The ancient Buick was a white ghost on the empty streets of small town USA. Its engine purred like an asthmatic kitten after the near four-hour trip from campus into the suburbs. The familiar sprawl of cookie cutter houses and name brand shopping centers enveloped her. The streets, named after trees or flowers or barely remembered famous people, were well lit and the houses were dark, as it was nearly two in the morning. Somewhere between Poplar and Oak was Dahlia Lane. With a deep sigh Emma took a hard right.
She counted the mailboxes as she passed. She didn’t need to. 209 Dahlia Lane had been her address for eighteen years, and even if she’d somehow forgotten, there were five Harleys parked out front. It was definitely her father’s place. The garage door was open, spilling a long line of golden light across poured concrete.
The grass was green, and three days past needing a mower. A faded gnome had taken residence in an overgrown garden. The neighbors were bound to be traumatized.
Ashland, Oregon was a small speck on the map, tucked between picturesque mountains and less picturesque highways. With a population that had just hit twenty thousand, it was officially a town. There was one high school, two supermarkets, and twenty churches. It was the idyllic place to raise a kid. Or, in her father’s grand estimations, lead a life of crime.
Emma navigated herself into the driveway, courteously empty, and took another deep breath before shutting off the engine.
“You can do this. You can totally do this. You don’t want to, but you can.” She didn’t get out of the car. Suddenly it all seemed like a bad idea. The worst idea.
A hundred memories of her years in the split-level house came rushing back at her. Police officers sitting outside while she tried to ride her brand new Barbie pink bike. Her seventh birthday party when none of her friends would show up because their parents were afraid of letting them go over to the criminal’s house. Her favorite, of course, was when her prom date wouldn’t come to the door because he was too scared of everything he had heard about her dad. He’d ended up leaving without her because her dad had demanded he come to the door.
That was the kind of thing that happened when your dad ran the local chapter for the notorious motorcycle club, The Beasts. It hadn’t been normal, and she’d never call it happy, but it had been her childhood. Emma had wanted to leave it all behind her, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
A sharp knock on the window jolted her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to see the face to know it was one of her father’s men. The leather vest with the stylized dog surrounded by flames was a bit of a giveaway. She tugged the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car.
“Emma?” The voice sounded muted through the glass, but familiar. “That you?”
“Hi, Kellan.”
Of course, It just had to be Kellan, she snipped mentally. Of all the guys who could have come out to check on her, it had to be him. It couldn’t have been grumpy ol’ Vinny, or friendly Leon. She could have handled that, maybe even enjoyed it, but this? She glanced down at her shapeless hoodie and thrift store jeans. The outfit had been perfectly okay for a final exam and a walk through the rain. It was not exactly what Emma wanted to be wearing when Kellan saw her again.
When her prom date had stood her up, it had been Kellan she’d daydreamed about dancing with. An image of poor Marco walking in the rain filled her mind, and the irony of her similar situation was not lost on her.
“Holy shit, you grew up.” The shock was overt, and nearly painful.
The garage light was behind him, blurring all of his features, but Emma didn’t need to see him. She knew what Kellan looked like, from the roots of his raven-black hair to the broad shoulders and long legs.
Kellan had been exactly the kind of boy everyone expected her to end up with because of who her father was, and he’d been exactly the kind of guy her mother told her would give her nothing but trouble. It hadn’t really mattered what anyone said, or thought. She’d developed the kind of crush that a girl could only get when she was young enough to believe Romeo and Juliet was still a love story.
Emma had spent a good part of her teen years admiring the hard line of his jaw, and the perpetual five o’clock shadow there. She could have drawn the scar that went from shoulder to his elbow with her eyes closed. She’d even enjoyed the tattoos that kept popping up on his arms. He’d been plenty grown then, and it looked as if her time in college had just filled him out more.
