by Zoey Parker
No, she thought, anything but that. Higher thought shut down. All she wanted was to get away. Suddenly her body reacted without the impediment of her mind. Her hands shifted over the tattooed arm that held her to his chest. Her heart stopped pumping, the blood went to ice in her veins.
He whispered words she didn’t know, and didn’t care to hear. Her hips shoved backwards. He took it as an invitation and his arm slithered upwards. She stepped back harder and his body rocked forward. She used the momentum to fling his bigger, heavier body over hers, and he went down in a surprised crash.
She didn’t wait; she ripped the door open and pulled her keys from the lock. She had just enough frame of mind left to snag her backpack as she flew down the stairs and back out into the rain. The parking lot was seven blocks away, across wet and muddy terrain.
Her Buick, white enough that it glimmered under the dull lights of the lot, shone like a beacon of safety.
The cold water hitting her face did little to alleviate the shaking of her hands as she struggled to unlock the ancient door.
She shoved the key into the ignition and felt the shudder of the Buick roar to life with a flick of her wrist. She saw the apartment building door open, the single lamppost illuminating the man behind it. She put the car in reverse and squealed out of the parking lot.
The farther she got from the college the calmer she felt. The tears evaporated and her heart slowed back to a normal rate. Slowly, her trembling went from terrified to angry Her blood went from sluggish to boiling. That was her apartment, her home. Someone had attacked her, and for what? Her father. Her damn father.
“Damnit,” she growled, slapping her fist against the steering wheel. “Damnit!”
With a screech of her tires Emma pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner. A glance at the clock on her dash said it was 11:30, but it was busy here. There was unexpected comfort in that. Normally, Emma preferred the company of animals to people, but being alone right now didn’t sound particularly awesome.
She waited until she had a menu and a glass of water before she pulled her phone out.
“Dad?” she said when she heard someone pick up. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 2
The ancient Buick was a white ghost on the empty streets of small town USA. Its engine purred like an asthmatic kitten after the near four-hour trip from campus into the suburbs. The familiar sprawl of cookie cutter houses and name brand shopping centers enveloped her. The streets, named after trees or flowers or barely remembered famous people, were well lit and the houses were dark, as it was nearly two in the morning. Somewhere between Poplar and Oak was Dahlia Lane. With a deep sigh Emma took a hard right.
She counted the mailboxes as she passed. She didn’t need to. 209 Dahlia Lane had been her address for eighteen years, and even if she’d somehow forgotten, there were five Harleys parked out front. It was definitely her father’s place. The garage door was open, spilling a long line of golden light across poured concrete.
The grass was green, and three days past needing a mower. A faded gnome had taken residence in an overgrown garden. The neighbors were bound to be traumatized.
Ashland, Oregon was a small speck on the map, tucked between picturesque mountains and less picturesque highways. With a population that had just hit twenty thousand, it was officially a town. There was one high school, two supermarkets, and twenty churches. It was the idyllic place to raise a kid. Or, in her father’s grand estimations, lead a life of crime.
Emma navigated herself into the driveway, courteously empty, and took another deep breath before shutting off the engine.
“You can do this. You can totally do this. You don’t want to, but you can.” She didn’t get out of the car. Suddenly it all seemed like a bad idea. The worst idea.
A hundred memories of her years in the split-level house came rushing back at her. Police officers sitting outside while she tried to ride her brand new Barbie pink bike. Her seventh birthday party when none of her friends would show up because their parents were afraid of letting them go over to the criminal’s house. Her favorite, of course, was when her prom date wouldn’t come to the door because he was too scared of everything he had heard about her dad. He’d ended up leaving without her because her dad had demanded he come to the door.
That was the kind of thing that happened when your dad ran the local chapter for the notorious motorcycle club, The Beasts. It hadn’t been normal, and she’d never call it happy, but it had been her childhood. Emma had wanted to leave it all behind her, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
A sharp knock on the window jolted her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to see the face to know it was one of her father’s men. The leather vest with the stylized dog surrounded by flames was a bit of a giveaway. She tugged the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car.
“Emma?” The voice sounded muted through the glass, but familiar. “That you?”
“Hi, Kellan.”
Of course, It just had to be Kellan, she snipped mentally. Of all the guys who could have come out to check on her, it had to be him. It couldn’t have been grumpy ol’ Vinny, or friendly Leon. She could have handled that, maybe even enjoyed it, but this? She glanced down at her shapeless hoodie and thrift store jeans. The outfit had been perfectly okay for a final exam and a walk through the rain. It was not exactly what Emma wanted to be wearing when Kellan saw her again.
When her prom date had stood her up, it had been Kellan she’d daydreamed about dancing with. An image of poor Marco walking in the rain filled her mind, and the irony of her similar situation was not lost on her.
