I turned around.
And fucking Danny nearly rammed right into me.
"Oh, son of a bitch," she hissed, gaze right on me, so there was no mistaking where her disgusted tone was directed.
She didn't have her usual posse of men with her. Which was unusual. Though, I had to admit, there were times when I just wanted to get out of the club, and go out by myself here and there.
It was different now that I was replacing my old man while he stepped back. I wasn't just 'one of the guys' like I'd been in the past. I was almost acutely aware of my leadership role, of how I needed to set an example for the others. It made me more careful about my words and my actions. And after spending my whole life being careless about both those things, it grated a bit to keep that cool. Sometimes, I just wanted an hour or two away to loosen up.
I could see how that could go double for Danny and her club.
Despite my better judgement, I found myself thinking about her club and her position in it a lot more often than I should. It was a unique dynamic. I didn't know of any other all-male MCs run by a woman. Sure, there were a few more progressive MCs around these days that had both male and female members. But that wasn't what the Vultures were like. It was Danny, the lone female leader, and twenty-something men.
Danny.
The most aggravating woman I'd ever met.
Which was saying something because I'd been raised around a bunch of headstrong, stubborn-ass, loud-mouthed cousins. And not to mention my sister.
I was used to women who had no give, who knew who they were, what they wanted, and were all-too-happy to tell you to fuck off if you got in their way.
Which was why Danny shouldn't have been able to get the better of me.
Yet she did.
Almost every fucking time I ran across her.
Including this time.
"Hey, don't sweat it, man," Dezi said, nudging my side with his elbow after Danny walked away. "Being full of that much venom, and spitting it at anyone in her path, that shit is a trauma response."
"It's a... what?" I asked, shaking my head.
"Trauma response."
"The fuck do you know about trauma responses?" I shot back.
See, I said Brooks was hard to get a read on. And that was true. But sometimes, Dezi came out with shit like that, and made you reevaluate if you had him pegged at all. Because it didn't make sense for a careless, crazy, unpredictable loose cannon to know phrases like 'trauma response.'
"Just saying. Can't imagine a chick growing up in an MC had it easy. And getting enough respect to get to be a president? That shit must have left some scars. She takes that damage out on you because she thinks you got it easy."
And to be fair, I guess I had.
I felt I'd paid my dues, pulled my weight, and proved myself.
But there was never any question about whether I was going to take over the MC or not.
I could see if she went through hell to get her position, how she might resent me getting mine more easily.
"Hot as shit, though," Dezi said, shaking his head. "I've only ever creeped on her from the rooftop with Malc and Brooks. But, fuck," he hissed, shaking his head.
To be fair, he was right.
She might have been the most grating woman I'd ever met, but she was also one of the most beautiful. Which was saying something, because Navesink Bank was never short of gorgeous women.
But Danny was in a league all her own with her soft oval-shaped face with a slightly wider jaw, her deep-set blue eyes, and her full lips that seemed perpetually turned in a bit of a frown. And all that was framed by long, soft-looking wheat-blonde hair.
If you managed to look past that face, then there was the treat that was her body too.
She had the sort of body that said she hit the gym pretty often, but wasn't going to turn down a slice of a pizza either. She was fit, but curvy in the hips, thigh, ass, and tit departments.
I'd always considered myself a guy who was into feminine women. Ones in those intoxi-fucking-cating sundresses and heels and cut-off tops and short shorts.
But Danny challenged that belief because she had a more tomboyish style. I'd never seen her in anything but jeans—usually black—, an understated tee or long-sleeve tee, a leather