Her Possessive Bikers

7. Kyler

7

KYLER

T he smoke curls from my cigarette, dancing away in the Texas heat. My hands shake slightly as I take another drag, trying to steady the storm of emotions threatening to spill over. Brick would've given me shit for hiding out here, probably would've dragged my ass inside with that bear-like grip of his.

The heavy metal door creaks behind me. I don't turn right away, not wanting anyone to see the redness in my eyes. But curiosity wins out, and I glance over my shoulder.

She steps out into the sunlight clutching his urn, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. Brick's stories didn't do her justice. His daughter carries herself with a quiet grace that seems at odds with the rock chick exterior – all black leather and combat boots. But those eyes – damn, they're his eyes exactly. The same shade of hazel that could see right through your bullshit.

I stub out my cigarette, watching as she hugs herself, looking lost in thought. The leather of her jacket catches the sun, and I notice the small tattoo peeking out from her collar. Something delicate, like her, despite the tough exterior.

"Need some air?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

She startles slightly, those familiar eyes finding mine. "Yeah, it's a bit... overwhelming in there."

"I'm with you there," I tell her on an exhale.

"You okay?" Her voice carries genuine concern, catching me off guard.

I run my fingers over the scar above my eye – an old nervous habit. "Yeah, same as you, just got a little too peopley in there for my liking."

She snickers as she settles down beside me on the concrete step, careful to keep her black dress from catching on the rough surface.

She sits the urn down between us and damn if it doesn't choke me up. What I wouldn't give for another chat on these backdoor steps with Brick Cooper.

The leather of her jacket creaks as she leans back, pulling out a pack of gum.

"Can't blame you there." She offers me some, but I shake my head. "I'm not much of a social butterfly myself."

"Really?" It slips out before I can stop it. "Sorry, just... you seemed to be handling it all pretty well in there."

A dry laugh escapes her. "Years of practice in the medical field. You learn to fake it." She takes a long drag, the smoke curling around her face. "Plus, Dad always said showing weakness wasn't an option."

My chest tightens at the mention of Brick. "He was good at that – the whole 'keep your head high' thing."

"Speaking of..." She turns those hazel eyes on me, studying my face. "What's your story? You don't exactly fit the typical biker mold."

I touch my scar again, self-conscious. Most of these guys look like they eat nails for breakfast, while I... well, Mom always said I had a face better suited for a boy band than a motorcycle club.

"Your dad actually liked that about me. Said it made people underestimate me." I fidget with my kutte. "Guess I was kind of his pet project."

"The black sheep?" There's something knowing in her smile.

"More like the stray puppy he couldn't leave out in the rain."

"You're different from them," Indy says, pulling at a loose thread on her jacket sleeve. "It's... refreshing. Most of these guys are trying so hard to be tough they forget how to be human."

My face warms at the compliment. "Yeah, well, being the quiet type isn't exactly celebrated around here."

"I get that. Back home, they expect paramedics to be these larger-than-life personalities. But sometimes the quiet ones notice things others miss." She stands, brushing off her dress. "Want to see something larger than life?"

"Uh, sure." I follow her through the parking lot, past rows of gleaming bikes until we reach it – the Chevelle. Midnight black paint catches the late afternoon sun like liquid obsidian. Chrome trim sparkles like new money.

"Holy shit." The words escape in a whisper. "I've heard stories about this car, but..."

"But seeing it in person is different?" Indy runs her hand along the hood, a fond smile playing at her lips. "Dad barely let anyone touch it. Used to say it was his first love."

"I always thought that was just club legend – the president with the perfect classic car he never drove."

"Oh, he drove it. Just... selectively." She pulls out the keys, metal catching the light. "Maybe next time I'm around, I'll let you experience it yourself."

"Yeah?" I can't keep the eagerness from my voice.

"Sure. Someone should appreciate it besides me." Her smile turns playful. "Besides, you seem like the type who'd actually respect her, not try to race her down Main Street."

Indy reaches into the Chevelle's back seat, pulling out something that makes my breath catch. The worn leather of Brick's kutte catches the sunlight, patches telling stories of decades on the road.

"Hey, would you..." She holds it out, those hazel eyes meeting mine. "Could you take this inside? Maybe they can display it or something? I just... I can't go back in there right now."

My fingers brush hers as I take it, the leather still warm from sitting in the car. "Yeah, of course. I'll make sure it gets to the right place."

"Thanks…" She hesitates as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small constellation tattoo behind it. This is my cue to tell her my name but she's so damn beautiful my brain is misfiring.

"Kyler," I respond. "Kyler Jones."

She smiles and I feel it everywhere. "Well, thank you again Kyler Jones…For everything. For just... being normal, I guess."

I clutch the kutte closer, nodding as she slides into the driver's seat. The Chevelle's engine purrs to life, and I watch until the taillights disappear around the corner.

Looking down at the kutte in my hands, I trace the president's patch with my thumb. Brick used to say Indy got the best parts of him – the strength without the rough edges, the heart without the darkness. Standing here now, leather pressed against my chest, I realize he wasn't exaggerating. She's got his fire, but it burns cleaner somehow. Warmer.

The patches tell their own story – each one earned, each one a piece of the man who gave me a chance when nobody else would. But it's the inside that catches my eye – a small photo tucked into the inner pocket. A much younger Indy on Brick's shoulders, both of them laughing at something long forgotten.

Just like her old man said – special doesn't begin to cover it.