Red Hot Bikers, Rock Stars and Bad Boys

by Cassia Leo

  Heath swallowed. “Thank you, Cathy.”

  She cupped his cheek with one hand, his stubble tickling the inside of her palm. And she brought her lips to his—his sweet, sweet lips—and she kissed him.

  His mouth was fierce on hers, his kiss like an uncontrollable whirlwind.

  Her father was dead, but she had Heath. And that was the most important thing. Heath had done more for her than her father ever had. Heath was everything.

  2013

  “My father,” said Linton Galloway, “and your mother were childhood sweethearts. I suppose you didn’t know that?”

  “No,” said Thera. She had defied her father’s wishes and gone to meet Linton at a coffee shop he’d told her about. It was about an hour away, in a little town in West Virginia. She’d thought the drive was pretty, the mountains rising up majestic and blue-green against the sky. Her father had told her that she’d been born in West Virginia, but they’d never visited. Eli said it was a dark period of time in his life, and he had no desire to remember it.

  Linton wasn’t what she expected. He was blond and skinny, with mischievous blue eyes. He looked like her father Eli a little. Linton spoke in a funny way, overly precise, she supposed. He made sure to pronounce all the t’s in every word, which sounded awkward to her.

  “You have to come back and see the house,” said Linton, sipping at his soy milk latte. He’d explained to her that he was lactose intolerant and allergic to gluten, but his father rarely made concessions for his allergies, and therefore he practically starved. He’d turned mournful blue eyes on her, as if he expected her to feel sorry for him, but she didn’t. She felt slightly repulsed by him instead. She’d almost walked out then, but he was her cousin, after all, and they had been sending facebook messages back and forth for months. She wanted to get to know him, and so she stayed.

  “The house?” Thera asked.

  “The farmhouse,” said Linton. “Where I live with my father. And where your mother grew up.”

  She furrowed her brow. “How does your father own the farmhouse if it’s where my mother grew up? Shouldn’t her family have it?”

  “Oh, your mother’s side of the family doesn’t really exist anymore,” said Linton. “Your grandfather, your uncle Matt… both dead.” He smiled a queer smile. “Father says that you wouldn’t have wanted to meet them anyway.”

  “I don’t seem to have much family at all,” said Thera. “Most of my relatives on my dad’s side of the family are gone too.”

  Linton thrust his hand across the table and grasped hers. “That’s why we have to stick together, Thera. It’s just you and me, if you don’t count our fathers.”

  Thera nodded. Something about Linton rubbed her the wrong way. She wasn’t sure what it was. She moved her hand away from his and tucked it under the table.

  “We have so much in common,” said Linton. “Both of us were only raised by our fathers. And our mother and father were in love. We could have been brother and sister, you know.”

  “How do you know that my mother was in love with your father?”

  “Because my father told me so,” said Linton. “He talks about her all the time, especially when he’s drunk. ‘Cathy this, Cathy that. Cathy was the love of my life and I’m a fool for losing her.’ That sort of thing.”

  “How did he lose her?”

  “Well, your father came along and stole her away, of course.”

  Thera raised her eyebrows. “Really?” She chewed on her lip. “My father never tells me anything about her. He says it hurts too much. And he says that your father—Heath—hates me and wants to hurt me.”

  Linton leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, I guess they don’t really get along, our fathers.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Think about it. They were in love with the same woman. Probably doesn’t make them best friends,” said Linton. “But my father isn’t angry with you. He wants to meet you. He said I should bring you by the house. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  Thera furrowed her brow. “If Heath loved my mother so much, why did he marry your mother?” She and Linton were cousins because Eli and Isabella were brother and sister.

  Linton became interested in his coffee. “I don’t know much about my mother. I can’t remember her.”

  That was another thing they had in common, she supposed. She and Linton really should be hitting it off. Why didn’t she feel like she should go back to that house, though? Was it her father’s warning? Was she being paranoid?

