Her Possessive Bikers

3. Indy

3

INDY

T he "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. A house 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.

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.