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms beneath her hoodie, which still had the scent of old rain and a long car trip on it. Wonderful. “Yeah, I did. Listen, I’d really like to just get inside. Okay?”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry. You okay?” He stepped closer, out of the ring of illumination from the garage, and suddenly she could see the misty hazel of his eyes. He was just as handsome as she remembered, all angular features and a deep cleft chin, but there was a new scar across his cheek. It was shaped like a cat’s tail, winding over his jaw, and ending near his chin. It should have taken away from his otherwise perfect appearance. It didn’t.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired and hungry, and I kinda of wanna take a shower and change and maybe have a good yelling match with my dad.”
“Uh…”
Whatever he might have said was interrupted by a baritone woof. Emma’s head turned as a massive dog came barreling out from the garage. He was a thick bodied creature with fur speckled every shade of gray and brown. His dark ears flopped around a solemn-looking face. He looked like a cross between a mastiff and a bulldog and the world’s biggest rat. He was easily the ugliest mutt she had ever laid eyes on.
“Well, hello!” Emma immediately sank down to one knee as the dog snuffled at her in animal curiosity. “Who is this handsome fella?”
“That’s Rocco,” Kellan offered. “He’s…uh…he’s mine.”
She glanced up at him, her golden brow quirking up her forehead. “You named your dog Rocco?”
“Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He looked embarrassed. “I dunno.”
Out of habit she ran her hands over the dog in inspection. He happily flopped over to one side and offered up his round belly. A short stub of a tail wagged so hard he dug a shallow groove in the ground. There were scars along his chin and along his shoulder. She took a long look at them. They were the kind a dog got from fighting. One ear had a tear that had long since healed. Yet, for all that, all of the marks were old and well healed. “He’s well taken care of.” She gave the dog’s muscular side a final pat and he flopped back over.
“He’s a good dog.” Kellan lifted his chin with pride.
“He used to fight,” she said, running one finger over one of the old scars.
“Not anymore,” Kellan offered, kneeling down next to her. His tone was sure. He repeated, “He’s a good dog.”
The scarred biker was close enough for her to feel the heat that rose naturally off of him. It felt nice, nicer than she wanted to admit. The strong line of his shoulder bumped against her arm as he ran a finger beneath Rocco’s chin and gave it a good scratch. It took what little strength of will she had left to keep herself from leaning against him.
Kellan was just the kind of guy women had lusty thoughts for. It wasn’t just that he was attractive, he was definitely that, but there was a certain magnetic something about his presence. He, like Rocco, had the contained power of a fighter beneath an easy-on-the-eyes exterior. Though, for Emma, it wasn’t just that. For all he was cute, he was one of her father’s cronies.
“I’m sure he is, I’m sure he is!” She scratched her way across his muscled flanks, much to the animal’s delight.
“You were always good with mutts.” He chuckled and titled his head towards her. His lips were close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her brow when he continued. “Or cats, even birds. Man, I remember you used to bring every stray home you could find.”
She laughed and shook her head. He sat back on his haunches, and suddenly she could breathe again. A little of her stress eased. “Well, it made up for not having any siblings. At least a little.”
He looked over at her. “You had me.”
“Kellan, you were never my brother.” Thank God.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” His grin was all boyish charm and embarrassment. He bumped his shoulder against hers companionably. “But I get it.”
Their eyes met and she felt that same old crush hit her with all the power of a teenage girl’s heart. Her blood hummed merrily in her veins. Their fingers bumped against one another as they absently stroked animal fur. For a split second she thought she saw his gaze stray to her lips. She almost leaned towards him.
Why shouldn’t she kiss him? It had been a very rough night. Okay, sure, he was one of her father’s men. Yes, he was also a criminal, but he was Kellan, and it wasn’t like he would hurt her. Maybe a quick tumble would help ease all the scary feelings. She sighed. Trying to make light of a bad decision was still a bad decision.
Thankfully the mutt chose that moment to remind her that he wanted enthusiastic petting. She obliged.
