I let out a sigh and then slip out of my heels, my feet throbbing from being in them all day. Heels are not a thing I choose to wear regularly, and I’m not completely comfortable walking in them. I’m grateful that I didn’t trip over anything and make a fool out of myself, but that’s it.
I go upstairs, my sore feet relieved to feel the cool wooden planks against them. I have every intention of walking to my bedroom, collapsing on the bed, and sleeping away this miserable day… but when I step past my father’s room, Millie’s words ring out in my head.
“If he was in some biker gang, you’d want to know.”
I know Millie’s wrong. I’m positive of it. But for some reason my heart is pounding in my chest as I look into my father’s room and consider stepping inside.
My dad's room has always been off-limits to me. He even kept the door locked most of the time. I used to think it was weird that he was so private about his space, but I was a well-behaved kid, and I respected the rules.
But why should I respect them now? I mean, technically, there are no rules. This is my house now, and if there were rules, I would be the one to make them. So I could step into his room now, if I wanted to…
And I do.
I push the cracked door open, step in, and glance around. My father’s king-sized bed is covered with a red and black plaid comforter. There is a wooden desk in the corner, filled with a mess of papers.
Even though I tell myself I’m not doing anything wrong, it doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I’m ten years old again, sneaking cookies from the cookie jar when I’m not supposed to. What I’m doing here feels so wrong, it just puts me off completely.
I’m actually about to turn around and walk back out into the hall when I notice that there’s a lock on my father’s closet door.
It’s not like my closet doors which slide to the left or the right to expose all my clothes. No, this is a normal door, like the door to the bedroom. Who on earth puts a lockable door knob on their closet? Why lock up all your clothes?
Unless it isn’t just clothes in there. Again I think of Millie and her insistence that I need to investigate. I sigh and grab my keys out of my purse.
My father’s lawyer gave me these keys when he went over the will with me. I haven’t gone through all of them yet, but he said that on this keyring was every key I needed in my father’s house. One of them will have to work on this closet.
I jimmy them one by one until finally a small, bronze-colored key does the trick. I hear the click of the lock coming open as I turn it, and with heavy breath I open the door.
Inside, things surprisingly look like a normal closet. He’s got clothes hung up and a few dresser drawers which I open only to find more clothes.
Relief washes over me. I knew I was being paranoid for no reason. I need to let this go. Just because my dad knew some members of a biker gang did not mean he was hiding anything from me. He was my father. I knew him. He was no gang member.
I don’t walk right out of the closet when I find that it’s completely unsuspicious, though, because I see a few boxes on the top wooden shelf above his clothes. I see some pictures sticking out of one—or what I assume are pictures—and my heart leaps.
I’d been searching for photos of me and my father. Looking at them is cathartic to me just to see the time we did get to spend together, the times we were happy. To prove they were real, that it happened.
I stand on my tiptoes and carefully grasp each side of the cardboard box, being careful not to spill any photos as I do.
I grin as soon as I have them because on top are a few pictures of me and my father from when I was a toddler. I can’t ever remember seeing these photos, so my heart races with excitement as I get ready to check them out.
Sitting down on the carpeted closet floor with the box, I lean against the wall, holding the box carefully in my lap. It’s stuffed to the brim with photographs and I’m fully prepared to sit here for at least an hour to go through all of them.
The first few are cute. There’s one of us at the park and he’s pushing me on the swing, though I have no idea who took the photo. In another one, I’ve got cake all over my face. It must have been my birthday.
It’s nice looking at all of these pictures. I don’t feel like crying anymore. Instead, I feel like smiling. These were happy memories, and that’s exactly what they fill me with: happiness.
But that happiness soon fades as I get deeper into the box.
About halfway through, I find a photo that makes my heart drop.
It’s the biker gang.
For a moment, the photo doesn’t bother me. I figure it might help explain the question of how my father knew them, and it does. But it isn’t the answer I wanted to get.
I look across the photo—a bunch of men in leather jackets are standing next to their Harleys with grins on their faces. I try to find a familiar face, perhaps someone I had seen at the funeral earlier today, and I do see someone familiar.
My father.
He’s standing next to the motorcycle that I know to be his. He’s got his hands in his pockets and a serious look on his face. He’s young, too. This photo might even be from before I was born.
I immediately feel sick to my stomach. Could Millie be right? Was my father actually part of a motorcycle gang and I never had any idea?
I turn the photo around, desperate for more details. All that’s written on the back is Coyotes ‘95.
So this photo actually is from before I was born.
