes to mind.”
    At Jamison’s serious tone, Paxton looked up. He stopped the needles. “Does this involve stealing any girls from rival clubs? Because I don’t want involved.”
    Jamison barked a laugh and stubbed out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Is it the girls or the rivals you find daunting?”
    “Chicks are a lot of trouble.”
    “Ah.” Jamison exchanged a meaningful look with Tommy then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It just so happens we have a job.”
    Paxton folded his arms over his chest and waited.
    “Tommy here has a family issue.”
    Paxton raised a brow. “I’m listening.”
    “Tommy’s got a daughter he hasn’t seen since she was a kid. He’s getting up there in years—”
    Tommy cut across the prez. “Not that far up there. I was eighteen when she was born.”
    “Like I said.” Jamison gave a crooked smile before continuing. “He wants to see his daughter but she’s not interested.”
    “Why don’t you just call her up?” Paxton asked. He already didn’t like this mission. How dangerous would it be to go find some snotty female and haul her back to see Tommy? No bloodshed, no risk. Hell, he might as well go into town for groceries—it would be more dangerous fighting for a place in the checkout line.
    Offering a wry stare, Tommy said, “Don’t you think I’ve tried that?”
    “So drive over and beat on her door.”
    “Tried that too. She has a restraining order against me.”
    At that, Paxton burst out laughing. He picked up his machine again and resumed inking the blue area of the flag.
    “This doesn’t sound like a job worthy of a blood patch.” He dragged his teeth over his lower lip, down to the patch of hair beneath.
    “We’ll let you be the judge, why don’t we? You go tomorrow.” Jamison stood. Across the room, his old lady smiled softly to see him returning to her.
    Paxton pushed out a sigh but didn’t stop laying down color. “I guess I’m in.” He met Tommy’s stare, thinking about digging a little deep into the flesh, enough to hurt.
    Tommy slapped him on the shoulder. “Son, you bring back my hellcat daughter to me and I’ll sew your patch on myself.”
    “Better find your needle. I’ll be back within an hour.”
    •●•
    “Good morning. Flick Welding.” Santana pressed her long, heavy hair over her shoulder and grabbed a pen, prepared to jot down a note.
    She listened to the request of the person on the line. “Yes…yes.”
    A big male body was standing in her doorway, and she looked up. The greasy man did a gyration with his hips like a ghetto Chippendale.
    Ugh.
    Covering the phone with one hand, she got up and stomped three steps to the doorway. She lifted a boot and delivered a hard kick to the man’s saggy ass.
    He howled and the guys in the shop roared with laughter. Santana slammed the door, trying to control any muttering under her breath. The new welder didn’t have the moves he believed he did.
    He also didn’t know Santana would do more than kick his ass out of her cubicle. Each and every one of the other men had learned their lessons the hard way. She still kept rope and pepper spray in her top desk drawer alongside normal office supplies.
    “Yes, I understand,” she said pleasantly into the phone. “We can do what you’re asking. Are you able to bring the item you need repaired into the shop?” She listened to the customer with half an ear because something was going on beyond the door. She prepared herself. All day long, the