Page 11 of Leave Me
“Yeah, I can read,” Rel joked, as if that was the surprising part. I didn’t know anyone but my mom followed my career in Blue Lake, and I wrote that article almost two years ago.
We stopped under the shade of a tree at the edge of the plot, and I saw Clark and Rowen Finley not far away. Mr. Clark was Alpha King’s second in both the pack and motorcycle club, and I saw he was sporting the club jacket. He was also a mechanic at Motorvated, the King family business. I knew from my mom that he was running all three with Alpha King sick for a while, though he led them with reluctance. Clark Finley was an alpha and a good man, but he didn’t want to be in charge.
Waving at Rowen, he gestured back with a nod. I was glad to see him, since he was a year behind the rest of us in school, and wouldn’t be at the reunion. Red, as everyone called him, had always been a loner, but I liked him.
Mom was right about the turnout, and I noticed some members of the local tribe in attendance as well. They lived in Northlake and were coyote shifters. Thankfully, there were no bear shifters from Lakeview on the opposite side of Blue Lake. They had their own motorcycle club and were not friendly to the King Pack.
“I’m going to find my mom,” I told Ricky and Rel when I saw Channing leading a minister to the podium, which held an urn next to a fresh gravestone.
“Sure.” Ricky nodded. “But I hope we’ll see you at the mixer later?”
“Maybe,” I said, noncommittal. I hadn’t planned to go, and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel after the funeral.
It all came down to whether Fowler was there. I had no clue how I’d feel one way or another, but I felt in my gut his presence would be pivotal.
Chapter seven
Fowler
Having a hangover was unusual for me, but not unheard of. Seeing my high school buddies shift and go for a run without a care in the world had hit me hard, and I’d finished the rest of the beers and liquor when Red left me alone. I’d waited for Ricky and Rel to shift back, change, and head out before I broke down.
Between memories of shifting when my dad was alive, my friends by my side, and the words from his letter swirling around my head, I had cried so hard I felt like I’d had an ab workout. My mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted like bile, and my eyes were crusted closed.
A bright light assaulted me through my eyelids, and I tossed a pillow over my head. The pillow was wrestled from my hands before I had a tight grip, and Channing’s voice hammered my skull. “Breakfast was two hours ago.”
“Not hungry,” I grumbled, throwing an arm over my face.
“You fell asleep in your clothes, and the funeral is in an hour. You stink,” she informed me, and realized I was lying on top of the comforter.
“Fine, I’ll shower,” I grumbled. “Just close the blinds.”
Channing huffed in annoyance but didn’t move to the window to honor my request before I heard the bedroom door slam closed. Maybe I could sleep through the funeral and come down for the reception at the house.
My bladder protested my plans, so I dragged myself upright and into the attached bathroom. I was lucky to have one of the four rooms with an ensuite, and I needed privacy then. The bathroom was sparkling clean, all white tile and brass fixtures, and I wondered if Ms. Jones was still cleaning the pack house.
Instead of waiting for the shower to get hot, I stripped my clothes off and hopped in before it was lukewarm. The cold hit my skin and woke me up as I reached for the body wash. I’d shaved most of my body hair off the morning before, and I reveled in the feel of my smooth skin. The bergamot and sandalwood smell of the soap hit my senses, and I froze in place.
It was the smell of my dad when he wasn’t drunk.
Mourning my father was complicated. I would forget about him for a time, and the heaviness of his rejection, then a smell or word would trigger my memories. I could usually brush the intrusive thoughts off, but that was when I knew he was alive.
After his death and the letter, I had no control over when or how the memories and feelings would assault my mind. He treated Channing like crap for living while our mother died, while I was his favorite. Until I came out.
If it were only his actions I was angry over, I might not have been so angry, but I was also mad at myself.
While I was there for Channing as a baby and young child, she was only eight when I left. I left her with my disabled grandfather and drunk father. After years of therapy, I knew I had only been a child myself, and couldn’t have done anything for her when I was struggling to survive in San Francisco, navigating my transition.
Turning the water off, I stepped out and dried off with a fluffy white towel. The pack house was too much for Channing to take care of on her own, so I hoped Ms. Jones was responsible for the cleanliness and making sure everything was in its place.
Channing should be going off to college, living carefree for once in her life. I knew she was accepted into university at nearby Sonoma State, but she was being cagey about whether she would attend. I’d paid for her registration, and I planned to insist. I’d hire a caregiver for Gramps if I needed to.
I didn’t own a suit, so my black jeans and leather vest would have to suffice. I touched my chest, where the King Pack club patch should be. An ache of longing shot through me, and I coughed to clear my throat.
The King Pack weren’t one-percenters, unlike the club across the lake, but they weren’t a normal club either. Our structure had always been closer to the criminal clubs, but we wanted to stay under the radar. Brushing off my mental shift of referring to the club as ‘we,’ I bent to tie my shoes before making my way downstairs.
Gramps was waiting for me and let me know Channing was already at the cemetery. I followed him out of the house, noting how well he did with the chair and the paved paths. The pack had money, though I knew it was less with my father’s decline, and I was glad to see they used it to help Gramps’ mobility.
I had missed so much.