“Holy shit, you grew up.” The shock was overt, and nearly painful.
The garage light was behind him, blurring all of his features, but Emma didn’t need to see him. She knew what Kellan looked like, from the roots of his raven-black hair to the broad shoulders and long legs.
Kellan had been exactly the kind of boy everyone expected her to end up with because of who her father was, and he’d been exactly the kind of guy her mother told her would give her nothing but trouble. It hadn’t really mattered what anyone said, or thought. She’d developed the kind of crush that a girl could only get when she was young enough to believe Romeo and Juliet was still a love story.
Emma had spent a good part of her teen years admiring the hard line of his jaw, and the perpetual five o’clock shadow there. She could have drawn the scar that went from shoulder to his elbow with her eyes closed. She’d even enjoyed the tattoos that kept popping up on his arms. He’d been plenty grown then, and it looked as if her time in college had just filled him out more.
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms beneath her hoodie, which still had the scent of old rain and a long car trip on it. Wonderful. “Yeah, I did. Listen, I’d really like to just get inside. Okay?”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry. You okay?” He stepped closer, out of the ring of illumination from the garage, and suddenly she could see the misty hazel of his eyes. He was just as handsome as she remembered, all angular features and a deep cleft chin, but there was a new scar across his cheek. It was shaped like a cat’s tail, winding over his jaw, and ending near his chin. It should have taken away from his otherwise perfect appearance. It didn’t.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired and hungry, and I kinda of wanna take a shower and change and maybe have a good yelling match with my dad.”
“Uh…”
Whatever he might have said was interrupted by a baritone woof. Emma’s head turned as a massive dog came barreling out from the garage. He was a thick bodied creature with fur speckled every shade of gray and brown. His dark ears flopped around a solemn-looking face. He looked like a cross between a mastiff and a bulldog and the world’s biggest rat. He was easily the ugliest mutt she had ever laid eyes on.
“Well, hello!” Emma immediately sank down to one knee as the dog snuffled at her in animal curiosity. “Who is this handsome fella?”
“That’s Rocco,” Kellan offered. “He
’s…uh…he’s mine.”
She glanced up at him, her golden brow quirking up her forehead. “You named your dog Rocco?”
“Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He looked embarrassed. “I dunno.”
Out of habit she ran her hands over the dog in inspection. He happily flopped over to one side and offered up his round belly. A short stub of a tail wagged so hard he dug a shallow groove in the ground. There were scars along his chin and along his shoulder. She took a long look at them. They were the kind a dog got from fighting. One ear had a tear that had long since healed. Yet, for all that, all of the marks were old and well healed. “He’s well taken care of.” She gave the dog’s muscular side a final pat and he flopped back over.
“He’s a good dog.” Kellan lifted his chin with pride.
“He used to fight,” she said, running one finger over one of the old scars.
“Not anymore,” Kellan offered, kneeling down next to her. His tone was sure. He repeated, “He’s a good dog.”
The scarred biker was close enough for her to feel the heat that rose naturally off of him. It felt nice, nicer than she wanted to admit. The strong line of his shoulder bumped against her arm as he ran a finger beneath Rocco’s chin and gave it a good scratch. It took what little strength of will she had left to keep herself from leaning against him.
Kellan was just the kind of guy women had lusty thoughts for. It wasn’t just that he was attractive, he was definitely that, but there was a certain magnetic something about his presence. He, like Rocco, had the contained power of a fighter beneath an easy-on-the-eyes exterior. Though, for Emma, it wasn’t just that. For all he was cute, he was one of her father’s cronies.
“I’m sure he is, I’m sure he is!” She scratched her way across his muscled flanks, much to the animal’s delight.
“You were always good with mutts.” He chuckled and titled his head towards her. His lips were close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her brow when he continued. “Or cats, even birds. Man, I remember you used to bring every stray home you could find.”
She laughed and shook her head. He sat back on his haunches, and suddenly she could breathe again. A little of her stress eased. “Well, it made up for not having any siblings. At least a little.”
He looked over at her. “You had me.”
“Kellan, you were never my brother.” Thank God.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” His grin was all boyish charm and embarrassment. He bumped his shoulder against hers companionably. “But I get it.”
Their eyes met and she felt that same old crush hit her with all the power of a teenage girl’s heart. Her blood hummed merrily in her veins. Their fingers bumped against one another as they absently stroked animal fur. For a split second she thought she saw his gaze stray to her lips. She almost leaned towards him.
Why shouldn’t she kiss him? It had been a very rough night. Okay, sure, he was one of her father’s men. Yes, he was also a criminal, but he was Kellan, and it wasn’t like he would hurt her. Maybe a quick tumble would help ease all the scary feelings. She sighed. Trying to make light of a bad decision was still a bad decision.
Thankfully the mutt chose that moment to remind her that he wanted enthusiastic petting. She obliged.
