Page 6 of Her Possessive Bikers

Her hand flies to her chest. "Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

"Thanks," I say softly, closing the door with a solid thud.

"If you need anything, you just let me know," she insists.

"I will." I nod and get into the car.

The engine roars to life, and I pull out of the driveway, waving one last time at Mrs. O'Hara. The tires crunch on gravel as I merge onto the main road.

"Rubber's meeting the road Daddy" I say as I wipe away a tear while looking in the rearview.

My heart feels about as empty as the house I just left.

3

INDY

The "Welcome to Cedar Grove, Texas" sign looms ahead, its faded paint catching the late afternoon sun. My fingers drum against the steering wheel as memories flood back - ice cream runs with Dad at Skip's corner store, learning to ride my first bike in the park, the exact shade of yellow he painted the front door to his house.

"You're gonna love the dollhouse, princess," Dad had said during one of his visits. "It's perfect for tea parties."

I'd been twelve then, already too old for tea parties, but he'd insisted on buying that Victorian-style house anyway. The other club members had given him hell about it, but he'd just laughed.

Main Street hasn't changed much. The same cracked sidewalks, the same mom-and-pop shops, though some names have changed. Lenny's is now Jerry's, but the awning's still that same candy-stripe pattern.

"Remember that time you tried to eat a whole banana split by yourself?" Dad's voice echoes in my memory. "Your mom was so mad because you had school the next day and had all that sugar."

I turn onto Maple Drive, and there it is - the dollhouse. Blue and white trim, perfectly manicured lawn, white picket fence. Ahouse better suited for a kindergarten teacher than a motorcycle club president.

The contrast between the house and one of Dad's bikes, still parked in the driveway under its cover, makes my chest tight. I pull up behind it, killing the engine.

"Home sweet home," I whisper to myself, but the words catch in my throat.

I hear that the porch swing still creaks the same way it did during my summer visits. Dad's boots - the ones he always left by the door despite having a perfectly good shoe rack inside - are missing. The potted plants Mom insisted he keep alive when she left are thriving, their purple blooms reaching toward the sky.

I grab my bag from the hatch, fishing in my pocket for the key Dad gave me years ago. "For emergencies," he'd said with a wink. "Or whenever you need a break from Alabama."

The key slides home, and my breath catches as I push open the door. The familiar scent hits me - leather, motor oil, and that spicy aftershave he always wore. His kutte hangs on the coat rack, patches gleaming in the afternoon light filtering through the windows.

"Just stepped out for a minute," I whisper to myself, running my fingers over the worn leather. "That's all."

The living room feels frozen in time. Yesterday's newspaper sprawls across the coffee table, a half-empty coffee mug beside it. His reading glasses perch on top, folded neatly.

The mantle draws me like a magnet. Photos line it edge to edge - me at every age, every milestone. My high school graduation, complete with the ridiculous pose he made me do on his bike. My first day at paramedic school. Last Christmas, both of us wearing those awful sweaters Mom used to love.

My boots click against the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen. The fridge is a time capsule of its own. Crayon masterpieces held up by magnets shaped like little motorcycles.A stick figure family - me, Mom, and Dad with his signature beard - yellowed at the edges but still proudly displayed.

I trace the wobbly letters of my signature before turning away. The hallway seems longer than I remember, but my old room is right where I left it. The door creaks open, and I can't help but laugh through my tears.

Pink walls. A canopy bed with fairy lights still strung across the top. Honor roll certificates and spelling bee ribbons create a wallpaper of achievement on one wall. Mr. Snuggles, the teddy bear Dad won at the state fair when I was seven, sits guard on the pillow.

"You kept it all," I murmur, picking up the bear. His fur is worn thin in spots from years of cuddles. "Every single thing."

I head back to my car, grabbing the six-pack I'd picked up on the way. The bottles clink against each other as I make my way back inside. The couch cushions embrace me like an old friend as I sink down, twisting off a cap.

The coffee table drawer squeaks as I pull it open, revealing stacks of photo albums. I pick up the top one, its leather cover worn smooth from years of handling.

"Here's to you, Dad," I whisper, taking a long pull from the bottle.

---