by K. Ryan
And as his doctor had explained with careful sensitivity, it wasn't uncommon for parents and children not to be matches for each other, which sent me spiraling down into a tornado of rage and grief.
Story of my life.
An endless black march of tragedy after tragedy and disappointment after disappointment.
"Look, Isabelle," my dad sighed as if he could read my thoughts and he covered my hand with his. "I've been a terrible father—"
"Dad," I cut in, ready to protest, ready to tell him it wasn't quite as awful as he remembered, even if it really was, but he just shook his head with a grim smile.
"I've neglected you. I've disappointed you. I've hurt you in more ways than I can stomach, let alone even think about. I didn't even really support your art and your talent until you were almost done at UNC. I think I was just too wrapped up in my own demons to really see what I was doing to my only family."
"Can we please focus on something else?" I squeezed my eyes shut. Hearing him list it all out like that brought back too many painful memories. He was right about everything, but what was the point in rehashing all these things that couldn't be changed?
"You're right," he nodded tightly. "We should focus on the time we have left and we will. But before we do that, I need to say this to you: it's taken me too long to figure out how to be a real father to you, the kind that loves and supports and protects you no matter what. And I wish the reasons for it were better than they were, but I thank God everyday we finally figured it out. I have so many regrets, Isabelle, and I don't want to die with them. I want to let them go, but I can't do that without your help."
I sucked in a harsh breath as tears pricked my eyes. This was just one more thing I wasn't ready for.
"Okay," I croaked through my tears.
"And I promise that me going to Caleb for money wasn't about manipulating either of you. After a while, my insurance wouldn't pay for any more rehab or counseling and I guess, when you consider how much I needed through the years, I can't really blame them. It all ate up my savings and I legitimately couldn't make the payments on my own. If I hadn't done something, we would've lost the house and after everything I've put you through, I didn't want to burden you with my debt. This house is all I have to give you after I'm gone and I want to make sure you get it."
For the life of me, I couldn't come up with a counter-argument, save for one little detail.
"I guess I can understand all that," I allowed carefully. "But I still can't understand why you went to Caleb. I mean, you've never liked him. The two of you could barely stand to be in the same room together. It just doesn't make sense."
"Well," my dad lifted a shoulder a little too nonchalantly for my liking given the topic of conversation. "I'll be the first one to admit I never thought he was good enough for you and I still think that's true when you first got together. Between his reputation and the club, I didn't want you anywhere near him. And I can still remember him threatening to throw me in an unmarked grave very, very clearly, even though he wasn't exactly wrong to feel to feel that way."
"So what?"
He just smiled at me. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I knew I was wrong about him right around the time he went to prison. And ever since then, he's done nothing but continue to prove me wrong because the cocky, womanizing kid with danger and guns trailing after him just doesn't exist anymore. Everything that scared me about him, how he might use you, how he might hurt you, how he might put you in danger, it's just not an issue anymore. He's a man now and a hell of a good one, too. I know you don't want to see it, but you also haven't been around to watch the changes in him like I have."
I didn't want to think about Caleb any longer than I had to, so I moved to wrap this up already. "Alright. Maybe he has changed. I don't really care about that. What I want to know is why you went to him and not me or a bank or any other option out there besides him."
Maybe I already knew the answer, but I was too far gone to back down now.
"I knew he wouldn't say no," he just shrugged.
Right. Even though he'd claimed he wasn't trying to manipulate me, I'd be an idiot not to think he was completely full of shit. He'd had plenty of other options, but he'd chosen the bank of Caleb Sawyer instead for one very specific reason that I couldn't say out loud. It would just hurt too much.
Not to mention the fact that he put that contract right where he knew I'd find it.
"Besides," my dad laughed heartily, showing a little bit of rare energy I hadn't seen in him for awhile. "He can definitely afford it."
I laughed in spite of myself and shook my head. "Yeah. Right."
"It's pretty amazing, isn't it? For him to do what he did, leave everything behind, and build that business from the ground up, not to mention make it actually successful. Talk about beating the odds."
My eyes narrowed. "Right."
I didn't need a history lesson. He'd already related the details as they went down and I didn't see the point in hearing them again. When I'd first heard he left the club, I just couldn't believe it. In fact, I'd thought my dad was flat-out lying to me. But after a little time passed, the evidence was too real to ignore. I never thought he'd actually do it, but somehow, he'd shaken the life that could've easily destroyed him, the same life that had destroyed us.
At the end of the day, I just couldn't understand why he'd go through the painful, and potentially fatal, process of breaking ties with the club just to set up shop here in Claremont. He could've gone anywhere and probably should have, but why the hell did he choose to stay here?
I'd be lying if I said him leaving the club hadn't sparked a glimmer of hope, as selfish as it was, that I hadn't thought about what would happen if he actually showed up in New York, free of the chains keeping him in a life neither of us deserved and ready for a second chance.
He never called. Never wrote me another letter. Never texted. Never reached out. And I was irrationally and foolishly bitter about that. It wasn't fair—after all, I left and I never called, wrote, or texted either and it was just as selfish as it was immature to assume his decision to leave the club had anything to do with me or why our relationship had crashed and burned the way it did.
