My Veteran Biker (Bloomfield: Motorcycle Club #8)

Chapter 1 — Francis

The heat sits wrong in Bloomfield.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder.

Dad, probably. Asking when I'll arrive, asking if I stopped for lunch, asking questions that are really just him checking I'm still coming.

I don't pick it up. I'll be there in ten minutes and then he can see me with his own eyes and stop needing the reassurance.

The road curves and I pass a long gravel driveway with motorcycles parked in a line outside a low building set back from the road. Men standing near them, one leaning against the porch railing.

They're too far away to see clearly but close enough that I notice the way they're standing.

I've seen motorcycle clubs before. There was one in Harrisburg near the office park where I worked. They drank at a bar two blocks over and mostly kept to themselves.

I don't slow down. I keep driving and two minutes later I'm passing the Bloomfield town sign, and then I'm on Aspen Street where my father has lived for thirty-three years in a house with blue shutters and a porch that he built himself the summer I turned nine.

The lawn's been mowed recently but the hedges need trimming.

I pull in beside his truck in the driveway and sit for a moment with the engine still running and the air conditioning blowing on my face.

I can do this.

I turn off the car.

The heat hits me the second I open the door. Thick, dense, the kind that makes breathing feel like work. I'm wearing a loose cotton shirt and jeans and my body's already too warm, sweat gathering under my breasts and at the small of my back.

Even now I haven't figured out how to dress for August in the Midwest without feeling like I'm suffocating.

The front door opens before I reach it.

"Frannie."

Dad's shoulders are still broad, but his shirt hangs differently than it did months ago when I visited for Christmas, the fabric loose where it should pull across his chest.

His hands reach for me and there's a tremor in his fingers, subtle enough that someone else might miss it.

"Hi, Dad."

He pulls me into a hug that smells like the same soap he's used my entire life and something medicinal underneath it.

When he lets go his eyes are bright in a way that makes my throat tight.

"You hungry?" he says. "I made turkey sandwiches, the ones you like."

"I'm good. I ate on the road."

His face does something small, a flicker around his mouth that he covers by turning toward the kitchen. "Well, they're there if you want them later."

I should've lied. Should've said I was starving, should've let him feed me because that's what he needs right now.

To feel useful.

But I'm already following him inside where the air is cooler but still warm, the old AC unit humming without quite keeping up with the temperature climbing past ninety.

The living room looks the same. Same couch, same photos on the mantle, same rug that's been here since I was twelve.

"You're taking your meds, right?" I ask.

"Most days."

"Dad!"

"I take them, Frannie." His jaw sets in that way I remember from every argument we've ever had. "Don't start."

I want to push but my teeth click together instead, biting down on the words that want to come out.

I've been back in his house for three minutes and I'm already managing him like he's a child instead of the man who raised me.

"The rental's next door," he says, moving past the moment like it didn't happen. "I told the landlord you were coming. He left the key under the mat. It's small but it's clean."

"Next door?"

"Old Evans place. They converted it into a duplex five years ago. You're on the right side."

I didn't know the house next door was a rental. I'd assumed I'd stay with Dad, but he'd insisted I get my own place, said he didn't want me hovering, said I needed space to settle in.

Now I'm wondering if he just didn't want me to see how badly his hand shakes when he reaches for his water glass, the way he has to steady it with his right before lifting it to his mouth.

"I'll go drop my stuff," I say. "Then I'll come back and we can have dinner."

"No rush. I'm fine."

The tremor in his hand when he sets the glass down says otherwise, but arguing with him only makes him dig in harder.

I just nod and head back out into the heat.

I grab my suitcase from the trunk and walk the twenty feet to the house next door. Smaller than Dad's, pale yellow siding, narrow porch, two steps up to the front door.

The key's under the mat like he said.

Inside it smells like fresh paint and dust.

The living room is small, the kitchen smaller. There's a couch that's seen better days and a table with two chairs and a window that looks out onto the driveway.

The driveway I share with whoever lives on the left side of the duplex.