“What I mean, though, is that you had all of us. The club, you know?” He was looking back towards the house, rather than at her.
“Yeah,” she said, sure the moment was some kind of fluke of her imagination. Stress did that kind of thing. She glanced down. “I know.”
For all that she loved every kind of animal, Emma had a special soft spot for big ugly mutts, and Rocco was, perhaps, the biggest, ugliest mutt she had ever come across. When she was finished with her inspection, and follow up loving session, he rolled back over onto his paws and sprang to his feet and flopped bodily against her.
“He likes you.”
“Well, I’m easy to like.” She patted a hand on the broad flatness of the canine’s head. “I should probably get inside. I’m sorry, puppy.”
“He’s not a puppy,” Kellan defended, standing up and shoving his hands in his jean pockets.
“Oh, all dogs are puppies, all of them.” She tried to keep her tone light and cheerful, but the memory of what she was doing here came crashing down on her. She squared her shoulders and put her stern face back on. Her father was not going to get away with this. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
Kellan put a hand on her shoulder as she started to walk past him. She could smell metal and dog and dirt on his skin. It shouldn’t have been an interesting mix. She shouldn’t even be thinking that men were interesting so soon after her assault, but it was Kellan, her teenage crush, so she gave herself some nostalgic leeway. The heat from his hand spread down her arm. What was going on with her body tonight?
“Listen, Emma, about that. I get that you’re pissed—”
“Pissed?” Emma demanded. She jerked her shoulder out of his grasp and shook her head hard enough to make her pale ponytail dance. “No, Kellan, I was pissed about two seconds after I was attacked. I was pissed when I had to wash blood off my neck and explain it away to some well-meaning waitress. I was pissed when I realized I had to leave everything behind in my apartment and come crawling back here. I am so very much beyond pissed.”
Rocco glanced back and forth between the two humans, seemingly trying to understand why the fun had stopped. His ears pricked forward in concern of raised voices. He took a faithful step towards Kellan.
The human male moved in front of her with all the liquid grace of a cat. How had she forgotten how quick that big body could be? “I get that, I really do, but please just hold off for a few. Your dad has been through a lot. I mean it.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” Emma snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, it must be so hard being a criminal.”
Kellan spat to one side. His misty eyes took on a hard edge and he jutted his chin out at her. “How would you know? I mean, it’s not like you bother to come around, you don’t call.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“No, but I know what your dad’s been going through. All I’m asking is that you just go easy on him until you hear everything. It isn’t much to ask, is it?”
She shoved passed him. “Whatever.”
It was more like a time capsule than a house. The garage was filled with mechanic’s gear and Christmas ornaments from the ’80s. The side door still had an offset hinge so she had to tug just a little harder to let herself in. Nostalgia hit her like a hammer.
It was just like she remembered. The hallway between the garage and the living room was full of pictures, most of them were of her. It was a timeline of the first eighteen years of her life made of Polaroids, school pictures, and candid photography. Her mother, as blonde and Nordic as Emma, was only in them for the first decade. It wasn’t lost on Emma that there hadn’t been any new photos since she went away to college.
She paused at a particularly large one. There she was, perhaps eleven or twelve, standing next to a blue ribbon science project. She was beaming with pride. Her father stood to the other side of the board, tall enough that he barely fit in the picture. Everything about her father was bigger than life, from his laugh to his appetite, to the way he ordered everyone about like a kind of king.
King isn’t too far off the mark.
The living room, once she got there, was a mess, but that wasn’t a surprise either. Her father had never been a great housekeeper. Every flat surface was decorated with bills, or old newspapers, or paper plates. The only thing she didn’t see was empty beer cans. There wasn’t even the lingering scent of cigarettes in the air. That was strange.
The only alcohol she could see was being held by the inner circle of Beasts members, who were occupying every seat the living room had to offer. That wasn’t strange. She wondered if they had been pulled away from anything more important at two in the morning to answer whatever summons her dad
had issued. The only empty spot was her dad’s Lay-Z-Boy. As a little girl she had thought of it as a throne. At twenty-five, she still did.
The gathered faces were familiar, though a few years older, as were the uniform they all wore. Jeans faded to various levels of comfort and white t-shirts all around. Sturdy boots and sturdier belts were nearly all in shades of black. Could you be a big tough biker if you wore brown instead? Vests of leather, or denim depending, completed the ensemble. Emma thought they looked like the ragtag cast members of some criminal television show. There were smiles when they saw her, and offered greetings. Some were warmer than others.
“Emma-girl!” A particularly large man in the harder part of his 50s, with a beard nearly long enough to tuck into his belt, surged to his feet and swept her up into a hearty hug. His smile was a mile wide, and he didn’t even spill his beer when he swung her around. “Shit, sweetie, lookit you!”
