Her Possessive Bikers

1. Indy

1

INDY

T he steering wheel sticks to my palms as I guide my beat-up Jeep down Highway 65. Three back-to-back shifts have left my uniform clinging to my skin, and the Alabama sun's already cooking the asphalt despite the early hour. Even with all four windows down, the air hitting my face feels like it's coming straight from a furnace.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder, and I tap the screen to answer through the Bluetooth.

"How was your shift?" My best friend Millie's voice fills the car. She's coming off her own fourteen-hour shift at Birmingham General.

"Two cardiac arrests, one drug overdose, and a guy who thought it'd be fun to try parkour off his garage roof." I drum my fingers on the wheel. "You know, the usual."

"I still think you could've been a kick ass nurse. Much safer, better hours-"

"Millie." I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror - dark circles under my eyes, hair escaping from what used to be a neat bun fourteen hours ago. "We've been over this. I need something with more-"

"Gore? Action? Like Daddy Brick has?"

A gag reflex hits the back of my throat. "For the hundredth time, stop calling my father hot. It's disturbing on so many levels."

"What? Those leather-clad arms, that salt and pepper beard-"

"I'm hanging up now." My thumb hovers over the end call button.

"Fine, fine." Millie's laugh echoes through the speakers. "But seriously, you'd make a great nurse. Your bedside manner's already better than half the staff at Birmingham General."

I switch lanes, passing a truck hauling lumber. "And spend my days watching doctors take all the credit? No thanks. Besides..." My voice trails off as I spot a faded Luci's Syndicate tag spray-painted on an overpass. "You know how nurses gossip. One background check and they'd be whispering about the biker's daughter playing dress-up in scrubs."

"That's ridiculous. You're one of the best medics in the county."

"Tell that to Karen in HR who nearly had an aneurysm when she saw my father's occupation on my paramedic application." The memory makes my jaw clench. "At least out here, racing through traffic with sirens blaring, nobody cares who my daddy is. They just care that I'm good at my job."

"Which you are."

"Exactly." I turn onto my exit. "And I get to save lives without dealing with hospital politics or judgmental coworkers side-eyeing my tattoos. Win-win."

"Speaking of winning, you're coming to trivia night tomorrow, right? The new bartender's totally your type."

The tension in my shoulders eases. "Let me guess - tattoos, motorcycle, and daddy issues?"

"Hey, you said it, not me."

I pull into the familiar parking lot, my car almost like it's on autopilot.

"I'll think about it, right now I'm just concerned with putting some food in my mouth and getting my ass home to get some sleep."

"Amateur," she says. I can almost see her eye roll through the phone.

I pry the door open, the familiar squeak of the hinges sounding about as worn for wear as I am.

"Just call me later, I'll see if I get enough beauty sleep for the occasion."

"Whatever, bye," she says through the line.

"Love you too miss congeniality," I reply and pocket my phone.

The bell chimes as I push open the door to Mae's Diner, the aroma of coffee and bacon wrapping around me like a familiar hug. My boots squeak against the checkered linoleum floor as I slide into my usual booth by the window. The vinyl seat's cracked in the same places it was yesterday, and the day before that, and probably since before I was born.

"You're a lifesaver." Mae appears with a steaming coffee pot, her silver hair pulled back in its usual neat bun. "Rough shift?"

"Eh, nothing too heinous.” I suppress a yawn as she fills my mug. The coffee's strong enough to strip paint, just how I like it.

"The usual, sugar? Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, side of fruit?"

"You know me too well." I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into my tired fingers.

Mae clicks her pen against her order pad. "Your daddy been down to visit lately? Haven't seen that big ole bike of his rumbling through town in a while."

I can't help but smile at Mae's question. The locals here treat my father like some kind of gentle giant, completely oblivious to the fact that back in Texas, the mere mention of 'Brick Cooper' makes grown men break into cold sweats.

"He was here a few weeks back." I take a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter warmth. "Talked to him on the phone couple days ago, but he's been fighting off some bug. You know how men are when they get sick - acting like it's the end of the world."

She chuckles, her pen tapping against her notepad. "That man? President of some big bad motorcycle club? Last time he was here, he spent twenty minutes playing peek-a-boo with Johnny's grandson through the window." She shakes her head. "Hard to believe he's supposed to be some kind of outlaw."

"If only they knew." I trace the rim of my mug with my finger. "Back in Texas, people cross the street when they see him coming. Here, Mrs. Peterson from the library keeps trying to set him up with her daughter."

"Well, sugar, that's because Mrs. Peterson has good taste. Your daddy's quite the catch."

"Not you too." I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "Between you and Millie, I'm going to need therapy."

Mae's laugh rings out across the diner. "I'll go put your order in before you disown us all. Try not to fall asleep in your coffee."

The bell above the door chimes again, and I glance up from my coffee to see an elderly man and what I assume is his granddaughter. The sight reminds me of how Dad would drive down from Texas every once in awhile, rain or shine, just to have breakfast with me here. Even with club business, he'd always make time.

"Your food, honey." Mae sets down my plate, lingering by the table. "You know, your mama made the right choice, moving you out here. Though I bet it wasn't easy on any of you."

I push a piece of melon around my plate. "Mom always said she wanted me to have a normal childhood. Whatever that means."

"Smart woman, your mother." Mae's voice softens. "Can't believe it's been two years already."

"Twenty-eight months." The words slip out before I can stop them. I stab a strawberry with my fork. "First time I'd ever seen Dad cry since the time I scraped my knee falling off my bike when I was four."

She stifles a laugh. "That's what good fathers do, sugar. They show up." Mae refills my coffee. "Now eat up before those eggs get cold."

The breakfast settles warm in my stomach as I pull onto my street, fighting back another yawn. My bed's calling - fourteen hours of other people's emergencies have left me dreaming of my memory foam mattress and blackout curtains.

My house comes into view, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Two Harleys are parked in my driveway. Their chrome gleams in the morning sun, both bikes obviously well-maintained despite the road dust coating them.

Two men stand on my front porch like they own it. Their arms crossed over their chests. One's got a scraggly beard that needs serious maintenance, while the other's sporting a buzzcut that emphasizes a nasty scar running along his temple. No Kutte's, just black t-shirts, which is odd.

"What the hell?" I mutter, slowing my Jeep to a crawl.

My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Dad's number is on speed dial, but something stops me from reaching for it. Club business has never shown up at my door. But Dad always told me to be prepared.

The men haven't moved, but their eyes track my vehicle. My stomach churns, and it's not from Mae's eggs. Something's wrong. Dad would've warned me if he was sending anyone. He always warns me.

I slide out of my Jeep, my boots hitting the concrete with purpose. The way these men carry themselves speaks volumes. Club men, through and through.

"Miss Cooper." The one with the buzzcut steps forward, his hand extended. "I'm Titan. This is Ridge. We're from your father's chapter."

My stomach drops at the formality in his voice. Dad's boys never called me 'Miss Cooper.' It was always 'Little Brick' or 'Princess.'

"What's wrong?" The words scratch against my throat.

Ridge shifts his weight, his boots scuffing against my porch steps. "Maybe we should go inside-"

"Tell me." My keys dig into my palm. "Here. Now."

Titan's adam's apple bobs. "Your father... he passed last night. Heart attack. Doc says it was quick, he didn't suffer."

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.