Her Possessive Bikers

2. Indy

2

INDY

T he sun streams through my bedroom window, mocking my attempts at sleep. My phone shows 2:43 PM - four hours since I finally dozed off. The pillow's damp with tears I don't remember crying.

Down in the kitchen, I mechanically go through the motions of making coffee. When you work third shift, coffee doesn't carry the same punch it does for other people. It's about as sane as drinking a glass of tea with your lunch. The grounds spill across the counter when my hands shake. "Get it together, Cooper," I mutter, sweeping them into my palm.

I grab the materials I need to make a sandwich, despite not having much of an appetite.

My phone buzzes against the counter, an unknown Texas number lighting up the screen.

"Hello?"

"Is this Indiana Cooper?" A crisp, professional voice asks.

"Speaking." I throw the mayonnaise back in the fridge and head for the table.

"This is Tate Greene from Greene & Associates Law Firm in Dallas. I'm calling regarding your father's estate. I've processed O'Brien Cooper's will and would like to schedule a meeting to discuss the details."

My throat tightens. Of course Dad had a will. He always said bikers needed to be prepared for anything. "I... yes, okay." I lean against the counter, steadying myself.

My fingers trace the rim of my coffee mug. "I actually just found out yesterday..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Cooper. I should have waited longer to call." Papers shuffle on his end of the line. "This must be incredibly difficult for you."

"Yeah." The coffee's gone cold, but I drink it anyway. "Look, I need to make some arrangements at work. I'm planning to head down for the funeral this weekend, but I've got shifts to cover and-" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Could I get back to you once I figure out my schedule?"

"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.'

The thought brings fresh tears, but I blink them back. There'll be time for that later. Right now, I need to focus on getting through the next few days.

My phone rings, pulling me out of my darkness, and Millie's face lights up the screen. I almost let it go to voicemail, but she'll just keep calling.

"Hey Mills."

"Indy," her voice catches. "I tried to switch shifts at the hospital, but we're so short-staffed with this flu going around-"

"Mills, breathe." I curl up in my window seat, watching a cardinal hop along the fence outside. "It's okay. Really."

"No, it's not okay. You shouldn't have to do this alone. I can call out sick-"

"Don't you dare." I press my forehead against the cool glass. "You've got patients who need you. Besides, I won't be alone. Dad's whole club will be there."

"That's what worries me. You haven't been around them much since-"

"Since Mom took me and ran?" A sad smile tugs at my lips. "They're not so bad. Dad made sure of that."

Millie sighs. "I know. I just... I hate that I can't be there for you."

"You're always there for me." I fiddle with the small anchor tattoo on my wrist - matching the one on hers. "Remember when Mom passed?"

"You couldn't get rid of me if you tried." She pauses. "Hey, wear that black dress."

"What?"

"The one with the sweetheart neckline. The one that makes you look like a total badass."

"To a biker funeral?"

"Hell yes. Your dad always said you looked like a queen in it. Make him proud."

My throat tightens. "Yeah, he did say that, didn't he?"

"He did. And Indy? If you need me, call me."

"I will. Love you, Mills."

"Love you too, babe. Show those bikers what you're made of."

I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and head downstairs. The house feels emptier than usual, like it knows I'm leaving for a while.

At the door, I pause, glancing back at the living room. Dad's old pocket watch catches the sunlight again. I grab it, slipping it into my pocket. Maybe it'll bring me some luck.

I lock up the house, triple-checking each door and window. Paranoia? Maybe. But I won't take chances with my home. Once I'm satisfied, I head to my Jeep.

The Alabama heat slaps me in the face as I step outside. The driveway shimmers in the sun, and my car looks like it's baking under a giant magnifying glass. Two days ago, everything was normal. Now I'm driving back to a past I never really knew.

As I load my bag into the back, a familiar voice calls out from across the street.

"Indy! Where you headed?"

I turn to see Mrs. O'Hara watering her garden, her wide-brimmed hat shading her face.

"Texas," I call back, forcing a smile.

She squints at me. "Texas? Everything alright?"

I take a deep breath. "My dad passed away."

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.