“What I mean, though, is that you had all of us. The club, you know?” He was looking back towards the house, rather than at her.
“Yeah,” she said, sure the moment was some kind of fluke of her imagination. Stress did that kind of thing. She glanced down. “I know.”
For all that she loved every kind of animal, Emma had a special soft spot for big ugly mutts, and Rocco was, perhaps, the biggest, ugliest mutt she had ever come across. When she was finished with her inspection, and follow up loving session, he rolled back over onto his paws and sprang to his feet and flopped bodily against her.
“He likes you.”
“Well, I’m easy to like.” She patted a hand on the broad flatness of the canine’s head. “I should probably get inside. I’m sorry, puppy.”
“He’s not a puppy,” Kellan defended, standing up and shoving his hands in his jean pockets.
“Oh, all dogs are puppies, all of them.” She tried to keep her tone light and cheerful, but the memory of what she was doing here came crashing down on her. She squared her shoulders and put her stern face back on. Her father was not going to get away with this. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
Kellan put a hand on her shoulder as she started to walk past him. She could smell metal and dog and dirt on his skin. It shouldn’t have been an interesting mix. She shouldn’t even be thinking that men were interesting so soon after her assault, but it was Kellan, her teenage crush, so she gave herself some nostalgic leeway. The heat from his hand spread down her arm. What was going on with her body tonight?
“Listen, Emma, about that. I get that you’re pissed—”
“Pissed?” Emma demanded. She jerked her shoulder out of his grasp and shook her head hard enough to make her pale ponytail dance. “No, Kellan, I was pissed about two seconds after I was attacked. I was pissed when I had to wash blood off my neck and explain it away to some well-meaning waitress. I was pissed when I realized I had to leave everything behind in my apartment and come crawling back here. I am so very much beyond pissed.”
Rocco glanced back and forth between the two humans, seemingly trying to understand why the fun had stopped. His ears pricked forward in concern of raised voices. He took a faithful step towards Kellan.
The human male moved in front of her with all the liquid grace of a cat. How had she forgotten how quick that big body could be? “I get that, I really do, but please just hold off for a few. Your dad has been through a lot. I mean it.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” Emma snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, it must be so hard being a criminal.”
Kellan spat to one side. His misty eyes took on a hard edge and he jutted his chin out at her. “How would you know? I mean, it’s not like you bother to come around, you don’t call.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“No, but I know what your dad’s been going through. All I’m asking is that you just go easy on him until you hear everything. It isn’t much to ask, is it?”
She shoved passed him. “Whatever.”
It was more like a time capsule than a house. The garage was filled with mechanic’s gear and Christmas ornaments from the ’80s. The side door still had an offset hinge so she had to tug just a little harder to let herself in. Nostalgia hit her like a hammer.
It was just like she remembered. The hallway between the garage and the living room was full of pictures, most of them were of her. It was a timeline of the first eighteen years of her life made of Polaroids, school pictures, and candid photography. Her mother, as blonde and Nordic as Emma, was only in them for the first decade. It wasn’t lost on Emma that there hadn’t been any new photos since she went away to college.
She paused at a particularly large one. There she was, perhaps eleven or twelve, standing next to a blue ribbon science project. She was beaming with pride. Her father stood to the other side of the board, tall enough that he barely fit in the picture. Everything about her father was bigger than life, from his laugh to his appetite, to the way he ordered everyone about like a kind of king.
King isn’t too far off the mark.
The living room, once she got there, was a mess, but that wasn’t a surprise either. Her father had never been a great housekeeper. Every flat surface was decorated with bills, or old newspapers, or paper plates. The only thing she didn’t see was empty beer cans. There wasn’t even the lingering scent of cigarettes in the air. That was strange.
The only alcohol she could see was being held by the inner circle of Beasts members, who were occupying every seat the living room had to offer. That wasn’t strange. She wondered if they had been pulled away from anything more important at two in the morning to answer whatever summons her dad had issued. The only empty spot was her dad’s Lay-Z-Boy. As a little girl she had thought of it as a throne. At twenty-five, she still did.