I unpack my suitcase, hanging my clothes in the narrow closet, putting my toiletries in the bathroom that has a decent shower and a mirror that needs cleaning.

I take my time.

When I'm done it's almost six and the light outside is starting to soften but the heat hasn't broken.

When I walk back to Dad's house the smell of roasted chicken hits me before I open the door. Inside, he's setting plates on the kitchen table, his hands slightly steadier than they were earlier.

"Smells good," I say.

"It's just chicken. Nothing fancy."

But he's using the good plates, the ones Mom picked out years ago that usually stay in the cabinet. There's rice in a bowl, green beans from a can in another. He's made an effort.

We sit across from each other and fill our plates. The chicken is dry, but I don't mention it. The rice sticks together in clumps. The green beans taste like the metal can they came from.

"How was the drive?" he asks.

"Long. But traffic wasn't bad once I got out of Pennsylvania."

"You stop for lunch?"

"Got something at a rest stop."

He nods, cutting his chicken into small pieces. "How's the rental? Is everything working okay?"

"AC's struggling but it's fine. Better than nothing."

"I can call the landlord if you want. Get him to look at it."

"I'll handle it, Dad. It's fine."

Silence settles between us. I can hear the wall clock ticking, the sound of our forks scraping against plates.

He asks about work and I tell him I'm still on leave, that I have another month before I need to decide what comes next. He asks if I'm worried about money and I tell him no, I saved enough.

We're halfway through the meal when he reaches for his water glass. His left hand shakes, trembling visibly as his fingers close around it. He brings his right hand over to steady it, gripping with both hands, but water sloshes over the rim anyway. A few drops hit the table.

He sets the glass down quickly and picks up his napkin, wiping at the water with movements that are too precise, too controlled. His jaw is tight.

I look down at my plate and push green beans around with my fork. The scraping sound seems too loud.

"How were your appointments last week?" I ask, keeping my eyes on my food.

"Fine. The doctor adjusted one of my medications, said it might help with the tremors."

"Is it helping?"

"Some days."

I nod and take another bite of dry chicken.

The silence stretches again and I can feel both of us working to fill it with anything that isn't what we're both thinking.

When we're done, he stands to clear the plates and I help without being asked.

We move around the small kitchen in the same dance we've done since I was a teenager, him washing while I dry.

His hands shake when he scrubs a plate and soap suds slide down his wrists, but he doesn't stop, doesn't ask for help.

I dry each dish and put them away.

"I should get going," I say when the last dish is put away. "Let you get some rest."

"You don't have to rush off."

"I'm tired from the drive. Long day."

He walks me to the door, and we stand there in the small entryway that smells like the lemon cleaner he's used since I was a kid.

"Sleep well, Frannie," he says.

"You too, Dad."

"I'm glad you're here."

The walk to the rental is short but the air feels heavier now, thick enough to choke on.

Inside my place is warm despite the struggling AC, and I stand in the kitchen drinking water straight from the tap until my stomach feels too full.

I try to sleep but the sheets stick to my skin and my mind won't quiet.

Every time I close my eyes I see Dad's hands shaking, see him trying to hide it, see the way he moved through his own kitchen like he couldn't quite trust his body anymore.

At some point I must sleep because the next thing I know the sun is coming through the thin curtains, bright and already hot.

My body is damp with sweat, the tank top I slept in clinging to my skin.

I get up and take a shower that does nothing to cool me down, then pull on denim shorts and a gray tank top that clings to my stomach and my breasts and my hips.

I pause in front of the bathroom mirror.

I've made peace with my body. Mostly. I'm fat and I've stopped apologizing for it. My thighs are thick, my hips are wide, my stomach is soft and rounds out beneath the tank top's hem. I take up space.

I pull the tank top down over the waistband of my shorts and go to make coffee.

The coffee maker is ancient and takes ten minutes to brew a pot that tastes like rust and old grounds. I drink it anyway, standing at the kitchen window with the mug in both hands when I see movement next door.

