Wild Heat: A Motorcycle Club Romance Bundle

Chapter 2-2

“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” Emily snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, it must be so hard being a criminal.”

Kyle 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 Emily, was only in them for the first decade. It wasn’t lost on Emily 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. Emily 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.

“Emily-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. “s**t, sweetie, lookit you!”

“Hi, Uncle Leon,” she managed when her breath wheezed back into her lungs. Despite everything she found herself smiling at him. “How are you?”

He plunked her down and bent just enough that his six-foot-four frame could peer at the wound on her neck. His lips, half hidden by the beard, formed into a paternally disapproving line. “Here I was, ’bout to ask you the same thing. But I got eyes, don’t I? And I can see for myself you’re shaken.” He waited a beat. “And you’re too skinny.”

There was a chorus of masculine laughter and a few well-meaning jokes at her expense. Of all her father’s biker-buddies, Uncle Leon was her favorite. He was tall as an oak and thin as the neck of the beer bottle he held. He had always been there when her father couldn’t, which had been pretty often.

“I’ll be all right.” She patted a hand against his fuzzy cheek.

His frown rearranged itself into a grin. There was a lot less hair on his head than there used to be. She could see dark spots on his brow line that hadn’t been there before. How long had she been gone?

“Damn right you will be.” He wrapped one arm around her and hauled her to his skinny chest.

For a moment she was wrapped up in a safe scent and a familiar friend. Tears, hot and unwanted, rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t hug him back, but her hands stopped making fists. He wrapped his other arm around her and she started to shake. “I don’t know who he was.”

He nodded and stepped back, taking her shoulders in his strong hands. “Hey, we are gonna find out.”

“Hell yes, we are.”

Her father’s voice was as gruff as it had always been, but she heard an unexpected weariness. She hated that. She didn’t want him weary; she wanted him to be the same gruff, no-nonsense, distant man he’d always been. The one she’d fought with a hundred times.

“Why are people attacking me if—”

The angry words got stuck in her throat when she whirled around. Emily had to look down to see her father, which may very well have been a first. The wheelchair that held him squeaked as he maneuvered in front of her. After a moment of shock passed she managed to see the oxygen tank hanging from a storage bag attached to the handles in back.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “What happened?”

He looked like a shriveled version of himself. His hair was gone. The skin was too tight over his forehead, and not tight enough near his mouth. A breathing tube wound its way over his body, which used to sport a hefty belly, but not anymore. His vest, leather so comfortably worn it hung like silk, sported a thumb-sized patch that read simply President, and beneath that was another that read First 7.

“How did this semester go?” Mac Ketchum asked it like any father might ask his daughter about her college studies. Which would have been fine if they were just any father and daughter. He settled his elbows on the armrests, straightened as much as his body would let him. Pain tightened his hazel eyes. If anyone else saw it, they didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to hear him say the word cancer, it was written all over him. Two years ago a desperate family brought an old basset hound into Dr. Oswald’s place. The sour scent of chemotherapy was something a body never forgot. Her father reeked of it. His head and face were bald and shinning, and his jowls were sagging loosely to his chin.

“Answer me,” she demanded anyway. Emily crossed her arms over her chest, but it did nothing to ease the angry and cold ache that had suddenly swelled up there. This couldn’t be her father. Emily’s father was as big as life and twice as strong. He wasn’t this old man. “What happened?”

“Cancer,” Kyle called from the far side of the room. He shoved a hand through his dark hair and shook his head as Rocco thumped through the room, stopping to sniff at everyone. “Lung cancer.”

“All those cigarettes finally did me in.” Mac Ketchum tried to laugh, but it ended in a sickly cough. The ache in her chest became a pain.

After a moment Kyle sauntered across the room like a big leather and denim cat, and plopped himself down into her father’s old leather Lay-Z-Boy. He lounged against the worn brown leather with the ease and comfort of someone who sat there a lot. Rocco jumped up after him, finding a way to lie across Kyle’ long body. Both of them settled their eyes on her.

That struck her as odd. Her father had always been particular about who sat in his chair. She heard the squeak of the wheelchair and thought maybe he had a new chair now. Emily felt sick to her stomach and her feelings took on a complicated edge. “How long have you known?” she demanded.

Her father didn’t quite meet her eyes. “A while.”

She didn’t want to ask the next question that came to mind. She wanted to be angry with him, to snap at him, to demand answers to all of the fear she’d been dealing with the past few hours, but her mouth betrayed her. “How…how long?”

He didn’t answer for a while. “Emily, I will answer all of that, but we have other things to discuss.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream that there was nothing more important than knowing about his health, but she couldn’t quite bring the words to her lips. She sank onto the couch, taking the place Leon had sprung from. The worn fabric sagged beneath her. She looked around the all too familiar living room and felt more loss than she had ever known. She glanced at her father, sitting in a wheelchair, his audible breathing the loudest sound in the room.

“Emily-girl.” Uncle Leon’s voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what happened.”

He tucked a cold can of soda into her hand. She didn’t drink it, but holding it helped. She told them everything she could remember. How she was on her way home from the vet clinic. From the run-in with Marco, to the attack, to stopping at a diner to call her father. Emily had assumed she would cry when she talked about it, or at least get a little loud. She didn’t. She spilled it all with the emotionless distance of a shock victim.

“So?” she demanded at the end of it. “What’s going on?”

“Most of it’s club business,” her father started.

Anger swelled up inside of her, burning away the cold and empty feeling. Her head was beginning to ache with all the different emotions experienced in such a short amount of time. “Are you kidding me?”

“Emily, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We gotta know.”

Emily wasn’t sure which of her father’s men spoke, she didn’t care. This entire day had been too much and she certainly wasn’t going to listen to some guy’s crap about how hard she was making things. “I didn’t make anything hard.” She got to her feet. Her hands became fists so tight that she felt the ends of her short nails bite into her own palms. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much. I was going to college, stressing out over classes and planning for my future. Normal stuff. I was just minding my own business and daydreaming about lasagna when someone attacked me!” She hated that her voice was growing shriller with every word that was coming out.

“Emily,” he father’s voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it, “I’m sorry.”

She was stunned into momentary silence. It was then that Emily knew something was very wrong. Mac Ketchum did not apologize, not to anyone or for anything. He was the leader of The Beasts and as such his word was law, or at least whatever passed for law in a motorcycle club. He hadn’t apologized when he missed her first science fair, or when their dog died, or even when her mother left. How bad had things gotten?

“What’s going on?”

“For your own safety, I can’t tell you everything.” Her father held up one hand when Emily opened her mouth to argue with him. The skin on his palm was so thin and sickly she could see his veins. “But I can tell you I never expected you to be hurt. If I had thought for one moment you would be, I would have called or something.”

“Or something?”

“Hell, Emily, I don’t know. You made it pretty clear when you left here that you didn’t wanna be a part of my life. I thought I was, you know, respecting that.”

It was true and everyone knew it. Emily had already been packed the day she graduated, boxes piled into her crappy four-door even as she pulled on her cap and gown. With her acceptance letter in one hand and what little money she had managed to scrounge together from part-time jobs in the other, she had driven off into the sunset while everyone else had been celebrating finishing high school.