The gathered faces were familiar, though a few years older, as were the uniform they all wore. Jeans faded to various levels of comfort and white t-shirts all around. Sturdy boots and sturdier belts were nearly all in shades of black. Could you be a big tough biker if you wore brown instead? Vests of leather, or denim depending, completed the ensemble. Emma thought they looked like the ragtag cast members of some criminal television show. There were smiles when they saw her, and offered greetings. Some were warmer than others.
“Emma-girl!” A particularly large man in the harder part of his 50s, with a beard nearly long enough to tuck into his belt, surged to his feet and swept her up into a hearty hug. His smile was a mile wide, and he didn’t even spill his beer when he swung her around. “Shit, sweetie, lookit you!”
“Hi, Uncle Leon,” she managed when her breath wheezed back into her lungs. Despite everything she found herself smiling at him. “How are you?”
He plunked her down and bent just enough that his six-foot-four frame could peer at the wound on her neck. His lips, half hidden by the beard, formed into a paternally disapproving line. “Here I was, ’bout to ask you the same thing. But I got eyes, don’t I? And I can see for myself you’re shaken.” He waited a beat. “And you’re too skinny.”
There was a chorus of masculine laughter and a few well-meaning jokes at her expense. Of all her father’s biker-buddies, Uncle Leon was her favorite. He was tall as an oak and thin as the neck of the beer bottle he held. He had always been there when her father couldn’t, which had been pretty often.
“I’ll be all right.” She patted a hand against his fuzzy cheek.
His frown rearranged itself into a grin. There was a lot less hair on his head than there used to be. She could see dark spots on his brow line that hadn’t been there before. How long had she been gone?
“Damn right you will be.” He wrapped one arm around her and hauled her to his skinny chest.
For a moment she was wrapped up in a safe scent and a familiar friend. Tears, hot and unwanted, rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t hug him back, but her hands stopped making fists. He wrapped his other arm around her and she started to shake. “I don’t know who he was.”
He nodded and stepped back, taking her shoulders in his strong hands. “Hey, we are gonna find out.”
“Hell yes, we are.”
Her father’s voice was as gruff as it had always been, but she heard an unexpected weariness. She hated that. She didn’t want him weary; she wanted him to be the same gruff, no-nonsense, distant man he’d always been. The one she’d fought with a hundred times.
“Why are people attacking me if—”
The angry words got stuck in her throat when she whirled around. Emma had to look down to see her father, which may very well have been a first. The wheelchair that held him squeaked as he maneuvered in front of her. After a moment of shock passed she managed to see the oxygen tank hanging from a storage bag attached to the handles in back.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “What happened?”
He looked like a shriveled version of himself. His hair was gone. The skin was too tight over his forehead, and not tight enough near his mouth. A breathing tube wound its way over his body, which used to sport a hefty belly, but not anymore. His vest, leather so comfortably worn it hung like silk, sported a thumb-sized patch that read simply President, and beneath that was another that read First 7.
“How did this semester go?” Mac Ketchum asked it like any father might ask his daughter about her college studies. Which would have been fine if they were just any father and daughter. He settled his elbows on the armrests, straightened as much as his body would let him. Pain tightened his hazel eyes. If anyone else saw it, they didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to hear him say the word cancer, it was written all over him. Two years ago a desperate family brought an old basset hound into Dr. Oswald’s place. The sour scent of chemotherapy was something a body never forgot. Her father reeked of it. His head and face were bald and shinning, and his jowls were sagging loosely to his chin.
“Answer me,” she demanded anyway. Emma crossed her arms over her chest, but it did nothing to ease the angry and cold ache that had suddenly swelled up there. This couldn’t be her father. Emma’s father was as big as life and twice as strong. He wasn’t this old man. “What happened?”
