Chapter Thirty-Five
Rowen
I wasn’t shocked or surprised when Sinclair slid into the co-pilot seat of the plane.
The flight was especially full this morning; not only was Sinclair beside me, but Dante and Dr. Roxanne Franks were also aboard, each settling into their seats and preparing for the journey ahead, while Melissa occupied Danika with coloring books and crayons.
The hum of anticipation mingled with the quiet buzz of the aircraft as I prepared for takeoff.
“Silas will be meeting us at the airport,” Sinclair absently said, but I ignored him and continued with my checklist. I adjusted my headset, glancing at Sinclair out of the corner of my eye.
His presence was a silent annoyance amid the chaos of checklists and pre-flight procedures, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee—a nervous habit I’d noticed only when he flew.
Outside, the tarmac shimmered in the early morning light, but inside the small cockpit, the air felt thick with unspoken words and warnings.
As the engines whined to life, the familiar vibrations of the plane filled the cabin, signaling the start of our journey.
I turned in my seat, seeking out Melissa among the passengers.
Our eyes met, and she offered a small, encouraging nod.
That simple gesture brought a smile to my face, easing the tension lingering from last night.
The weight of our confessions and the intensity of what Melissa and I had shared still hung in the air between us, woven into every glance and every subtle brush of fabric.
The memory of our connection echoed quietly, a reminder of the vulnerability and trust that now bound us together.
As I taxied the plane down the runway, my focus shifted to the task at hand.
The hum of the engines grew louder, blending with the anticipation of flight.
Sinclair sat beside me, his hand gripping the armrest tightly, knuckles whitening with every acceleration.
When the plane finally lifted into the sky, leaving the earth behind, a quiet resolve settled over the cockpit as I clearly saw Sinclair close his eyes, pinch the bridge of his nose, and sigh. “You can’t ignore me forever, Rowen.”
That was where he was wrong.
I could ignore him forever if he would be so kind and do the world a favor and die. But knowing I wasn’t that fucking lucky, I stayed silent. The fact was, I had nothing to say to the man.
Was I being a little petulant? Absolutely.
Did I care? Absolutely not.
“You can’t be angry at me for doing as you requested.”
I didn’t respond, and instead gazed out the small window, watching clouds drift past as we climbed higher.
The cockpit, usually a place of calm focus, felt taut and charged, every instrument light reflecting the tension between us.
I kept my eyes straight ahead, hands steady on the yoke, determined not to let him rattle me.
After a few minutes, he spoke again, softer this time.
“Rowen, we’re all in this together. Whether you like it or not.
” His words floated in the close air, but I didn’t waver.
The engine’s steady drone was a welcome distraction, drowning out the noise of old wounds and grudges.
I focused on the horizon and the promise of what lay ahead, refusing to let Sinclair drag me back into the past.
The cockpit door opened. “Everything okay in here?”
Sinclair grumbled, getting up from his seat. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“And why would I do that?” Melissa challenged. “It seems his position on the matter was rather clear.”
I didn’t turn around. Melissa’s voice was steady, but her presence shifted the atmosphere in the cockpit.
Sinclair brushed past with a huff, leaving a lingering resentment in the space he’d vacated.
I kept my eyes on the instruments, determined not to let the interruption rattle me.
Through the window, the sky stretched wide and blue, a silent promise of distance from everything I wanted to leave behind.
Her gentle hand rested on the back of my seat.
“Rowen?” There was concern there, but I refused to acknowledge it just yet.
The routine of flight—gauges, dials, steady breath—was my shield.
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing at my chest. Maybe, up here above the clouds, I could find space to breathe, if only for a little while.
As soon as we turned into Sinclair’s Chicago residence, the scene was impossible to ignore.
Three motorcycles were parked right on the manicured lawn, a clear violation of Sinclair’s unwavering standards for order and presentation.
The grass, usually trimmed to perfection, seemed almost offended by the intrusion of rubber and chrome.
On the front porch, Silas sat with his elbows on his knees, watching the spectacle and shaking his head in quiet disbelief.
His message was clear: whatever awaited inside was already in motion.
Stepping out of the SUV, the sounds of heated yelling from inside the house reached my ears. Sinclair, standing beside me, growled under his breath but remained silent, his frustration palpable.
Suddenly, Danika’s excited voice rose above the commotion. “Papa here!” she squealed, squirming to break free from Dante’s arms. As Dante set his daughter down, I watched my niece dash eagerly toward the front door, just as it swung open and Sypher emerged, a broad smile on his face.
“Baby girl!” Sypher called out, scooping Danika into his arms and showering her with kisses, her giggles ringing with joy.
Dante approached, placing a kiss on his husband’s cheek, while Roxy embraced her youngest son.
Beside me, Melissa reached for my hand, her grip reassuring and firm as we took in the scene.
Amidst the reunion, I heard her quiet declaration. “My brother is here.”
“How do you know?”
She looked toward one of the parked motorcycles and pointed. “That’s his bike.”
As if on cue, a formidable biker stepped out, his imposing frame and stern gaze fixed in our direction, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, a striking woman appeared, her annoyance evident in the way she slapped his chest and muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t quite make out.
Without hesitation, she turned and strode toward us, calling out, “Missy!”
Before I could react, the woman closed the distance and pulled Melissa into a tight embrace. Melissa’s brother watched from the steps, his gaze unwavering and directed at me, my hand still intertwined with Melissa’s.
Melissa introduced us. “Rowen, this is my best friend, Dr. Haizley Walker.”
I released Melissa’s hand and extended my greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Dr. Walker offered a smirk in return. “Same,” she replied, her tone light but with a hint of warning. She gestured with her thumb toward the large man still standing on the steps. “Though I’m almost positive you won’t like meeting him. He’s in a mood.”