I immediately pull out my cell phone, dial in Millie’s number, and try to calm my racing heart rate as she answers.
“Hey, you okay?” she asks.
“No, I’m not even a little bit okay,” I say bluntly. “Millie, you were totally right.”
“Right about what?”
“About my father,” I say sadly. “He was part of this gang, Millie, whoever they were. I think they’re called the Coyotes. Whatever their name is, he was a part of it. And he had been since before I was born.”
“Oh, Jenn, I’m so sorry,” Millie says softly. “When I suggested that, I didn’t think I was going to be right. I was just throwing possibilities out there. How did you find out?”
“I was looking through a bunch of his old photos, and I found one of him and his gang. Millie, I don’t even know what to think. I feel like I didn’t even know him. All these years and he never once mentioned this to me.”
“Maybe that was no accident, Jenn. I mean… did you ever wonder why he sent you to boarding school?”
“He said it was to give me the best education. He was always going on about how I needed to get my degree and do things better than he did them.”
“Did things better like by not being part of a motorcycle gang? Jenn, this is all starting to make sense. Your father sent you away specifically because he didn’t want you to know he was in a motorcycle gang.”
Holy shit, she’s right! It was no coincidence that I spent so little time at home. This was by design.
“I can’t believe him! I just absolutely can’t believe him! How could he not tell me?”
Millie sighs. “Try not to get too mad, Jenn. We don’t know the full story. We don’t know why he made the decisions he did. But we do know that your dad loved you more than anything, so whatever choice he did make, it was probably to protect you. If your mom had been around, maybe things would be different.”
I scoff. “You’re taking his side now?”
“No,” she says hesitantly. “I’m just saying let’s not talk ill of the dead here. I don’t want to tear down a man who isn’t here to explain himself, someone who you’ll never be able to make up with and get the full story. Just try to look at this with an open mind. I know that’s hard for you, especially with how sheltered you are—”
I cut her off. “I am not sheltered!”
She lets out a short laugh. “Right, okay…”
“I’m not!” I argue.
“Jenn, be real. You are completely shel
tered. I have lived as your dormmate most of my childhood. You almost never did anything outside of school, you’ve never drank, you’ve never had sex, you’ve barely kissed a boy—”
“Okay, fine.” I stop her again. “What exactly is the point you’re making here?”
“The point is that because you’re the epitome of innocence, you tend to judge everyone else pretty damn harshly. Just… maybe come at this with a different angle. Be open to the fact that we can’t all be as perfect as you, and that maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Okay,” I say shortly.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Millie pleads. “I’m really just trying to help.”
“No, I know,” I say, a little sweeter this time. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad, I’m just processing a lot. I think I have to get off the phone for now.”
“Okay, of course,” Millie says. “I love you. Call me if you need me.”
“I will. Love you too,” I say before I hang up.
I really do try to soak in what Millie says. Am I being too harsh on my father because of my own innocence? Do I judge everyone else unfairly? She’s right; I never have done anything wrong. Even as a teenager, I never went through any kind of rebellious stage. I just wanted to follow the rules, get good grades, hang out with my friends, and make my father proud.
I keep looking through the box, and there are tons of pictures of my father with the Coyotes.
I have to admit: after the shock wears off a bit, there’s something appealing about these photos.
I could actually see why my father would choose a life like this. He’d always been brave, always liked adventure.
I used to feel like I had a little bit of that in me, that I’d inherited the same sense of adventure. But lately I haven’t been sure. Every choice I’ve ever made, all the paths I’ve ever taken… they’ve always led me to the safe road.
Like Millie said, I did avoid most things. I did not do anything that could be thought of as bad. And that has mostly been out of some desire to make my father proud, to be the person everyone expected me to be.
Well, I can’t base my life plans off of his desires anymore. So who am I when I’m not what everyone expects me to be?
Or, better question: who can I be?
Could I be like these guys? The ones riding motorcycles, throwing caution to the wind, getting involved in the more dangerous side of life? Do I have that in me?
I’m not sure. I don’t know if that’s possible. I have never pushed myself to the limit, so I don’t even know what the limit is.
But I would like to find out.
Read Her Biker Boys!
About the Author
Veronica Wade is an emerging author of reverse harem romance. This is Veronica’s third book. She hopes you LOVE it because she has a few up her sleeve… if you know what I mean.
Get in touch with her at [email protected]> You can sign up for her mailing list here.
Also by Veronica Wade
Her Biker Boys
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Her Military Mountain Men
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