All he'd done was given me the space I'd needed, but there was still something comforting about getting those letters in the mail. It meant he was thinking about me. It meant he cared about me enough to take the time to put his thoughts on paper for me, even if I never read them. It meant we were still connected somehow.
Yeah. I knew how insane that sounded. But when those letters stopped coming in the mail, it was really over. It all just felt so final. As if it wasn't over already. And I'd cried myself to sleep for a whole week after I realized I'd never see one of those letters in the mail again.
I guessed I just thought I meant more to him than that. I guessed I just thought he would fight a little harder for me.
Story of my life.
"Isabelle," my dad's soft voice ripped me out of those dark thoughts. "What I'm trying to say is that all I want is to see you happy and at peace. Let's face it, you haven't been either of those things in a very long time."
My eyes narrowed into dangerous dark slits. "And you think pushing Caleb on me is the solution?"
"That's not what I'm doing," he shook his head carefully. "I know that's exactly what it looks like, but you're 30-years-old. I can't fight your battles for you and I'm not sure I ever really did. I just think you and him have unfinished business and you'll never really move on until the two of you sort it out."
I gritted my teeth and huffed out an exasperated breath. Unfinished business my ass. As far as I was concerned, the only unfinished business between Caleb and me was the house.
"You know what, Dad?" I exhaled as I pushed myself heavily off the couch. "I think I need to go for a drive and clear my head. I need to pick up your prescriptions anyway. I'll be back in a little bit, okay?"
He nodded sadly. "Alright. I'll just...you know, be here."
<
br /> I smiled in spite of our sad existence and headed back to the driveway where I'd parked the BMW.
. . .
Once I was rolling down the street, I cranked up the radio and just drove, which didn't exactly work out so well for me because each mile brought with it a new flash of an old memory—ones I'd previously cemented way up high in that compartment of my mind housing all my pain.
So going for a drive back-fired on me. Go figure.
Once my dad's many prescriptions were tucked safely in my purse on the passenger seat, I still needed to kill some time and found myself at a gas station right on the edge of town.
Driving around aimlessly and just as purposelessly had landed me right where I was and no closer to resolving this lingering frustration, confusion, and plain, raw heartache. What I needed was a distraction and as I pushed through the door and the cashier, the same one who'd worked here for years, smiled at me with happy surprise.
"Hey, Isabelle Martin! I heard you were back in town. It's great to see you!" he waved to me.
"Hi, Denny," I smiled back weakly. "It's good to see you too."
I started my trek toward an aisle before he could jump even deeper into conversation. He was a sweet old man, but I just wasn't here to chat. All I wanted to do was walk around and for some reason, I'd picked this gas station today.
I walked laps around the gas station in a fog right up until the bell over the entrance chimed and three leather cuts walked in the door.
All the hairs on my arms stood on end and I nearly dropped the bottle of Mountain Dew I was holding. Instead, I clenched my hands around it, willing myself to stay hidden somewhere, that maybe they were like the dinosaurs in Jurassic World—maybe if I didn't move, those predators wouldn't be able to see me.
When I finally turned my head to get a better look at them, my eyes widened. Those were no Horsemen cuts. Instead of a fiery, devil-eyed black horse stitched onto the back, a skull wielding a machete laughed in my face.
Warlords.
They were a long way from Pittsburgh...what the hell were they doing here?
It'd been a long time since I'd been anywhere near a leather cut and I'd forgotten just how powerful one could be. Everything stopped in that gas station the second they walked inside. Denny stood at attention, watching their every move with fear in his eyes and the two other patrons inside were doing exactly what I was: trying to stay hidden and out of view. My fingers dipped inside my purse to brush my knife just to remind myself it was there.
Living in New York had taught me to take precautions because you just never knew what might happen to a single girl living in a big city. Keeping a knife and my mammoth black lab on me at all times, not to mention taking self-defense classes with my PR girl from the gallery, gave me the little bit of security I needed to feel safe living on my own. I'd just forgotten I wasn't necessarily safe in a small town like Claremont either.
Suddenly, one of the Warlords rounded the corner, heading right for me. I sucked in a breath and pretended to read the label on the back of my Mountain Dew and this man, with his shiny bald head, stocky build, and roguish smirk, wasn't convinced.
"Excuse me, miss," he told me with a wink as he side-stepped around me to get to the beer section.
My heart pounded furiously in my chest as I watched him reach up with a tattooed forearm to grab a six-pack from the highest shelf. I got an eyeful of his president's patch and quickly turned my head before he could catch me staring. Without another glance around the store, I walked to the front as calmly as I could. The last thing I needed was to draw unnecessary attention to myself and putting my soda back and hightailing it out of the store would do just that.
I set my soda on the counter smiled tightly at Denny, whose eyes met mine for just a moment before flicking back to the three leather cuts behind me.
"You okay, Isabelle?" he asked me quietly.
I nodded right away and when I turned my head ever-so-slightly to my left, the Warlords' bald president was staring right back at me with narrowed eyes.
Denny's gaze flew to where mine had been only to find the Warlords' president murmuring lowly to his two minions.
