Page 4 of Her Possessive Bikers

"Of course, of course. Take whatever time you need. Here's my direct line-"

I grab a pen from the drawer, scribbling the number on the back of an old grocery receipt. The ink smears under my sweaty palm.

"Thanks, Mr. Greene. I'll call you back soon."

"My deepest condolences, Ms. Cooper. Your father was... well, he was quite a character."

A wet laugh escapes me. "That's one way to put it."

The line goes dead, and I slump against the kitchen counter. The morning sun catches the chrome of Dad's old pocket watch hanging by the window - his gift for my med school graduation. The light bounces off it, dancing across the walls like the flash of motorcycle chrome on an open highway.

My fingers hover over Tracy, my supervisors contact for a moment before I hit dial. The phone only rings twice.

"Hey sweetie, I was just about to call you about next week's schedule." Tracy's warm voice fills the line.

"Tracy, I..." The words stick in my throat. "I need some time off."

"What's wrong? You never take time off. I practically have to force you to use your vacation days."

I sink onto my couch, pulling my knees to my chest. "My dad died yesterday. Heart attack."

"Oh honey, no." The rustling of papers stops on her end. "I'm so sorry. First your mom, and now this..."

"Yeah." I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. "I need to head to Texas for the funeral this weekend. And there's all this estate stuff to handle-"

"Stop right there." Keys click in the background. "Take the month."

"Tracy, I can't-"

"You can and you will. Look, you're his only kid, right? No wife?"

"Right."

"Then you've got a lot to sort through. Properties, accounts, all that fun stuff. That's what bereavement leave is for. Plus..." She pauses. "Isn't he involved with that motorcycle club?"

I let out a shaky laugh. "He was the president."

"Honey, that's going to be even more complicated. Take the month. Get your head straight, handle what you need to handle. Your shifts are covered."

"But-"

"No buts. You've pulled more doubles in the past year than anyone else on the squad. We owe you." Her voice softens. "And honey? Take care of yourself, okay? You've been through enough."

The kindness in her voice almost breaks me. "Thanks, Tracy. I mean it."

"Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything."

I hang up and push away my half-eaten sandwich and pull up my phone's map app. It takes a little over 2 hours to get to Dad's place. Might as well stay there while sorting through everything - it'll beat living out of a hotel room.

I head upstairs, and yank my old duffel from under the bed. The zipper sticks halfway, and I mutter a curse that would make Dad proud. My hands shake as I start pulling clothes from the dresser.

"Okay, Cooper, think like a paramedic. Make a list." I grab my phone and start typing. "Clothes for a month. Toiletries. Laptop. Chargers."

My reflection catches in the mirror as I pass - dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess. I toss another pair of jeans into the bag.

The bottom drawer of my dresser holds my "biker clothes" as Dad called them - leather jacket, boots, the works. He insisted I keep them here "just in case." I run my fingers over the worn leather before adding them to the bag.

I pause at my closet. What do you even wear to a biker president's funeral? Dad would probably say something like, 'Wear whatever makes you feel strong, princess.'

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