Melissa let out a breath. “When isn’t he?” she muttered, exasperation clear in her voice.
“He knows, Missy,” Dr. Walker said, her tone more serious. “Dante texted Sypher, who then told Gunner. He’s not happy.”
Melissa’s frustration grew. “How the hell does Dante know? You know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a damn if Gunner is happy or not. He has no say.”
Dr. Walker added quietly, “He came here to bring you home, Missy.”
Brushing past Dr. Walker, Melissa headed straight for the intimidating man, cursing under her breath, and left me standing with her best friend. Dr. Walker offered a wry smile. “So much for the happy reunion.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the brewing conflict. “Should I go over there?” I asked quietly, uncertain whether my involvement would help or make things worse.
Dr. Walker shook her head, a knowing look in her eyes. “No. I’ve learned that when it comes to the Jefferson siblings, it’s best to let them work it out on their own.” Her tone was firm, as though this was a lesson hard-earned through experience.
I opened my mouth to respond, but the scene shifted abruptly.
Across the yard, Tank—Sinclair’s son—suddenly stepped forward and landed a hard punch to his father’s gut.
“Asshole!” Tank shouted, his voice echoing with raw anger.
Sinclair doubled over, clutching his stomach, his eyes flashing with both pain and disbelief.
Melissa jabbed her finger into her brother’s chest, her voice sharp as she laid into him with barely restrained fury.
Sypher, meanwhile, had Dante pinned against the brick wall—both so absorbed in their reunion they seemed oblivious to the tension crackling around them.
On the porch, Silas lounged with his arms crossed, grinning at the chaos that was unfolding.
Suddenly, a piercing whistle sliced through the commotion, freezing everyone in place.
Heads snapped toward Dr. Roxanne Franks as she appeared at the top of the front steps, her granddaughter perched on her hip, eyes blazing with righteous anger.
“Were you all raised in a damn barn?” Dr. Franks boomed, her voice echoing across the yard. “Danny Josiah Franks, I taught you better. Take your man upstairs—no one needs to see your tallywhackers!”
Sypher’s eyes widened in horror, a flush crawling up his neck as he stammered, “MOM!” He darted a mortified glance at Dante, who smothered his laughter behind a hand, shoulders shaking with silent amusement.
For a heartbeat, Sypher hesitated, caught between indignation and the undeniable urge to escape his mother’s wrath.
Finally, he grabbed Dante’s arm, muttering under his breath, and the two beat a hasty retreat toward the house, casting sheepish glances backward before disappearing inside.
Silas couldn’t help himself—a snicker slipped out, earning him a swift, practiced smack to the back of his head from Dr. Franks. “You think this shit’s funny, young man?” she barked, fixing him with a glare that could scorch paint.
Rubbing the spot, Silas’ grin vanished. He straightened, feigning all the innocence he could muster. “No, ma’am.” Inside, though, I knew he relished the drama—this was better than cable TV.
“Good,” she huffed, passing Danika into his arms. “Take my grandbaby inside. She doesn’t need to see or hear what I say next.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Silas answered, cradling Danika protectively. He offered a playful wink to our niece—his only remaining audience—then vanished inside, leaving a trail of suppressed laughter behind.
As soon as Silas disappeared, Roxy descended the steps, her gaze locking on Melissa and Gunner.
She jabbed a finger toward the door, her meaning unmistakable.
Melissa and Gunner exchanged a tense, resentful look—neither wanting to yield—and then shuffled reluctantly toward the house.
Their footsteps were heavy, muttered barbs exchanged under their breath as they brushed past Dr. Franks, each refusing to make eye contact with the other.
Melissa’s jaw was set, her anger smoldering just below the surface, while Gunner’s rigid posture betrayed his own barely contained irritation.
Turning to Tank, Roxy took a steadying breath and softened her tone—just a little.
“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.
But remember one thing. He is your father.
You may hate it, may even wish it weren’t true, but that man has looked for you damn near his whole life.
So before you pummel him into the ground, listen to what he has to say.
You at least owe him that.” She finished with a gentle but firm nod, her eyes briefly flickering with compassion.
Then, rounding on Sinclair, she narrowed her eyes and delivered her verdict.
“And you, sir, are no gentleman. He is your son! I don’t know what you said to him to piss him off, but a word of advice.
.. he’s a grown-ass man and a biker to boot.
He is more than capable of making his own decisions.
You may not like them, but you will respect them.
If that doesn’t work, remember this... he’s younger and bigger than you! ”
Sinclair straightened his suit, trying—and failing—to reclaim some dignity.
“Dr. Franks, I don’t think—” he began, only to falter under her unflinching gaze.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and a heavy look of frustration twisted in his features.
He hated being called out in front of everyone, especially by a woman who saw right through him.
“That’s right, Mr. Sinclair. You didn’t think. Instead, you order everyone around as if we all work for you. Got news for ya, buddy. We don’t. So stop with the lording and act like a father who gives a damn.”
Sinclair let out a long, measured breath and finally turned to Tank, defeat tingeing his voice. “I would appreciate it very much if we could talk inside.”
“Whatever,” Tank huffed, his glare still icy as he stomped toward the house, Sinclair trailing behind, his stride slower, more hesitant—each step heavy with the weight of unresolved history.
Beside me, Dr. Walker let out an admiring whistle. “Holy crap,” she whispered, eyes sparkling with awe. “I want to be her when I grow up.”
I couldn’t help but agree—Dr. Franks was a force of nature, and in this storm, everyone else was just learning to weather her winds.