Page 7 of Her Possessive Bikers

The first page shows Dad teaching me to ride a tricycle, his massive hands steadying the tiny pink seat. Another captures Christmas morning - me in footie pajamas, surrounded by wrapping paper and beaming at a purple pair of rollerskates.

The beer goes down easy as I flip through memories. Dad at my first spelling bee. Dad showing me how to change a tire. Dad pretending to be terrified when I gave him his first "makeover" with dollar store makeup.

A knock at the door startles me from my reverie. Through the peephole, I spot a familiar weathered face topped with silver hair.

"Uncle Jagger?" I pull open the door.

"There's my favorite grease monkey!" His arms open wide. "Though I guess it's bandages instead of motor oil these days."

I practically leap into his bear hug, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and cigarettes. "I can't believe you're here."

"Where else would I be, sweetheart?" He pulls back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Your old man never shut up about his baby girl becoming a hero."

"Come in," I step aside. "I've got beer, and I could use some company."

"Don't mind if I do." He follows me to the living room, settling into Dad's favorite armchair. "Been retired three years now, but I still remember every story your daddy told about you in that clubhouse."

Uncle Jagger settles deeper into the armchair, the leather creaking beneath him. "Service is at two tomorrow, at the clubhouse. Thought about doing it at the church, but..." He shrugs, accepting the beer I offer. "Your dad wasn't much for religion unless your mom dragged him."

"Sounds perfect." I pull my legs under me on the couch, balancing the photo album on my knee. "He'd want to be surrounded by his brothers one last time."

"What you got there, sweetheart?"

I turn the album toward him. "Just going through some memories. Look at this one – Dad tried to teach me to change oil when I was ten."

"Lord, I remember that day." Jagger leans forward, chuckling. "You got more oil on yourself than in the pan. Your mama nearly had a stroke when he sent you home and she saw those stains."

"Dad bought me three new outfits to make up for it." I flip through more pages. "Oh god, my debutante ball."

"Your old man loved any excuse to see you in a pretty dress." Jagger's weathered finger traces the edge of the photo. "Mind if I take some of these? We're putting together a display for tomorrow. Show everyone the softer side of the big bad Brick Cooper."

"Of course." I carefully remove a few choice photos – Dad teaching me to fish, us at my graduation, last Christmas. "These really show who he was."

"Perfect." He tucks them carefully into his jacket pocket, then drains his beer and stands. "Better get going. Got a lot to organize before tomorrow." He pulls me into another hug. "See you at two, grease monkey. Your daddy would be proud of how strong you're being."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my memories once again.

4

INDY

Ismooth down the black dress, its hem falling just above my combat boots. Dad always said I could make anything look badass. The leather jacket - his old one from the 80s - settles perfectly across my shoulders, like it was meant for me all along.

My reflection stares back, red lipstick, and mascara perfectly applied despite my shaking hands. "You got this, Cooper," I mutter, adjusting my nose ring.

The garage door groans as I lift it, revealing Dad's pride and joy - his '66 Chevelle. Pristine black paint gleams under the fluorescent lights, chrome trim catching every reflection.

"Remember when I was sixteen?" I run my hand along the hood. "You said 'Not until I'm dead and gone, princess.' Well..." My throat tightens. "Guess today's the day, Daddy."

The key slides into the ignition like it belongs there. The engine roars to life, a deep rumble that vibrates through the seat and straight into my bones.

"Oh, you beautiful thing." I say adjusting the rearview before I ease out of the garage, getting a feel for the clutch. "I see why he never let me near you before."

The streets have changed since my childhood visits. New storefronts replace the run-down shops I remember, and fresh paint covers old brick walls, covering the graffiti. Even the infamous strip where the club members used to raise hell looks almost... respectable.

"Trying to clean up your image, boys?" I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, navigating through the transformed neighborhood. Gone are the sketchy bars and pawn shops, replaced by craft breweries and boutiques.

The Chevelle purrs as I downshift, taking the familiar turn toward the clubhouse. At least that hasn't changed - still standing proud on the corner, bikes lined up out front like soldiers at attention.

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