The sounds of Bon Jovi’s “Ride Cowboy Ride” fill the air.
“That’s your dad,” Harper says. I both hate and love how she knows that I’ve given my dad that Bon Jovi ringtone. It makes it harder to pretend that we’re just sex and nothing else.
I grab my phone from the pile of clothes on the floor and answer. Apparently, it’s my night for crying women.
It’s Lora on the other end. At least, I think it’s Lora. The number’s right, but she’s crying so hard I’m not certain. Could be some random stranger sobbing into my ear.
“Calm the fuck down.” Harper stiffens by my side. Think she’s about to rip me a new one for my lack of manners, but then Lora spits out the words she’s choking on.
“Your dad’s dead.”
* * *
I turn my phone off when I reach the hospital, and I don’t fire it back up for two days. There’s no club business that needs me; Prez knows where I am and that I have personal biz. By the time my old man’s been gone two days, however, I decide it’s time to stop being such a pussy. I turn my phone back on, and watch the screen blow up with messages.
Stupid.
I delete the voice mails straight off. Nothing I need to hear there. The texts are harder. Got plenty from my brothers, reaching out and asking me if I need anything. As if. The practical stuff is harder. I deal with the doctors, the hospital, the funeral home and Lora. Shitload of other people come out of the woodwork, too, needing decisions about this, that and the other thing. And then there’s Harper. She must spend every free moment she has texting me because my phone’s at 317 messages and counting. The 317th is a fucking doozy—she’s been threatening since 246 to track me down and verify for herself that I’m okay. Not that she thinks I am—that’s clear. But that’s what losing your old man does to you. I get through the first night by shacking up with Jack Daniels, mostly because I’m dumb as shit. Each swallow dulls the memories a little more, but it all comes crashing back in the morning with a souvenir killer headache.
I know Harper and I have unresolved shit, but I’m in no mood to talk. Whenever I think about her, something twists inside of me. That call could have been about her. The closer someone gets, the more it fucking burns when they go away. By the time my phone lights up with message 318, I’m feeling really fucking sorry for myself.
HARPER: When’s the funeral? I want to be there for you.
ME: Not necessary.
HARPER: I want to.
Life’s funny—we don’t always get what we want. Santa Claus isn’t real, and he doesn’t give a boo-fucking-hoo about hitting the highlights on Harper’s wish list. I don’t know what’s happening between us right now—other than me avoiding the shit out of her—but I’m telling myself that the only wants I’ve got are sexual. Got a whole list of preferred positions and dirty fantasies she and I haven’t worked out yet. The dirty dangle, doing it accordion style, the electric slide...plenty of shit we haven’t tried. Or we could just redo a few favorites. She fucking mewls like a kitten when I do her hard from behind—I love that, too.
So what the fuck does she think I need from her right now? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. Yeah, come hold my hand because I need...what? We’re just a hookup. Can’t afford to be more. My fingers fly across my phone with a life of their own.
ME: I don’t need a girlfriend.
My stupid, stupid fingers.
Harper doesn’t text me anymore after that.
I don’t bury my old man alone.
My brothers have my back. My dad might not have patched into our club, but he rode and he was mine, and by extension that means he’s theirs. Too many fucking pronouns in that mix, but you feel me. Don’t need their interference in my life, but it feels good to know that they care.
“You ready to do this?” Prez straddles his bike, hands on his thighs. Could be out for just any ride, but for the black bandanna around his upper arm.
“Yeah,” I say, throwing a leg over my own bike. “Time to let him fly.”
He nods slowly. “Okay to hold on, though, if that’s what you want.”
Doesn’t matter what I want so goddamned bad because my old man’s dead. I won’t turn around and find him riding my ass, a grin lighting up his face because he knows he’s got me. Old man loved to get a rise out of me. Might have fought over it, but I loved him.
“Let’s ride.”
“No one else we’re waiting for?”
I make a show of looking around the parking lot. “Entire fucking club’s here. You think I shoulda hired a brass band, too?”
Prez shakes his head. “Your girl not coming?”
“We covered this before. I don’t have a girl.”
Prez grunts. “You ask her to come?”
“None of her business,” I say slowly. “She’s not a biker, doesn’t ride with our club. Got no place for her here.”
Prez looks over at Romeo. “Jesus, he’s stupid.”
Romeo’s nodding hard enough to fall off his bike. “You fuck it up with her?”
“You ever know me to have a long-term relationship?”
“The kind where you fuck the same woman more than twice and wake up in her bed?” Romeo asks me.
“Sure.”
Prez looks me over. “He did.”
“Some shit’s off-limits,” I say. No big surprise that they fucking keep right on talking. My brothers are worse than a