“Cancer,” Kellan called from the far side of the room. He shoved a hand through his dark hair and shook his head as Rocco thumped through the room, stopping to sniff at everyone. “Lung cancer.”
“All those cigarettes finally did me in.” Mac Ketchum tried to laugh, but it ended in a sickly cough. The ache in her chest became a pain.
After a moment Kellan sauntered across the room like a big leather and denim cat, and plopped himself down into her father’s old leather Lay-Z-Boy. He lounged against the worn brown leather with the ease and comfort of someone who sat there a lot. Rocco jumped up after him, finding a way to lie across Kellan’ long body. Both of them settled their eyes on her.
That struck her as odd. Her father had always been particular about who sat in his chair. She heard the squeak of the wheelchair and thought maybe he had a new chair now. Emma felt sick to her stomach and her feelings took on a complicated edge. “How long have you known?” she demanded.
Her father didn’t quite meet her eyes. “A while.”
She didn’t want to ask the next question that came to mind. She wanted to be angry with him, to snap at him, to demand answers to all of the fear she’d been dealing with the past few hours, but her mouth betrayed her. “How…how long?”
He didn’t answer for a while. “Emma, I will answer all of that, but we have other things to discuss.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream that there was nothing more important than knowing about his health, but she couldn’t quite bring the words to her lips. She sank onto the couch, taking the place Leon had sprung from. The worn fabric sagged beneath her. She looked around the all too familiar living room and felt more loss than she had ever known. She glanced at her father, sitting in a wheelchair, his audible breathing the loudest sound in the room.
“Emma-girl.” Uncle Leon’s voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what happened.”
He tucked a cold can of soda into her hand. She didn’t drink it, but holding it helped. She told them everything she could remember. How she was on her way home from the vet clinic. From the run-in with Marco, to the attack, to stopping at a diner to call her father. Emma had assumed she would cry when she talked about it, or at least get a little loud. She didn’t. She spilled it all with the emotionless distance of a shock victim.
“So?” she demanded at the end of it. “What’s going on?”
“Most of it’s club business,” her father started.
Anger swelled up inside of her, burning away the cold and empty feeling. Her head was beginning to ache with all the different emotions experienced in such a short amount of time. “Are you kidding me?”
“Emma, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We gotta know.”
Emma wasn’t sure which of her father’s men spoke, she didn’t care. This entire day had been too much and she certainly wasn’t going to listen to some guy’s crap about how hard she was making things. “I didn’t make anything hard.” She got to her feet. Her hands became fists so tight that she felt the ends of her short nails bite into her own palms. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much. I was going to college, stressing out over classes and planning for my future. Normal stuff. I was just minding my own business and daydreaming about lasagna when someone attacked me!” She hated that her voice was growing shriller with every word that was coming out.
“Emma,” he father’s voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it, “I’m sorry.”
She was stunned into momentary silence. It was then that Emma knew something was very wrong. Mac Ketchum did not apologize, not to anyone or for anything. He was the leader of The Beasts and as such his word was law, or at least whatever passed for law in a motorcycle club. He hadn’t apologized when he missed her first science fair, or when their dog died, or even when her mother left. How bad had things gotten?
“What’s going on?”
“For your own safety, I can’t tell you everything.” Her father held up one hand when Emma opened her mouth to argue with him. The skin on his palm was so thin and sickly she could see his veins. “But I can tell you I never expected you to be hurt. If I had thought for one moment you would be, I would have called or something.”
“Or something?”
“Hell, Emma, I don’t know. You made it pretty clear when you left here that you didn’t wanna be a part of my life. I thought I was, you know, respecting that.”
It was true and everyone knew it. Emma had already been packed the day she graduated, boxes piled into her crappy four-door even as she pulled on her cap and gown. With her acceptance letter in one hand and what little money she had managed to scrounge together from part-time jobs in the other, she had driven off into the sunset while everyone else had been celebrating finishing high school.