  “My father says she was a spoiled bitch, and it’s good I never met her.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” said Thera.

  Linton shrugged. “It’s probably true. She killed herself, you know. She left me alone on purpose.”

  Oh, how horrible. Thera’s heart went out to him. No wonder he was such a strange boy. Well, not a boy, exactly, she guessed. He must be about her age. Maybe a bit younger. She put her hand back on the table and touched his fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

  Linton’s blue eyes met hers. They were like pools of deep blue water, infinitely deep. She felt like she was falling into them, being sucked down.

  “You’ll come back to the house, won’t you?” said Linton.

  “Of course,” she said.

  ***

  1993

  Soul Asylum was playing in Cathy’s room. She was lying on Heath’s stomach. They were both on her bed. He was idly tracing his fingers over her bare arm. She closed her eyes, thinking that it would be too cold for t-shirts soon. Fall would come, turning the leaves brown and crackly, and she’d have to bundle up in thick sweaters. She thought of snuggling close to Heath, and she liked it.

  “You called him?” Heath asked.

  “Like ten times,” said Cathy. “I kept getting his answering machine.”

  “He’s the only person who can set stuff up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s got to check his messages sometime, though, right?”

  “I don’t know. He’s Matt. Maybe he won’t.”

  “We could go find him,” said Heath. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No.” That could end up being disastrous. Matt hated Heath, always had, probably because their father seemed to favor Heath over Matt. She didn’t want Heath around when she broke the news to her brother.

  “Well, we can’t wait around forever, Cathy. There’s a dead body. Arrangements have to be made, and if you need Matt—”

  “Don’t.” She sat up.

  Heath shifted, propping himself up with one elbow. “What?”

  “Don’t call him a dead body,” she said. “It’s bad enough what you did to him. Now that he’s gone, you don’t get to take away the fact he’s still a person.”

  Heath’s jaw twitched. “He was a horrible person.”

  “I know.” Cathy looked down at her fingernails. She’d chewed them all down to the quick. She hadn’t chewed her fingernails since she was a little girl, but she’d somehow started again. She was nervous a lot, she guessed. When the police had come, she’d been afraid that they’d know she was lying about what happened. Every time she told the story, she had to watch her inflection, wonder if she was believable. It wasn’t that she wished her father was still alive, because she didn’t. Maybe that made her an evil person, but she was glad he was gone. “I’m grateful for what you did, Heath. I know you were protecting me. But he was still my dad, you know?”

  Heath shrugged, one of his complicated, elegant motions. “No. I don’t know. He was a monster, Cathy. He hurt you. He killed my mother. He was drunk all the time. He was worthless.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t talk like that.”

  He met her gaze, and she was trapped in his deep, black eyes. “He deserved it.”

  “You aren’t sorry? At all?”

  “Do you want me to be?”

  She looked away.

  And his arms came around her, his lips at her ear. “I’m sorry it hurts you. I’m sorry that y
ou’re sad. I never want to hurt you, Catherine Earnshaw. I’d do anything for you.”

  She tilted her head back, giving him access to her neck. “Anything?”

  His lips trailed down her skin. “Anything.”

  And the door to her room burst open. “Cathy?” Matt came inside.

  She pushed Heath away, scrambling off the bed.

  Matt glared down at Heath, who was still sprawled out, smirking up at Matt.

  Cathy hugged her brother. “You’re here. I called you and called you, but you didn’t answer. Something happened to Daddy.”

  Matt stepped out of her embrace. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Heath. “The police called me. I know what happened.”

  Heath ran a hand through his hair. “Hi there, Matt. Sorry about your loss.”

  Matt’s face turned blood red. “Get off her bed.”

  “Matt, don’t.” Cathy tugged at his arm. “Just let it go.” She looked over her shoulder at Heath. “You should go. Let us be alone.”

  Heath took his time getting off the bed.

  “What are you going to do now?” Matt asked Heath. “Without my daddy to give you all the toys you want?”