The garage door is open. There's a motorcycle inside and a man crouched beside it with his back to me.

I can see the breadth of his shoulders under a gray t-shirt, the way his forearms flex when he adjusts something on the engine.

His hair is dark with threads of gray visible even from this distance.

I don't recognize him immediately.

Then he stands and turns to reach for a tool on the workbench. My chest goes tight, my breath catching somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

Knox.

I haven't said his name out loud in over a decade. Haven't let myself think it more than I had to.

But I know the shape of him, the way he moves.

He doesn't see me. He's focused on the bike, turning back to it with the tool in his hand, crouching again.

His t-shirt pulls tight across his back when he leans forward and I can see the muscle there, the way his body has thickened since I knew him.

He was thirty when I left. Lean, hard, all edges.

Now he's solid in a way that makes my throat go dry.

I watch him work and tell myself I'm just surprised. Just processing the fact that of all the places in Bloomfield I could've rented, I'm next door to the one person I've spent seventeen years trying not to think about.

My hands start shaking.

He shifts his weight and I see the line of his jaw, the gray in his hair catching the morning light.

Seventeen years. I left him when we were young enough to believe time didn't matter.

I set the coffee mug on the counter and press my palms flat against the edge, grounding myself in the solidity of it.

I built a life. A life that was entirely mine, where I didn't have to shape myself around someone else's choices, someone else's timeline.

I was competent and alone and fine.

Seeing him standing twenty feet away makes me feel like the girl who waited for him to come home. Who made herself small enough to fit into the spaces he left open. Who loved him so much she forgot to ask if she was allowed to want things too.

I step away from the window and go to the bathroom, turning on the cold water and splashing it on my face, my neck, and my wrists.

My pulse is fast and my skin is hot and I can still see the shape of him crouched beside that bike like it's burned into my vision.

I need to move.

I grab my purse and my keys and I'm halfway to the front door when I remember the trash.

The kitchen trash is full. I tied the bag this morning and left it by the door. If I leave now I'll come home to a house that smells like garbage in this heat.

I pick up the bag, unlock the front door, and step outside into air that's already thick and heavy despite the early hour.

The walk to the bin at the end of the driveway feels longer than it is, my legs unsteady beneath me.

He's still in the garage. I can hear the clink of metal on metal, the low sound of something being adjusted.

I keep my eyes on the trash bin, on the simple task of lifting the lid and dropping the bag inside.

When I turn around he's standing at the edge of the garage, ten feet away, a wrench in his hand.

We look at each other.

I've practiced this. In my head, late at night when I couldn't sleep, I practiced what I'd say if I ever saw him again.

I had a whole speech prepared. Calm, measured, the kind of thing a woman says when she's moved on and built a life and doesn't need closure because she's already closed.

I don't say any of it.

My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. My hands are clenched at my sides and there's heat in my stomach that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way he's looking at me.

Not surprised. Not confused.

Just looking with the same steady attention he used to give to everything that mattered.

I feel seen. Completely, entirely seen, in a way I haven't felt in seventeen years. It makes me want to run.

I stand there instead in my denim shorts and tank top that's showing too much of my soft stomach, too much of the body I've made peace with everywhere except here, in front of him.

"Francis," he says.

His voice hasn't changed. Low, rough at the edges, the kind that doesn't waste words.

I should say something. I should say his name. I should say anything.

I turn and walk back to the house without looking at him again, my legs somehow carrying me up the porch steps and through the door that I close and lock behind me.

I stand with my back pressed against it until my breathing slows enough that I can think past the rushing in my ears.

This is manageable. I have a career and a car and my own health insurance. I left him once.

I can stay away from him now.

I came back to Bloomfield for my father.

I didn't come back for Knox or to reopen something that ended for good reasons.

I just need to keep my distance. Keep my focus on why I'm here.

I can do that.

I tell myself I can do that, sitting in the small bedroom of a rental house that shares a driveway with the one man I've never been able to forget, while the heat outside climbs toward another scorching afternoon and the air conditioner hums its failing battle against the temperature.