Patient. Rachel is always patient. Not a day goes by I don’t count my blessings that she and Ariel are in my life. Before the pancakes can burn, I race back over, use the spatula to slip them onto a plate and then set the plate on the kitchen table.
Footsteps echo along the hallway that leads to the front of the house, and I look up in time to see Rachel turn the corner. When I first met Rachel fourteen years ago, I thought I would never see anything as beautiful. I was wrong. Yes, Rachel was a dream at seventeen, but she’s redefined beauty in her thirties.
Her blond hair is thicker, more golden, and she’s filled out. Since Ariel’s birth, there are more curves to her body, and I worship each and every one. She’s in her work clothes of jeans and a nice button-down shirt. Her hair is pulled up into a ponytail and the ends are curled.
Rachel manages the business side of our automotive shop and occasionally still works on cars. I’m in charge of the shop, making the schedule, handling the customers and managing our employees. One of my favorite parts of the day is when she leaves her desk, shares a sandwich with me for lunch and then helps me out with a car. Rachel has always been and remains magic.
My angel pauses at the table and takes in the sight. I’ve made pancakes, sausage, bacon, toast, cut-up watermelon and two types of juice. Her eyebrows disappear beyond her bangs. “You remember Ariel’s five, and that lately her favorite food is air?”
“It’s her first day of school.” Of Kindergarten. “I want her to have a good start.”
Rachel eyes me warily. “At the end of the day, they give her back. We’re not sending her off for the year. It’s a lot like preschool, but she goes all day instead of half-day? And they’ll give her a lunch break. The state’s pretty adamant about the whole five-year-olds eating thing.”
“She’s my baby.”
“She’s a big girl at five and is going to be fine.”
A wave of uneasiness floods my system. Memories of my own school days haunt me. The boy who never had clean clothes. The boy who never had a stable home. The boy who didn’t have many friends.
As if sensing my unease, Rachel crosses the kitchen and places her hand over my heart, where two of the many tattoos on my body that represent my wife and daughter are inked. The tattoos she’s currently touching are of two sets of wings for my two angels—Rachel and Ariel.
I set my hand over hers, and her gorgeous blue eyes bore into mine. “She’s loved, Isaiah. Ariel’s going to be okay. She’s going to have good days and she’s going to have bad days, and whichever one she has today, she’s going to come back to this house and be loved.”
So far, Ariel’s life hasn’t been anything like mine. She has two doting parents, a home, and she is loved. Loved not only by me, but by Rachel’s brothers, Rachel’s parents, my family I hadn’t found until after I graduated from high school, and the expanded set of nonblood uncles and aunts Rachel and I have become friends with along the way.
Rachel reaches up and kisses my lips, and what I know was meant to be a swift embrace to calm my demons turns into something more as I weave my arms around her. One hand skims along her back, the other cups her face, and I tilt her head and deepen the kiss. Doesn’t take long for my blood to run warm. Doesn’t take much for me to get lost in my bride.
My body shifts to the side as something solid hits my leg, and when I look down, I’m met by gray eyes identical to my own and a head full of blond curls. I smile, because she’s dressed herself. Purple shirt with a glittery black cat on it, black leggings, a pink tutu and cowboy boots. She’s a ball of fire and a combination of everything good about me and Rachel.
She grins up at me, proud of her fashion choices, proud we let her dress herself, proud I’m her father—as if I’m the man who pulls the sun up in the morning and hangs the moon at night. “Hi, Daddy.”
Daddy. The title hits me each and every time straight in the heart—in a good way. In the best way. Rachel kisses my cheek before walking away. In less than a heartbeat, I scoop up my daughter and a peace descends upon me when her arms wrap around my neck.
I start for the table and just as I lean down to put her in her chair, I tickle her side and she breaks out into giggles. Ariel spots the pancakes and hops onto her knees so she can reach over for more than she’ll eat.