"Maybe you should wait until they leave," Denny whispered to me.
"It's fine," I laughed a little, trying and failing desperately at any ounce of normalcy.
This was just paranoia. That's all it was. They couldn't possibly know anything about me, especially since I'd never seen any of those men before in my life. I just knew enough Horsemen history to know I didn't want to be anywhere near them, let alone any other club affiliated with them. But the longer I stood there, the more I felt those calculating grey eyes seize me like a shark circling its prey.
Yep. Time to get the hell out of here. I finished paying, grabbed my soda from the counter, and despite Denny's quiet protests, hightailed it back into the parking lot and didn't stop until I locked myself inside my dad's car.
But when I put the key in the ignition, a funny thing happened. The fucker wouldn't start. I just kept turning and turning, willing the stupid piece of junk to pull its shit together, and jumped with my heart in my throat when someone rapped on the driver's side window.
The Warlords' president grinned back at me through the glass and gestured with a ringed hand toward my ignition.
"Need some help?" he called out through the window.
I shook my head and plastered on a smile. Maybe if I was polite, he would just leave me alone.
"I'm alright. The engine takes awhile to turn over sometimes."
It wasn't completely a lie, but right now, I was all about getting those leather cuts back on their bikes and as far away from me as possible.
"You sure? I could, you know, give you a ride somewhere or somethin' if you need. It'd be my pleasure."
I just batted a hand with a tight smile and pushed away whether or not that offer was a thinly-veiled threat.
"Nah. I'm good. If I can't get it started, I'll just call my dad," who wouldn't be able to get me since I was currently sitting in our only mode of transportation, but the president of the Warlords MC didn't need to know that.
"Alright," he shrugged. "Suit yourself then. Just tryin' to do my good Samaritan act of the day. Good luck to ya, Isabelle."
My eyes flashed at him in surprise and he just winked before cocking two fingers at me in a mock-salute as he backpedalled toward his bike. I held my breath until all three swung their legs over their bikes, revved the engines, and left the parking lot. As soon as they were down the street and out of view, I blew out a deep breath and leaned forward until my head rested against the steering wheel.
I turned the ignition again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Finally, I had to admit defeat.
Of all the random, terrible luck...
Before I could stop myself, I dug into my purse for my wallet and pulled out the business card I'd tucked away for safekeeping. And then just as quickly, I shoved it right back into my wallet. Thinking about calling him was a disastrous idea. Actually going through with it would be an abysmal dive head-first into Crazy Town.
So I chose the lesser of the two evils instead.
I only had to wait about 10 minutes before a Sawyer Auto Repair tow truck pulled into the parking lot. And I guess, given the way my day was going, I really shouldn't have been surprised to see Dominic Fletcher climb out of the truck with his blue work shirt on.
Three blasts from the past all in the span of less than five hours? I was on a roll today.
"Hey, Isabelle," Dom waved to me with that kind, familiar smile on his scruffy face. "I heard you're having some car trouble."
"Hi Dom," I nodded to him as he closed the distance between us. "You heard right."
He shocked the hell out of me by pulling me into a tight bear hug and releasing me just as quickly. "Long time no see, right?"
"Right," I laughed. "It's good to see you, Dom."
A wide smile spread across his face. "It's good to see you too. Man, you're a sigh
t for sore eyes. I just wish it wasn't under such shitty circumstances, you know seeing as how you're sitting here stranded in a parking lot, right?"
"Right," I nodded again.
That was the thing about Dom. He'd always been the quietest one in the room, but because of that, he was also the most observant and most perceptive one, too. He saw what everyone else didn't and him bypassing any mention of my dad was right in line with everything I knew about him.
He gestured with his head toward the car and in no time, he popped the hood and stuck his head under to inspect the damage.
"Well," he glanced at me from underneath the hood. "From the looks of it, your starter's shot."
I winced. Shit. That sounded bad. And probably really expensive.
"Don't worry," Dom laughed. "It's fixable. I just have to get it to the shop before I can do that for you."
"Okay. Thanks," I nodded and chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to think of the best way to say what I needed to tell him. In the end, there was no sugar-coating it. "I saw some of the Warlords when I was in the gas station just now."
Dom's head shot up from underneath the hood of my dad's car, suddenly colder, tighter, and with more edge than the easy-going, kind guy I was used to seeing. "What happened?"
"Nothing really," I lifted a shoulder. It was difficult to explain just how threatened I'd felt when nobody had really done anything that could be defined as threatening. "They just made me really uncomfortable, especially since they knew me. I mean, I've never seen any of them before, especially not the president—"
"Wallace was there?" Dom cut in sharply, his hands clenching around the edge of the hood until his knuckles turned white.
I nodded.
"Did he say anything to you?"
"He just asked me if I needed help when my car wouldn't start. It wasn't really a big deal...he just scared me."
That was all Dom needed to hear. He promptly directed me to the truck's passenger seat and made quick work of loading my dad's car onto the truck, all the while scanning the roads with an eagle eye and talking to someone on his phone. It wasn't until we were finally on the road that I realized he wasn't taking me in the right direction. Or, more specifically, not in the right shop's direction.