Steel My Heart (Motorcycle Club Romance) (Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club Book 1) (28 page)

Chapter Twenty

Emmy

She never gave me time to reply.  My mother is that quick with her insults.  One brief, blinding flash, like a lightning strike, and then it was over.  Only the gaping, smoking hole inside of you remained.

She moved on, already done with me. "Go wash your hands, Emilia," she huffed.  "I held dinner for you."

I ducked into the tiny powder room set off the hallway and tried my hardest to regroup.  I wasn't stupid.  I knew that.  But there was still that old part of me, the one that wanted to be agreeable to everyone.  That part wanted desperately to agree. "Yes mom, I'm sorry.  I broke off my engagement to the handsome, wealthy man you wanted for a son-in-law.   It was stupid, you're right."

The mirror was still warped in the same place, rippling my reflection into something that didn't look like me.  For the longest time growing up, I had thought it did.  I wondered how much of my low self-esteem stemmed from that silly ripple. 

I ran the tap, smelling the slight mineral scent of the well water. The pipes creaked, just as they always had, but the noise sounded in my ears like the clanging of a bell. All these things that I had grown up thinking of as normal and commonplace now seemed foreign and odd.  Coming back here was making little things stand out in a big way.

Like my father's tread upstairs.  He hit the squeaky floorboard directly outside of the master bedroom and I was instantly a child again.  My senses went into high alert.  I began rehearsing my greeting in my head.  Should I call him Dad or Daddy?  Which would make him more likely to greet me happily? 

I took a deep breath, looking at myself in the distorted mirror.  "I'm a fighter," I reminded my rippled reflection.  The girl in the mirror just wavered like something fleeting and insubstantial.

I stepped out of the powder room just as my father entered the kitchen.  We all saw him before he noticed any of us.  Andy was already at the kitchen table.  He leaned back in a feigned show of nonchalance, raising a challenging chin in my father's direction.  My mother's pace at the stove quickened tenfold, until she was little more than a blur of motion.

As for me, I froze behind him, taking him in.  Taking in his effect on us.  He was the sun, and we orbited him nervously.  Our own weird little solar system, contained right here in the yellow-linoleumed kitchen.

"Hi Daddy," I called, breaking the spell.

He turned at the sound of my voice as I stepped forward. For a minute his face was a blank.  I sank inward, folding over inside of myself. 

If my mother had barely changed, my father had done all her aging for her.  His eyes, once so clear and piercing blue, had gone yellow around the edges.  His skin sank around his mouth, giving me a clear view of the outline of his gums. His face had a sunken, sallow look and the smell around him was worse as he came closer.  I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.  My Dad was killing himself with drinking.

Then he broke into a wide smile and opened his arms.  I went to him and he put one arm around me in a shallow embrace.  His grip was still strong.  I could still feel the iron strength in his arms.  Years of hard labor hadn't left him yet. 

"Hi Princess," he croaked and his voice was choked with emotion.  "Welcome home."

My cheeks were suddenly wet.  "Oh Daddy." 

There were a million things I had planned on saying to him. I wanted to give him hell for my hell.  But all that went out the window when I heard the vulnerability in his voice.  My father, the drunken, unfeeling asshole, was practically weeping at the sight of me.

"I've missed my little girl," he whispered in my ear.  I smelled the liquor and the smell of decay, but under that I smelled my father.  Dial soap and Electro-Shave. The smell of the man who loomed so large in my life but was now diminished by his own hand.

"I've missed you too, Daddy."  As soon as I said it, I knew that I meant it and it shattered something fragile that I had been holding carefully inside of me.  I felt Andy's eyes on me the moment the words left my lips, I squeezed my eyes shut to ignore his incredulity.

"Your room is still the same," he whispered in that same ragged voice. 

I couldn't reply.  I only nodded as the tears continued to fall.  I loved him.  I missed him and I loved him and it made me nauseous to realize it because it was not what I had told myself for so long.  It went directly against one of the central lies I had built my life around.

I looked over his shoulder and saw my mother smiling at the touching tableau in front of her.  I could tell she was storing it away in her head, where she kept all the moments that to her made us a normal, happy family.  She nodded, beatifically and widened her arms.  "Dinner is ready," she called, her tone benevolent.  The matriarch she believed herself to be was having her moment in the sun.