Rachel takes her seat at our small round breakfast table, and I take mine. We smile at each other then at our daughter, who pours too much syrup on her overly large stack of pancakes, and we listen to her chatter about first days, tying her own shoes and how she wants a puppy.
Rachel and I aren’t the only parents parking their cars to walk their children into school. Cars of all makes and models fill the lot, and I choose a spot in the back. First day of school is driving me slowly insane—and I survived foster care. If I’m feeling this way, then so are the other parents and I won’t have their nerves wrecking my car.
Owning a car shop that not only repairs cars but remodels and restores them, Rachel and I have several cars, most of which we fixed up together. This car is Ariel’s favorite—a 2004 Mustang SVT Cobra Supercharger. As we pull up, the engine growls because it’s technically not street legal with the cutouts Rachel and I installed, but it did fine for the five miles of my smallest angel’s first ride to school.
I turn off the car, slide out and grab Ariel’s race car backpack, which has pink ribbons tied to the handle. Rachel unhooks Ariel from her car seat in the back and she springs out of the car, bright eyed and full of energy for the day. Maybe the extra syrup wasn’t a good idea.
She holds Rachel’s hand, and I don’t believe Ariel takes a breath as she talks about who she hopes will be in her class, how she hopes she gets to take the class guinea pig she learned about at orientation home first and that maybe she should have worn her tap shoes.
Rachel laughs at the last part, and I crack a grin. Tap shoes in school. Rachel and I would have been called into the principal’s office on the first day. That probably would have been a record. But because my daughter is precocious, I do a quick check of her backpack to make sure she didn’t drop in her tap shoes as a back-up pair for later.
I don’t find them, but I do find the ballet slippers and I leave those in there. Don’t see the harm in them, but then again, I’m probably not the best judge.
At the entrance, several school officials greet parents and students with big smiles. They’re explaining how, for school security, this is as far as the parents can go. We heard about this at orientation, and we respect it, but there’s a part of me that would feel better if I could see my daughter in her seat instead of just setting her free into the building.
“Isaiah,” Rachel says. “Watch Ariel while I pick up her transportation stickers.”
They’re stickers they’ll put on Ariel’s backpack and back, along with a plastic bracelet they’ll put around her wrist that informs anyone looking how she’s heading home and who will be picking her up. Better believe I’ll be out here waiting for my baby when the clock strikes three forty-five. I’ll give the school a few minutes grace, but I better see that smile soon after the bell rings.
Ariel finds a friend from preschool and the two talk. Or if I’m being honest, Ariel talks and the other girl listens. My daughter could talk fleas off a dog, has never met a stranger, and I admire her love of life. God help anyone who ever tries to snuff that light out.
I glance around, and it’s a familiar scene. Staring at me like I don’t belong are a few parents in suits for their corporate work life or stay-at-home moms with a boxed in view of what a dad should be. Whispering to one another as they glare at me, because in their mind, talking about me in hushed tones is somehow polite. With sleeves of tattoos on both arms, earrings in my ears, a T-shirt, jeans and steel-toed boots for work, I’m not their definition of a parent.
I’m well-schooled on judgmental stares and gave up caring about anyone else’s opinion of me years ago. What they don’t know is that Rachel and I make more money than five of these well-off families combi
ned. What they don’t know, because we chose to remain anonymous, is that the new playground the school unveiled on orientation day was thanks to me, my wife and our friends, because our friends are doing just as well in their jobs as Rachel and I.
I don’t care what the other parents think of me, but I do care how they treat my daughter. Because of that, I keep my mouth shut and focus only on Ariel.
Rachel returns, calls Ariel over, and Ariel is a constant jumping jack as Rachel places the stickers on her backpack and back and slides the bracelet on her wrist. My daughter’s eyes are trained on the school and on her next new adventure.
“Okay,” Rachel says and plants a fast kiss on her forehead. “You listen to your teacher, have a good day, and your daddy and I will be right here to take you home after school. We love you.”
“Okay,” Ariel replies, and she bolts for the front door.