“Fine,” she said. “All right, fine, but you should have told me when this happened. When you were…diagnosed.”
He laughed, but it was a humorless sound. “Yeah, sure, and what would you have done? Rushed home to help the dad who was never there for you? Dropped all your studies for the jerk who couldn’t be bothered to show up for you? Yeah, I don’t think so. You were staying away and making something of yourself. I sure as hell wasn’t going to interrupt.”
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
“The hell it wasn’t,” Kellan put in. He swung his legs down, disrupting the dog in his lap. “We all made that choice. You were gone and you were doing the best thing you could do.”
Emma shook her head again, but she chose not to say anything. What was there to say to that? They were right. She had left. She had severed ties with them, this whole town and all of the people in it. At the time it had seemed like the best idea. What had been here for her? Nothing, that’s what. Maybe she had been wrong.
“Yeah,” she said slowly, “I guess so. I just…I don’t like that I didn’t know anything. I mean, I still don’t know much. What’s going on? Why me?”
Kellan and Mac exchanged a look. A long conversation was held in that single exchange and Emma felt like an intruder. She had always felt like an outsider where the two of them were concerned. Then again, how could she compete with the son her dad had always wanted?
“Emma, how much do you know about the club?” Mac asked.
Emma blew out a breath. It was an odd question, but she felt a need to answer it. “Not much…too much. I don’t know. I mean, I know other parents were terrified of letting any of my friends come over. Boys who wouldn’t date me because of my ‘badass’ dad.” She rolled her eyes.
Kellan chuckled. “You dated pussies.”
“At least they weren’t criminals,” she shot back.
He leveled a smile at her. “Maybe you needed a little more criminal in your life.”
She rolled her eyes, wondering how she could have ever thought he was going to kiss her. Had that really only been twenty minutes ago? “I had quite enough of that in my life, thank you very much.”
Mac broke in. “Yeah, I know it wasn’t easy for you. I didn’t mean to make life hard, you know.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.” She tugged her legs to her chest and sighed.
“I wish I could say that it was gonna get easier.” Her father hung his head in an act of shame that she had never seen him display.
How bad was this going to be? Apologies? Shame? Understanding? These were traits she had never known her father to display. What had happened in the past few years to make him so unlike the gruff and distant man she remembered? She glanced at the chair and the tubes of oxygen going to his nose.
“What’s happened?” she finally asked.
Leon cleared his throat and sat forward, speaking for the first time since she started her story. “We are pretty sure the guy who attacked you was one of Gabriel’s men.”
“Gabriel?” she asked. She searched her memories for the mention of the name, she couldn’t recall it. “Who is Gabriel?”
“Drug cartel sicario with dreams of being a lieutenant,” Kellan offered. “Second generation Cuban American, claims he’s got family up in the big leagues. Was well on his way to being taken seriously before—”
“Shut your mouth,” Mac snapped. “She doesn’t need to know everything.”
A sicario was a lieutenant in the cartel’s chain of command. Emma racked her brain to remember what little she knew about loosely organized crime. Sicarios usually lorded over a particular area, and had some men beneath them to carry out orders and get their hands dirty. It was like a chapter president, making him toe-to-toe with her dad.
Emma flopped against the back of the couch hard enough to make it shudder. It was a petulant move, and she knew it. But it was two in the morning and her world was upside down, she had earned the right to a little petulance. “Yeah, because keeping me in the dark helped a lot.”
“Girl’s got a point,” another of the group responded. She didn’t look up, but she was pretty sure it was big grumpy Vinny.
There was a silent council meeting to which Emma was excluded. She let them have it. It gave her enough time to pull her brain back together. A glance at her cell phone told her she had no calls and it was a little after three. While she’d spent plenty of nights seeing the sun come up during finals, she was beginning to sag.
“Emma?” Uncle Leon’s voice called her back. “You need to go lie down, sweetie?”
“No,” she said, “not yet. Not until everything is said and done.”