I sniffled and nodded.  I didn't recognize the tears that were falling.  They kept falling, unbidden, like a dam had burst.  I stepped out of his embrace and blew my nose loudly into a napkin, hating how crying took over my body.  I felt Andy staring at me in mute confusion and could only sob louder as I sat heavily in my chair at my normal place at the table.

"It's good to have you home." My mother pressed her cheek to mine.  I wanted to recoil from her embrace.  But I couldn't.  There was a spell that had been cast upon me the moment I crossed the threshold of this house.  I felt inert, like I was moving through water.  My limbs felt like they weighed a million pounds each.  The effort of holding up my head was getting to be too much for me, and the added weight of her hands on my shoulders was more than I could bear.

"Thank you," I choked.

"Andrew, will you lead grace?" My mother sat down at the foot of the table.  My father was already seated at the head.  Andy slid forward in his chair like he felt the same weight pressing onto his shoulders that I still felt on mine.

"Thank you God for family and friends and for this food," he mumbled.  He darted his head up hopefully.  "Amen."

"And what about your sister coming home?" my mother prompted.

He ducked his head.  "And thank you for Emmy coming back," he muttered again.  But this wasn't quite so quick.  I shot him a smile before I noticed he hadn't said I'd come home.

The murmured 'Amens' melted into the clinking of silverware as we passed the dishes in silence.  My mother cooked with no regard for the season.  Tonight's dinner was roast beef, mashed potatoes and frozen peas. As if it wasn't hot enough outside.  The heat of the oven made the kitchen even hotter. 

The steam rose from my plate and I felt a little dizzy.  The weight on my shoulders was still pressing down.  I could barely summon the energy to lift my fork.

"Looks delicious, Mom," I croaked.  Ever the diplomat.

She smiled tightly and cast a quick glimpse at my plate.  I looked down at the abundance of food I had piled on and felt the flames of embarrassment heat my already rosy cheeks.  Her own plate was more white space than food.

"You always did enjoy my cooking, Emilia."  She looked downward as if this was something I should be ashamed of.

Andy made a small noise into his plate.  My father shot him a furious look, then took a small swig of the sweating tumbler at his elbow.  The amber colored liquid reminded me of my first time drinking with J. and the Sons of Steel. 

I hadn't even told him where I was going.  I had just run away. 

I felt a twinge of guilt in my stomach. Some fucking fighter I was.  J. was probably furious with me.  And rightly so. 

The weight on my shoulders pressed harder.

"So Em," Andy piped up.  "Anything interesting happen in the past two years?"  He looked at my parents challengingly.

My mother sniffed and put down her fork. "Emilia broke her engagement."  She spoke the words to my father, but her gaze was fixed furiously on her plate.

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell my side of the story.  But my father made the coughing noise that signaled he was about to talk.  To say anything now would be akin to interrupting him.  A mortal sin.  We would all have to wait while he gathered his thoughts.

I took a sip of my water.  It really was too hot in this kitchen.  The wheezing window unit in the living room barely reached us over here. 

The sweat prickling on my upper lip had nothing to do with the heat.

"So you're telling me," my father finally spoke, "That you have no job, no college  degree and now no marriage prospect either?"

The newborn fighter inside of me stirred to life. "Actually Daddy, I'm not telling you that, Mom is. I haven't told you anything about what happened."

He stared daggers at me. Andy made another little noise and shifted forward in his seat. I flicked my eyes to him and saw the excitement on his face.  He was ready for the show.

"Then what do you have to say for yourself?" The sappy Daddy of five minutes ago was gone. 

All traces of him were wiped clean the minute it had become clear that I wasn't doing what I was supposed to do. I snuck a look at my mom and saw something positively gleeful on her face. She was delighted by my father's anger. It shifted focus. I was going to be the target for his rage this evening.

I set my hands on the table, bracing myself.  "I'm saying, Daddy, that things with Robert went very bad...."

"So you quarreled," my mother waved a dismissive hand. "That will happen in a marriage."