  Heath stood up, straightening his jacket, nonplussed.

  “Things are going to change around here,” said Matt. “I’m going to rent out the tenant house. You want to stay here, you’ll have to earn your keep.”

  Heath raised his eyebrows. “Look, Matt, you’re upset. I’ll get out of your face. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not sorry enough yet,” said Matt.

  ***

  1985

  Matt pushed his bike over the trail. He’d gotten to the point where he didn’t let anyone else see his bike anymore, because it was so stupid looking. Everyone else he knew had small, compact bikes for racing and jumping ramps and stuff. Their bikes were black with super-cool spatters of neon green and yellow all over them. Matt’s bike looked like it had come from the dark ages. It was huge. And it was an ugly brown color. He rode it around the farm, but he didn’t let his buddies see it anymore. They ragged him too hard about it.

  He’d asked his dad if he could have a new bike, but his dad never let him. He always said that they didn’t have enough money for stuff like that. But Dad always seemed to find money enough for more booze. His dad cared about drinking way more than he cared about his own son.

  Up ahead of him on the trail, he saw someone else pushing a bike.

  That was weird. Who else even knew about the farm trail besides Cathy and Heath? And they didn’t even have bikes.

  Matt swung a leg up over his bicycle and pedaled close to the figure on the bike.

  He couldn’t believe it. It was Heath. With one of those new, super-cool bikes.

  How did that brat get one? He was only nine years old. He didn’t even need a bike like that. He was still a little kid.

  Heath smirked at him when he saw him coming.

  Matt got off his bike. “Hey, gypsy fuck. Where’d you steal that bike?”

  “Didn’t steal it,” said Heath. “And don’t call me that.”

  “You did so.” Matt propped his bike up against a tree and went over to Heath. “How else would you get this?”

  “From your dad,” said Heath.

  Matt clenched his teeth together. He ripped the handlebars away from Heath.

  “Hey,” said Heath. “You can’t do that.”

  “He’s my dad,” said Matt. “He’s not yours.” He started up the trail with Heath’s bike.

  Heath came after him. “Give it back, Matt.”

  “Eat shit and die,” Matt called over his shoulder. Why did his father always do stuff like this? Why would he give Heath a new bike and not Matt? Matt was his own son. Heath was just some orphan brat who lived with them. Matt hated that kid.

  Heath launched himself onto Matt’s back.

  Matt had to let go of the bike. He ripped Heath off of him and threw the smaller boy onto the ground. “Don’t mess with me, okay?”

  “Give me back my bike,” said Heath, struggling to his feet.

  Matt knocked him down again. He leapt onto the boy and pushed his face into the dirt. “Shut up.”

  “I’m telling your dad,” said Heath, his voice on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t be a baby,” said Matt. He got up and swung his leg over onto Heath’s bike. Then he rode away.

  Later, his father took a belt to him drunkenly, scolding him that Heath didn’t have a family, that his mother was dead, and that they needed to treat him nicely.

  Fuck treating that gypsy nicely. He’d already stolen everything Matt had. And Matt hadn’t had much to begin with.

  ***

  1993

  Heath stood next to Cathy, her fingers twined in his. They watched as the casket containing Floyd Earnshaw’s remains was lowered into the ground. It was a sunny day, still warm with late September heat. Cathy was crying, but Heath’s eyes were dry. He’d never cry for that man. Never.

  He wanted to draw Cathy into his arms, hold her close, let her sob into his shoulder, and take all of her pain into his own body. But Matt was already glaring at them for holding hands, and Heath didn’t want to piss the guy off anymore than he already had.

  He didn’t hold Matt any ill will. He was a bit of a prick, but he wasn’t a bad guy. He didn’t understand why Floyd had always sucked up to Heath. Matt took it as favoritism. He thought that Floyd liked Heath better. He was jealous.