“Vinny over here was asking you if you could describe your attacker.” Kellan prompted. He was watching her closely, with a small amount of concern.
For a moment she was a teenage girl again and her belly was doing flip-flops. She shook it off. She needed sleep. Her brain wouldn’t be feeding her all these alternating feelings if she got a good eight hours of sleep. “I dunno. I guess.” She sat up in her seat. She must have dozed off since everyone had moved around. “I really don’t know. I remember he was tall, he smelled like cheap liquor and cheaper cigarettes. Wait…he had tattoos.”
She could almost feel the attention sharpen. It was like being caught in a spotlight. Eyes in every available hue turned in her direction and focused. She squirmed. Right now she did not want that attention.
“Better than fingerprints,” Kellan snorted. “What of?”
“Catholic symbolism stuff. Angels and the Virgin Mary.” She shrugged. Her ponytail suddenly felt too tight. With a careless gesture she tugged it free and let her hair tumble down. Her nails scratched listlessly over her scalp. The ache in her head was slowly turning into a migraine. She was so tired. “Pretty similar to what a lot of pious gangsters have.”
“The Virgin, was she done in black and white, or colors?” Mac asked. He navigated his chair forward, stopping right in front of her.
“Black and white,” she explained. Her hand swept over her drooping eyes. “All his tattoos were grayscale.”
“Michael,” the men chorused.
“Michael? Like Gabriel and Michael? Biblical? Really?” Emma rolled her eyes, feeling a fresh wave of weary frustration. “That’s…wow. That’s so not awesome.”
“Pretty sure some of his men have tattoos, but I don’t think he’d trust this kind of attack to one of his lesser guys. It was personal.” Leon offered.
“No shit,” Mac snorted. “He went after my fucking daughter. It’s personal. It’s—” His words were swallowed up in a coughing fit. It wasn’t the dry cough of someone who was getting over an illness, but the wet, hacking of a body trying to rid itself of something horrible. His shoulders shook, and the chair squeaked with every jerk of his body. “Gentlemen,” he croaked out, “I appreciate you coming over, but I’d like to speak with my daughter now.”
It was an order, no matter how weakly stated, and everyone knew it. As a unit they got up and tossed their beers into the recycling bin. The clatter of glass on plastic echoed hollowly.
One by one her father’s friends said their goodbyes. There were hugs, and kisses, and promises to keep her safe. She responded, but she didn’t really hear them. The effort to get through the evening had sunk well into her bones and taken away what little energy she had left.
“You take extra good care of yourself, Emma-girl.”
“I’ll try, Uncle Leon.”
“Kellan,” Mac said, “I’d like you to stick around.”
Kellan, who, like a good solider, was following all the others out the garage door, stopped in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder, looking concerned. Suddenly she saw that the patch on his vest read Vice President. She frowned. That was what Leon’s used to say. When had that switch happened? What had she missed?
“Rocco and I could crash at Leon’s, no big,” Kellan offered. “Or even go back to our own place; it’s been a while since I actually slept in my own bed.”
“This is your home, at least for now,” Mac said, shaking his bald head. “And I gotta lot to say, some of it concerns you.”
“I didn’t move back in permanently, Mac. Just helping out.” Kellan hesitated by the door to the garage. The light from outside cased a long shadow across the floor.
It should have been a surprise that he was living here, but it wasn’t. Her father hadn’t called her when he got sick; he had turned to Kellan. Why wouldn’t he? Kellan was the son Mac Ketchum had always wanted. A dutiful son to follow in his boot steps. She had never been willing to be the kind of daughter he wanted. They were both stubborn.
“You have been here two years, I don’t care if you are still paying mortgage at your other place. I’m not kicking you out tonight. So sit down, shut up.”
“If you’re sure.” Kellan dragged a hand down his face, clearly not wanting to argue. Emma couldn’t blame him.
She wasn’t sure she was okay with it, but no one bothered to ask her. No one ever did.