The sound that came from Andy was loud enough that she couldn't ignore it. "You have something to say, Andrew?"

"Nooooope," he smiled, drawing out the word in a pointed singsong.

I looked her in the eye and forced myself to say the words. "We didn't quarrel, Mom.  He raped me."

She dropped her fork, her mouth a perfect "O" of shock.  For one brief moment, I thought I had gotten through to her. 

Until she spoke. "Language!" she spat, thoroughly disgusted. "Honestly, Emilia, do you have to be such a drama queen?"

I looked wildly to my Dad.  He hadn't reacted at all to my revelation. He was letting my mother handle this.

And nothing made her more vicious than when she thought she was buying his favor.  She was just getting warmed up. "A good woman stands by her man, " she intoned gravely. "She belongs at his side. Through thick and thin. Good times and bad." I wondered who she was telling, me or herself. "I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding."

The words came out more desperately than I wanted. But she was my mother dammit. I was her child. She had to care. "Mom, it wasn't. He's evil. He abused me for months, kept me from my friends...."  I paused, trying to think of what his worst sin could be in her eyes.  "He even kept me from you!"

"That's because you never introduced us," she shot back, the martyred tone creeping into her voice. "You never brought him here because you're ashamed to bring your fancy city boyfriend to your country parents. You're such a snob, Emilia."

My jaw dropped. She hadn't heard a word. Or of she did, she didn't care. I tried one last time. "Mom you're not hearing me...."

"I've heard enough!" She pushed back her chair with a loud squeak. My father shot her a look, and she immediately ducked her head. He would take it from here.

"I am disappointed in you, Emmy. I was so excited to walk my little girl down the aisle."

"Stop," I begged.

"Dance with you at the wedding."

"Drink at the open bar," Andy interjected.

The focus was still on my failures. My brother's insolence only earned him a disapproving sniff from my mother.

"He wasn't the right one," I pleaded.

"You'll never know that until you weather a few storms." My mom was smiling worshipfully at my dad. "A good woman stands by her man."  She waited for my father to agree with her, to praise her for her wisdom, but he only chewed in silence.  After a hopeful moment, we all followed suit. 

No one spoke for the rest of the meal. 

Chapter Twenty One

Emmy

My Dad lied. My room wasn't the same.  It was clean.

My mother had scrubbed in here too.  The scent of cleansers hung heavily in the air, hurting my eyes.  The air was close and thick with disuse.

"Oof, open a window please," I gagged to Andy.  He had followed me upstairs as soon as we finished dinner.  Both of us escaping as soon as we could.  That hadn't changed.

The smell was making me nauseous.  Or maybe it was something else.

Andy opened the window over my bed so quickly the hinges shrieked in protest.  He was angry. 

"Hey," I muttered.

"Sorry."  He didn't sound sorry.  His back was to me, broad, mannish shoulders hunched tightly as he knelt on my tiny bed.  He looked ridiculously overgrown for this tiny house.

I tried for humor.  "So, that went well."

He sat heavily on my old canopy bed.  The springs squeaked as he bounced his leg rapidly, a nervous habit that had always irritated me.  Now it made me smile fondly.  "Well it's nice to have you back, if only to have someone else in the doghouse for a moment," he sighed.

The hurt of being left alone with them bit at the edges of his voice.  It seemed no matter what I did, it was the wrong thing.  I slid carefully next to him and matched his bouncing leg. 

"It's a strange feeling," I admitted.  "I haven't been there too often."

Andy looked at me.  "You noticed that?"

"Of course I did.  I made it my life's mission not to piss them off."  I grimaced. "It fucked me up pretty badly, to be honest."

"You don't seem fucked up." Andy's voice was gentler than I expected.

"Oh I am, believe me."  The words wanted to be said.  "I thought I was starting over again when I got away from Robert.  Andy, you have no idea.  These past two weeks have been horrible.  And amazing.  Horribly amazing."

Andy knew I wanted to talk.  He leaned back onto the pillows and propped his head.  "Tell me the amazing parts first."

Where to start?  "Okay.  Well I fell in love.  That was amazing."

He smiled and nodded, encouraging me to go on.  "But that got a little overshadowed by all the other shit."  I pressed my lips together.  "And things kind of fell apart.  Myself included.  Now I'm wondering if I fucked it all up."

