3. Morgan
MORGAN
“Jesus Christ.” Ash drags a hand through his hair as we sit and watch the four Wild Wolves tear off down the road. Excited chatter starts up around us, the relief in the air palpable. “I thought for sure that was going to escalate into a fucking riot.”
“Same.”
“I mean, fuck’s sake . They almost killed each other. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve all driven off somewhere to do it where no one can see.”
“Hmm.” I watch the bikes until they round the corner and disappear from sight. When I face Ash again, he has his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“How are you sat there with a dreamy look on your face when the rest of the pub is breathing a huge sigh of relief that we’re not dead?”
I roll my eyes. “Stop exaggerating.” He knows as well as I do that wouldn’t have happened.
The Wild Wolves might be dodgy as fuck, but I’ve never heard of them starting a fight with non-bikers.
It’s usually some visiting drunk twat that starts it.
The rest of us aren’t stupid enough to provoke a tooled-up biker with a blatant disregard for the law.
“You do fancy him, though, right?” It’s more accusation than question.
Regardless, I can’t help but smile, because I really fucking do. I’m not about to admit that though. “You saying you don’t?”
Predictably he scoffs. “No. Bad-boy MC presidents are so not my type.”
“What about vice presidents?”
He can’t school his expression quickly enough, eyes flaring with recognition before he manages a scowl. “Fuck no.”
“Mhmm.” I don’t press, because I know him well enough to accept he’s not going to admit it. Not now at least. But he doesn’t need to, because I’m almost one hundred percent certain that my very straight-laced best friend has the hots for Callum Holt.
“What happened with your dad this time?” Ash asks, voice quiet.
It’s such an abrupt subject change it takes me a moment to catch up. I’d rather talk about our biker crushes than this. I shrug. “Same old shit.”
Ash winces. “Money?”
“Yep. This time he won’t tell me who he owes or how much, so I’m thinking it’s bad.” He’s owed money before, but I’ve never seen him that worked up over it. That angry . Angry enough to throw a punch at the wall. Can’t deny it shocked the shit out of me.
My hand shakes as I lift my pint, and Ash notices.
He reaches out and grabs my wrist. “How much are we talking, do you think?”
“I have no fucking clue.” I hesitate, biting at my bottom lip, because that’s not strictly true. I just don’t want to say it out loud.
Ash’s expression softens, but his grip tightens on my wrist. “You can tell me, Morgan. You know I won’t judge.”
“I think it’s a lot this time. He was looking for the deeds to the house when I left. That can’t be good, right?” We own that house outright. Paid for with Mum’s life insurance. If he does anything to jeopardise that, I’ll fucking kill him.
Ash opens his mouth, but no words come out. He tries again, but all he manages is, “Shit.”
Yep, that pretty much covers it.
We stay for a couple more pints, consciously steering the conversation to more mundane things like gossip from work. It’s not until we’re leaving and he pulls me in for a hug that he brings it up again.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Your dad wouldn’t do anything to put your house at risk. But...” He hugs me even tighter. “If anything happens, you always have a place at mine. Always.”
I close my eyes, losing myself in the warmth of his arms for a blissful few seconds more. I’ve known Ash for almost all of my life, and I love him like a brother. “Thank you.”
It’s dropping dark by the time I get home. I’m fully expecting the lights to be on in the house, but not a single bulb seems to be lit. It’s only half-nine on a Tuesday night—even if my dad had gone to bed early, he’d have left a light on for me.
The house is silent when I get inside. No telltale creaks to signal someone being upstairs. I assumed his car was in the garage, but a quick search of the box we keep all the keys in reveals his car keys aren’t there.
I’m worried.
He’s got work in the morning. A six o’clock start that usually has him in bed by ten thirty at the latest. Where the fuck is he?
My stomach sinks as I see the discarded papers on the kitchen table. Did he find what he was looking for? And if he did, what the hell is he planning on doing with them? I’ll be pissed off if he’s thinking about re-mortgaging the house, but he can’t exactly do that at this time of night.
I try to call him, but there’s no answer. My texts don’t get a response either.
“ Jesus , Dad, where are you?” I try his phone once more, but this time it goes straight to voicemail. Well, fuck you too.
Reluctantly, I head upstairs, trying not to let my imagination get the better of me. He’s probably just at the pub like I was. Drowning his fucking sorrows.
