Page 3 of Her Possessive Bikers

The world tilts sideways for a moment. My keys clatter to the ground, but I remain standing. Dad's voice echoes in my head: "Stand tall, baby girl. No matter what life throws at you."

"When?" My voice doesn't shake. I won't let it.

"Around midnight." Ridge's voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "We came straight here. Figured you should hear it in person, not over the phone."

I nod, mechanical. Professional. Like I'm at work, dealing with someone else's tragedy. "The funeral?"

"This weekend." Titan steps closer, but maintains a respectful distance. "At the clubhouse. He always said... he wanted it where it all started."

"I'll be there." The words come automatically. My father's daughter, strong even when breaking. "Thank you for coming to tell me."

"We can stay-" Ridge starts.

"No." I bend down, retrieve my keys. "I need... I just need some time."

They exchange looks, but nod. Respect for the President's daughter, even in their grief.

"The club's here if you need anything," Titan says, reaching into his back pocket. He hands me a card with a number scrawled on it. "Any time, day or night."

The rumble of their bikes fades into the distance as I fumble with my keys, missing the lock twice before managing to get the door open. My boots feel like they're filled with concrete as I step inside, the familiar comfort of my living room now feeling foreign and cold.

A shaft of light cuts through the blinds, catching on the silver frame perched on my bookshelf. There we are - me at six years old, perched proudly on Dad's motorcycle, my tiny hands barely reaching the handlebars. His massive frame towers behind me, those strong arms that always made me feel safe wrapped protectively around my waist. That stupid pink helmet he insisted I wear clashes horribly with his leather cut, but his smile... God, his smile.

My knees give out and I slide down the wall, the cool drywall catching on my uniform shirt. The first sob breaks free, raw and painful, ripping through my chest like barbed wire.

"You weren't supposed to leave yet," I whisper to the photo, my vision blurring. "We had more time. You promised..."

My fingers trace the tattoo on my wrist - a small key, identical to the one hanging from his neck in the photo. "The key to my heart," he'd always say, tapping the charm. "Right next to my baby girl."

Another sob escapes, and this time I don't try to hold it back. The morning light continues to stream through the window, dust motes dancing in the beam, while I curl into myself on the floor of my living room, clutching the frame to my chest.

2

INDY

The sun streams through my bedroom window, mocking my attempts at sleep. My phone shows 2:43 PM - four hours since I finally dozed off. The pillow's damp with tears I don't remember crying.

Down in the kitchen, I mechanically go through the motions of making coffee. When you work third shift, coffee doesn't carry the same punch it does for other people. It's about as sane as drinking a glass of tea with your lunch. The grounds spill across the counter when my hands shake. "Get it together, Cooper," I mutter, sweeping them into my palm.

I grab the materials I need to make a sandwich, despite not having much of an appetite.

My phone buzzes against the counter, an unknown Texas number lighting up the screen.

"Hello?"

"Is this Indiana Cooper?" A crisp, professional voice asks.

"Speaking." I throw the mayonnaise back in the fridge and head for the table.

"This is Tate Greene from Greene & Associates Law Firm in Dallas. I'm calling regarding your father's estate. I've processedO'Brien Cooper's will and would like to schedule a meeting to discuss the details."

My throat tightens. Of course Dad had a will. He always said bikers needed to be prepared for anything. "I... yes, okay." I lean against the counter, steadying myself.

My fingers trace the rim of my coffee mug. "I actually just found out yesterday..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Cooper. I should have waited longer to call." Papers shuffle on his end of the line. "This must be incredibly difficult for you."

"Yeah." The coffee's gone cold, but I drink it anyway. "Look, I need to make some arrangements at work. I'm planning to head down for the funeral this weekend, but I've got shifts to cover and-" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Could I get back to you once I figure out my schedule?"

---