“Ariel,” I call out, and hold her backpack out to her. She blinks as she looks at me as if wondering why I said her name and then recognition dawns on her face.
She runs back at full throttle, and as I lower her pack so she can grab it, she runs right past it and into me. My heart stutters as I crouch and accept her hug.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispers in my ear, and then gives me a kiss on my cheek. She pulls back and all I see is that love. Yes, she’s loved and I’m loved in return.
“You forgot your backpack,” I say, and she smiles as she realizes that’s why I called her back. “Have a good day, baby girl. I love you.”
“You, too.” And then she’s gone, past the double doors, and after she greets her teacher on the other side, she turns back to wave at us.
I wave, Rachel waves and then I wrap my arm around my wife’s shoulder. She leans into me, and I kiss her temple.
“We did something right in this world,” Rachel says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “We did.”
The First Loves Collection:
The First Meeting
Nowhere but Here, the first book in the Thunder Road series, is the story of Emily, a girl who is forced to spend the summer with her biological father, the head of a motorcycle club, and Oz, a soon-to-be member of the club. When a rival club places Emily in danger, Oz is assigned to help protect her. They spend the summer getting to know each other, falling in love and figuring out the secrets of Emily’s parents’ past.
My original idea for the Thunder Road series involved Eli and Meg, Emily’s biological parents. But once I played Eli and Meg’s story out in my head, I realized that it would end in a sad place. Being a happily-ever-after type of girl, I decided to take a different look at Eli and Meg’s story and tell it through the eyes of their daughter.
After reading Nowhere but Here many, many readers contacted me, asking for Eli’s story. This may not be his full story, but I thought my readers would enjoy seeing how Eli and Meg met.
Chapter 9
Eli
Assholes. The world is filled with them, and unfortunately my hometown of Snowflake, Kentucky, has more than its share. Not fair when we’re one of the least-populated counties in the state, but I guess even assholes need a capital. Of course, there are some girls who would throw me into that category, and I probably deserve the label.
But I’m not a grade-A asshole. I’m just the garden-variety type that rides a motorcycle, falls asleep in class, says too many curse words at the wrong time, and has a father who is the head of a motorcycle club.
What I do that other assholes in this town don’t do? Treat girls with respect. If I ever talked badly to a girl, my mother would cut off my balls with a dull kitchen knife and that’s not hyperbole. My mother is as badass as they come.
And if I ever touched a girl without permission? My father would end my life. Don’t get me wrong, my parents love me, but they expect me to be a human being—to be a man. There are lines, and I’m expected to know them, see them and never cross.
The problem with all that tonight? I’m being me, and doing what I need to be doing, and the clean-cut looking asshole guys, the ones from the rich side of town whose daddies have too much money, are doing what they normally do with a girl who is new to town and isn’t aware that these are the type of guys no one should be around.
It’s Friday night, halfway through October, and we’re in an abandoned field a few miles from town. There are two bonfires going at the party, and there’s an unwritten rule about who hangs at which one. The bonfire my best friend started crackles, pops and warms my cold hands. The air temperature has dropped, and the ride over here on my motorcycle was a lot cooler than I thought it would be. I love riding my bike, love the wind in my face, but I should have worn gloves. Frozen hands suck.
The bonfire I’m near is for people associated with the Reign of Terror and for those who are tired of being ridiculed by anyone who thinks they own our school. The other bonfire is for the people doing the ridiculing.
“You okay?” My best friend’s girlfriend, Rebecca, comes up beside me and sits on the tailgate of a friend’s truck. “Charlie’s been trying to get your attention.”
I glance over to the right, and sure enough, Charlie is standing there with the other guys from school who don’t automatically think anyone associated with the Terror are murderers. Charlie has a football in his hands and he spins it as he raises his eyebrows. He’s asking if I want to play by the light of the moon and the bonfire. I shake my head no, as I can’t be distracted. There’s a situation I’ve got to watch. A dove has wandered off to the wrong bonfire.