Sleep is almost impossible as I lie in bed, ears trained for the sound of him coming home.
Eventually I must drop off, because it’s just starting to get light when I finally hear the front door open and close.
My phone tells me it’s way too early to confront him about where he’s been. It’s probably none of my business anyway. I close my eyes, sleep coming easier this time, now I know he’s home. We can talk later.
I wake with a start.
My heart pounds, and it must have been some awful nightmare because I’m sweating too.
“Jesus Christ.”
Thank fuck I can’t remember any of it. Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I debate showering first before going downstairs, but then I hear movement and I’m up, pulling on yesterday’s T-shirt, because talking to my dad can’t wait.
I make my way down and pause in the kitchen doorway. He’s sat at the table, head in one hand, and doesn’t so much as look up as I walk in and take the seat opposite him. “Dad?” The dread I’d felt yesterday floods back in and it’s an effort to get the words out. “W-what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t move for what seems like an age, but then he slowly lifts his head to look at me, and my hearts drops.
The man in front of me looks like he’s aged ten years overnight.
Bloodshot eyes stare back at me, and the lost look in them makes me feel sick.
“I’m so fucking sorry.” Despair radiates from him, wrapping around me and pulling me down too.
“I don’t know what happened.” The words are barely audible, but the disbelief is clear. Doesn’t make it any better, though.
It’s the last thing I want to ask, but I need to know. “Tell me.”
His hand shakes as he reaches for the mug in front of him. The coffee in it looks cold, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice as he takes a sip. “I lost the house.”
I’m shocked speechless.
Literally have no words.
I sit with my mouth hanging open, gaping at him, hoping I heard him wrong, because his words make no sense. Silence stretches between us until I grind out a strangled, “ How ?”
He sighs heavily, like it hurts to inhale, and who knows, maybe it does.
Maybe whatever he’s about to tell me cuts him up inside like I know it’s going to me.
“I owed money. Enough that I needed time to get it together.” He holds a hand up before I can comment.
“I know, okay. I was fucking stupid to get myself in that position. I know .”
I bite back then why the fuck did you do it? but it’s hard to keep my temper under control. He must see it in my eyes, because he folds in on himself even further.
“I went to see them, to ask for some time to get the money together. I had the deeds to the house because I was going to take a loan out against it.” He looks up, snagging my gaze and flinching at whatever he sees there.
“I only went to talk to them, I swear, Morgan. But the next thing I know they’re shaking me awake and—” A sob escapes, but I’m struggling to find a scrap of sympathy for him, because he’s brought this on himself.
And me by association.
“And what?” I sound cold and detached, so unlike me, but I don’t care. “ Dad .” I want to reach over the table and shake the words out of him, and if he doesn’t hurry up and tell me, I just fucking might.
“They were holding this contract, or form thing, that I don’t remember signing, but my signature was there at the bottom of it, countersigned and everything. The stakes for the game of poker I’d apparently agreed to play.”
“And you wagered our fucking house? Mum’s house?” Cold rage surges through me when he nods slowly.
“We have to be out by the end of the week.”
I’m seconds away from fucking killing him, so I do the only thing I can and push out of my seat, backing away until my shoulders hit the wall.
I sink to my knees, head in my hands as the enormity of what he’s done sinks in.
“It can’t be legally binding.” It can’t be.
Who bets their fucking house in a card game?
I grab my phone and start googling. Two minutes later I stand, holding it up in relief.
“See. It says here that you can’t wager the deeds to your house in a card game.
Gambling debts are usually not legally enforceable in court.
You can say you were drunk and didn’t know what you were doing. ”
He doesn’t look as relieved by this news as I expect him to be. Just tired. “You think I didn’t say that? You honestly think I sat there and happily handed over our home ?”
Honestly? Yes. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.
He reads the truth in my face and slumps in his chair. “Christ. I’m sorry, Morgan. I’ve been a shit father if that’s what you believe.”
I don’t correct him at first. How can I with what he’s just told me.
But truth be told, gambling habits aside, he’s always been there for me since mum died.
I was sixteen when we lost her, could’ve easily gone off the rails, but he was a solid comfort in those first few years. Exactly what I needed him to be.
It’s only recently that he’s changed.
The late nights, the gambling.
Our fighting.
And it’s always about money.