"You said he's a biker?"

"His name is J.  Well, Jeremiah actually, but everyone calls him J.  He lives and works at this custom bike shop with a couple other guys." I considered for a moment, weighing whether or not to mention that my biker boyfriend also was a black man.  The fact that I was hesitating felt like a betrayal to J.  Then I remembered that I had left the clubhouse without saying goodbye. 

He probably would consider that a bigger betrayal.

Andy, unaware of my inner struggle, was still focused on what I had said out loud. "He does choppers?" he asked, eyes glittering.

I looked at my brother.  His face was rapt.  Slowly I realized it wasn't my story he was interested in.  It was the motorcycles.  I had to laugh.  "I guess that's what they are?  Custom stuff, like weird tailpipes."

Andy sat up.  "What's the name of the shop?"

"Steel Cycles?"

"Holy shit!"

"You've heard of it?"

"Um yeah, Em.  It's one of the best custom places on the East Coast.  Damn." He shook his head.

"I, um, didn't know you were into motorcycles. "

"You left before I could even drive," he pointed out. 

"Fair enough."

"Steel Cycles, wow.  You say he lives there?"

"Well there's a garage that doubles as the clubhouse.  It's not the most luxurious place in the world.  You saw the neighborhood."

He sniffed a disturbing imitation of my mother.  "It was the ghetto."

I was glad I hesitated in telling him everything about J.

But his redneck's distaste for the inner city was fighting with his interest.  "You said there were other guys too?"

"They're a club.  Well, more like..," I groped for the word to describe the connection.  "They're like brothers.  Family.  A bunch of different types of guys, from different backgrounds," I added pointedly.  "J.'s family kind of sucks.  So he went and made his own."

He made a sharp noise of understanding.  I decided to press a little harder.  "Philadelphia's a pretty diverse city, you know..."

"I get it Emmy.  Christ, I'm not dense."  Andy leaned back in a huff.  "He Spanish?  No wait, not with a name like Jeremiah.  He's a black guy?"  He sat bolt upright  "You're dating a black guy?"

"I guess I was.  Past tense.  Now I'm not exactly sure what's going on."

He poked his tongue into the corner of his mouth and contemplated for a moment.  "Mom's gonna shit a brick," he noted.  He looked positively gleeful.

I smacked him in the arm, but I knew he was right.  Part of me wanted to keep it hidden from my mother forever and ever.  The other part, the newborn fighter part, wanted to grab J. and kiss him right in front of her.  Let him put his hands all over me while she gasped and sputtered. 

In time
, I told myself.  It was a happy little lie to keep me going.  J. would come to me...somehow...and we would be like we were that night in the cow field.  With no one around to drag us back into the harsh reality of the day.

Andy had seen my silence and settled back onto my bed to stare at the ceiling.  I could practically see the wheels turning in his head.  "Are you still thinking about Mom disowning me?"

He laughed.  "Nah, wait yes, just a little longer....okay I'm done." I poked him in the leg.  "No, now I'm thinking about motorcycles."

"You should talk to him."

He lifted his head.  "You should probably talk to him first."

"Touche, jerk."

He laughed again, flopping his head back down onto the bed.  I wrapped my arms around my knees and hugged myself close.  I remembered telling J. about this being the place that made me, for better or worse.  I realized much of the better parts were because of Andy.

Just as the warm thoughts had begun to take root, the voices started up from downstairs.  First there was a basso rumble, my father's voice so low I couldn't make out the words.  I could only feel the instant fear they inspired. 

Then my mother's high whine.  Beseeching, begging, cajoling.  Andy lifted his head from his daydream to listen with me.

Neither of us caught what she said, but it seemed to infuriate my father.  "...your business!" I heard him say.

"Here we go," Andy muttered, drowning out my mother's response.  I smacked him and listened harder.

"...attention, nothing more.  She always has." 

She was talking about me.

In spite of my lifelong attempts to play nice, it had always been my mother's assertion that I wanted to be the center of attention.  The more I faded into the woodwork, the more I tried to meekly go along with the crowd, the more she accused me of causing drama. 