  Matt didn’t understand that Floyd’s kindness had been a bribe, buying Heath’s silence about what he’d done to his mother. Heath wasn’t going to tell Matt that either, because his mother’s death gave Heath a motive for killing Floyd. And Heath wasn’t about to hand out ammunition to anyone, especially someone like Matt, who already had it in for him.

  Not that anyone seemed to suspect him. No, Floyd was a known drunk. The police bought Cathy’s story without any problem. Accidental death. End of story.

  And Heath didn’t see why it shouldn’t be ruled that. He hadn’t gone in with the intention of killing Floyd Earnshaw. Even when he’d pulled the man off Cathy, Heath hadn’t been trying to kill him. He’d only been protecting her. She was the most important thing to him.

  She leaned into him, and he put his arm around her.

  She burrowed her face into the folds of his jacket. Her shoulders shook.

  Matt’s eyes shot daggers at him.

  Heath glared back, putting his arm around Cathy.

  He needed to clear this thing up with Matt. But what was he going to do?

  *

  Heath slung the duffle bag over his shoulder. His clothes were all packed in it. He had two boxes of stuff with him as well. He stood on the porch of the tenant house, the place he’d lived since he was a little kid. There were so many memories here. All of his memories of his mother. But he was leaving.

  Matt was standing at the edge of the porch, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “You can’t do this,” Cathy said. She set down one of the boxes she’d helped Heath pack and went over to her brother. “This is his home.”

  “I have to do this, Cathy,” said Matt. “You have any idea how much debt Dad left us in? This farm hasn’t made a profit in years. We’re behind on the mortgage. Renting to tenants is the one thing that can bring in income.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then let him stay in the farmhouse with us. He can use the guest room.”

  Matt shook his head. “No, I’m turning the guest room into a playroom for Gage.”

  Gage was the son of the woman Matt had taken up with a few weeks ago. Her name was Fran, and her tattoos looked leathery from too many trips to the tanning bed. Her hair was dyed white-blonde, and she wore too much makeup. Gage was still a baby, too small for a playroom, but Heath knew that Matt would never let him live in the farmhouse. He was getting revenge against Heath, and there wasn’t going to be any way to talk him out of it.

  “You can’t make him stay in the barn,” said Cathy.


  Heath hoisted up a box. “It’s fine, Cathy.”

  “It’s not fine. It’s inhuman,” she said.

  He strode across the porch. “I can handle it.”

  “It’s going to be winter,” she said.

  Heath hopped down the steps. “I’m sure Matt would like nothing better than me freezing to death.”

  Matt chuckled. “He’s lucky I’m letting him have the barn. I should kick him off the property entirely. I don’t owe him anything.”

  “He’s Heath,” said Cathy. “Daddy took care of him. For Mama Galloway. And you—”

  “Listen to you, calling that gypsy bitch mama,” said Matt.

  Heath set the box down. “You just called my mother a bitch.”

  “And I’d do it again,” said Matt. “That’s what she was. My father’s whore. Kept her in that house to fuck her. She wasn’t—”

  Heath punched Matt, driving a fist into his stomach. First one, then the other.

  Matt made a whooshing noise, air pushed out of his mouth, and he floundered backwards.

  Heath made an uppercut. His knuckles collided with Matt’s chin.

  Matt’s head flew backwards.

  Cathy ran between them, pushing Heath away from her brother. “Stop it. Stop it.”

  Matt recovered, roaring. He charged Heath.

  Cathy turned, hands out, stopping her brother. “No, Matt. You can’t. You took everything from him. You can’t.”

  “Get off my land,” Matt growled. “Get off and don’t come back, you gypsy fuck.”

  *

  “You shouldn’t have hit him,” said Cathy. They were in the fields, tall stalks of corn all around them.

  “You heard what he said,” Heath muttered. His face was a storm cloud.

  “If you hadn’t hit him, I might have been able to fix it.” She’d tried talking to her brother later, the next day, after things had calmed down, but he was made of stone. And he had a bruise from where Heath had hit him. That wasn’t good.