The girl is new to town, and by looks, she probably thinks she’s made the right call by standing near the fire with the preppy-clothes-wearing, sticks-up-their asses sacks of shit, but she is wrong. We would have been the better choice.
“You don’t want to play football?” Rebecca says. “Then something has to be terribly wrong, so spill.”
Rebecca, Charlie and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Charlie and Rebecca have been a couple since before they graduated from high school. They’re older than me, but not by much, and Charlie is already patched-in to the club. They call him Man ‘O War, but to me, he’s Charlie. The moment I graduate from high school this spring and turn eighteen, I’m joining the Reign of Terror MC. Then Charlie and I won’t just be best friends, but brothers.
Charlie could hang out at the clubhouse if he wanted, but because I can’t due to my age, he chooses to hang with me. I gotta love him for that.
Across the field, the new girl stands next to the fire and stares into it like she’s lost. I don’t know who she came with, and don’t know how she’s getting home. Honestly, besides the fact that she moved to Snowflake this week, started at our school, is in my English and math classes, and has blond hair, blue eyes and a body made for sin, I don’t know much about her. Name included.
What I do know is that the guy chatting her up is bad news. Very bad news. He’s not the type to ask for permission. He’s the type that needs to be six feet under or locked in a jail cell for life. “What do you know about the new girl?”
Rebecca side-eyes me. “Leave her alone. She’s new, she’s quiet and the last thing she needs is you hitting on her.”
“When did you become my block?”
“Since you started kissing girls,” she answers like she’s bored. “Go hit on the girls who want to be kissed. Linda Glade has been staring at you all night like you’re an entrée on a menu.”
I turn my head in Linda’s direction. She smiles. I nod back. That I will keep in mind. But later. “I’m not going to hit on the new girl.”
I want to ask her if anyone has warned the new girl off Ron yet. I don’t, because the mention of Ron makes Rebecca nauseous. He cornered her once, and it was a mistake. While he didn’t get far, it was far enough to freak Rebecca out, and far enough that Charlie beat the hell out of the bastard. But that’s the thing about bastards like Ron—they don’t learn.
“What’s your take on the new girl?” I’m fishing to see if they’
ve spoken. Fishing to see if I need to keep an eye on her for the rest of the night.
“She’s not exactly friendly. I tried talking to her the first time she came to the diner. I was working, gave her free pie, and she sort of blew me off.”
“Sort of?”
“She was pleasant to me until Charlie swung by to pick me up on his motorcycle. She asked if he was part of the MC in town, and I said yes, then Meg made up some excuse to leave, and when she sees me now, she walks the other way. While I don’t have physical evidence, I’m betting she has some very wrong preconceived ideas about motorcycle clubs. Which is fantastic, because that’s all this town needs—one more hater.”
All Rebecca says is true, but I don’t focus on that. Instead, I try to think of a way to work Meg’s name into the conversation because I want to hear how it rolls off my lips. Meg. Her name is Meg.
“Izzy,” Charlie calls out, using his nickname for Rebecca. “Are you playing?”
“Damn straight I am.” Rebecca smacks my arm. “Come play with us. My team is lacking talent, and I seriously want to beat Charlie. If he wins, he gloats, and I want to punch him in the nose when he gloats.”
I chuckle. “Maybe later.”
“Whatever, but I meant what I said. Stay away from Meg. Besides the fact she’s quiet and she obviously doesn’t like MCs, I get the feeling she’s here to heal from something. So if you want to kiss a girl, kiss somebody else.”
“If she dissed you, then why are you defending her?”
Rebecca slips off the tailgate and shoves her hands into her front pockets. Her shoulders hunch, and she loses some of the color in her face. There’s an ache in my chest for her. Rebecca and I are close because Rebecca’s dad is Satan, and she spends a lot of time at my house to hide from him. That look she has on her face is the same one she gets after the two of them have a rough run-in. “I understand ghosts.”
The Novella Collection: A series of short stories for the Pushing the Limits series, Thunder Road series, and Only a Breath Apart Page 4