I felt my cheeks go hot at the injustice.  Andy slipped his hand over mine as we listened for my father's reply.  It was too low to hear. 

My mother's was as clear as if she was standing and shouting the words in my ear.  "I'm not about to let her laze around here all summer getting even fatter!"

I swallowed back my tears.

Andy squeezed my hand tightly and we huddled together just as we always had.

We heard my father's tread slam across the kitchen.  The hot, angry part of me was grateful to hear something like anger in his voice.  I hoped he was defending me.

But my eagerness was replaced with nausea when I heard the protests.

Followed by the thud.  And then the small shriek of pain.

Then the stifled sobs as his heavy tread faded.  We heard the door to the garage slam.  I jumped at the noise, but Andy didn't move at all.

My mother was crying quietly.  I wanted to go to her.  I hated how badly I wanted to go to her.  I loved her too.  I loved my poisonous, treacherous mother so much that I was willing to overlook the horrible bile she had just spewed about me and go to comfort her. I shifted to do so, but Andy closed his fingers around my wrist and shook his head.

We heard the squeak of the garage door hinges and my father's footfall in the kitchen.  "Oh get up, Linda," I heard him scoff. 

She sniffled something high and keening.  I heard him snort and walk away.

The sound of the TV blared to life, drowning out any further argument.

Andy let out a rush of breath then clapped his hands together.  "Okay! Good show tonight. That's a wrap."

His cynicism made me feel slightly nauseous.  "Is it always like this now?"

"I think tonight's performance was one of the better ones in a while," he observed.  "You inspire them, Emmy."

"That's not funny."

"It's not supposed to be."

"Andy, we need to get you out of here."

"No fucking shit."  He kicked his leg harder, staring fixedly at a point on my wall.  "Em?"

"What's up?"

"You say you're in love?"

I looked where he was looking.  Our two reflections stared back from the low child's vanity that still squatted against the wall by my closet.  It was too low for me to sit comfortably at anymore, but I had never been able to bring myself to get rid of it.  My father had bought it for me on one of the good days.  Those all too infrequent days where he would be present in my life.  I would bask in his undivided attention, his little princess that made him so proud.  We had gone out for ice cream in the strip mall that replaced the center of our town.  At the counter, he had suddenly declared that I could have a present.  Anything I wanted.

I knew I needed to act fast.  These happy moods were fleeting and I never knew whether the promises made during them would last.  So I had looked around wildly, trying to find something to ask for that would seem special enough. 

I had pointed to the furniture store three stores down.  I didn't actually want a vanity, had never even thought of it before that day.  I was happier to see my father's proud face as he handed over the money and declared that it was a gift for his "good little girl."  I had been happier to throw my arms around his shoulders and kiss his whiskered cheek.  "You're the best daddy in the world," I had declared, because that's what I was supposed to say.  That's what he wanted to hear. 

Now my brother's face was looking at me.  It was easier to talk to his reflection than it was to look in his eyes and say, "I was.  I think I still am.  But it's too messed up right now.  I went from being Robert's possession to being J.'s burden."

"You're not a burden, Em. And if he made you feel that way, he's an idiot."

I settled my hand gratefully on Andy's leg.  The sound of the TV below us rumbled on, drowning out our words so I was sure no one was eavesdropping.

"I wanted him." I realized.  "All of him.  But he can't give it.  And it's pathetic of me to wait around until he's ready.  I need to stand on my own two feet.  For the first time in my life."

"So do that then."  Andy sounded frustrated.  "Don't depend on him.  Be his equal."

I turned from his reflection to look at him.  "You know, for a teenaged boy, you're awfully perceptive.  It's creepy.  Cut it out."

He slid smiling from my bed.  "The minute I turn eighteen, I am leaving here, and never coming back.  I need to get you fixed up so I have a couch to crash on when I do."

I grinned back.  "Oh, so you're not being completely altruistic?"

"Noooope," he drawled in that same sarcastic singsong.  "Get your shit together Em.  I got plans for you."  He backed out of my bedroom, ducking under the doorframe gracefully to avoid smacking his head.  He left me to the sounds of my parents' murmured conversation and my own tumbling thoughts.