“Okay,” Ariel replies, and she bolts for the front door.
“Ariel,” I call out, and hold her backpack out to her. She blinks as she looks at me as if wondering why I said her name and then recognition dawns on her face.
She runs back at full throttle, and as I lower her pack so she can grab it, she runs right past it and into me. My heart stutters as I crouch and accept her hug.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispers in my ear, and then gives me a kiss on my cheek. She pulls back and all I see is that love. Yes, she’s loved and I’m loved in return.
“You forgot your backpack,” I say, and she smiles as she realizes that’s why I called her back. “Have a good day, baby girl. I love you.”
“You, too.” And then she’s gone, past the double doors, and after she greets her teacher on the other side, she turns back to wave at us.
I wave, Rachel waves and then I wrap my arm around my wife’s shoulder. She leans into me, and I kiss her temple.
“We did something right in this world,” Rachel says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “We did.”
The First Loves Collection:
The First Meeting
Nowhere but Here, the first book in the Thunder Road series, is the story of Emily, a girl who is forced to spend the summer with her biological father, the head of a motorcycle club, and Oz, a soon-to-be member of the club. When a rival club places Emily in danger, Oz is assigned to help protect her. They spend the summer getting to know each other, falling in love and figuring out the secrets of Emily’s parents’ past.
My original idea for the Thunder Road series involved Eli and Meg, Emily’s biological parents. But once I played Eli and Meg’s story out in my head, I realized that it would end in a sad place. Being a happily-ever-after type of girl, I decided to take a different look at Eli and Meg’s story and tell it through the eyes of their daughter.
After reading Nowhere but Here many, many readers contacted me, asking for Eli’s story. This may not be his full story, but I thought my readers would enjoy seeing how Eli and Meg met.
Chapter 9
Eli
Assholes. The world is filled with them, and unfortunately my hometown of Snowflake, Kentucky, has more than its share. Not fair when we’re one of the least-populated counties in the state, but I guess even assholes need a capital. Of course, there are some girls who would throw me into that category, and I probably deserve the label.
But I’m not a grade-A asshole. I’m just the garden-variety type that rides a motorcycle, falls asleep in class, says too many curse words at the wrong time, and has a father who is the head of a motorcycle club.
What I do that other assholes in this town don’t do? Treat girls with respect. If I ever talked badly to a girl, my mother would cut off my balls with a dull kitchen knife and that’s not hyperbole. My mother is as badass as they come.
And if I ever touched a girl without permission? My father would end my life. Don’t get me wrong, my parents love me, but they expect me to be a human being—to be a man. There are lines, and I’m expected to know them, see them and never cross.
The problem with all that tonight? I’m being me, and doing what I need to be doing, and the clean-cut looking asshole guys, the ones from the rich side of town whose daddies have too much money, are doing what they normally do with a girl who is new to town and isn’t aware that these are the type of guys no one should be around.
It’s Friday night, halfway through October, and we’re in an abandoned field a few miles from town. There are two bonfires going at the party, and there’s an unwritten rule about who hangs at which one. The bonfire my best friend started crackles, pops and warms my cold hands. The air temperature has dropped, and the ride over here on my motorcycle was a lot cooler than I thought it would be. I love riding my bike, love the wind in my face, but I should have worn gloves. Frozen hands suck.
The bonfire I’m near is for people associated with the Reign of Terror and for those who are tired of being ridiculed by anyone who thinks they own our school. The other bonfire is for the people doing the ridiculing.
“You okay?” My best friend’s girlfriend, Rebecca, comes up beside me and sits on the tailgate of a friend’s truck. “Charlie’s been trying to get your attention.”
I glance over to the right, and sure enough, Charlie is standing there with the other guys from school who don’t automatically think anyone associated with the Terror are murderers. Charlie has a football in his hands and he spins it as he raises his eyebrows. He’s asking if I want to play by the light of the moon and the bonfire. I shake my head no, as I can’t be distracted. There’s a situation I’ve got to watch. A dove has wandered off to the wrong bonfire.
The girl is new to town, and by looks, she probably thinks she’s made the right call by standing near the fire with the preppy-clothes-wearing, sticks-up-their asses sacks of shit, but she is wrong. We would have been the better choice.
“You don’t want to play football?” Rebecca says. “Then something has to be terribly wrong, so spill.”
Rebecca, Charlie and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Charlie and Rebecca have been a couple since before they graduated from high school. They’re older than me, but not by much, and Charlie is already patched-in to the club. They call him Man ‘O War, but to me, he’s Charlie. The moment I graduate from high school this spring and turn eighteen, I’m joining the Reign of Terror MC. Then Charlie and I won’t just be best friends, but brothers.
Charlie could hang out at the clubhouse if he wanted, but because I can’t due to my age, he chooses to hang with me. I gotta love him for that.
Across the field, the new girl stands next to the fire and stares into it like she’s lost. I don’t know who she came with, and don’t know how she’s getting home. Honestly, besides the fact that she moved to Snowflake this week, started at our school, is in my English and math classes, and has blond hair, blue eyes and a body made for sin, I don’t know much about her. Name included.
What I do know is that the guy chatting her up is bad news. Very bad news. He’s not the type to ask for permission. He’s the type that needs to be six feet under or locked in a jail cell for life. “What do you know about the new girl?”
Rebecca side-eyes me. “Leave her alone. She’s new, she’s quiet and the last thing she needs is you hitting on her.”
“When did you become my block?”
“Since you started kissing girls,” she answers like she’s bored. “Go hit on the girls who want to be kissed. Linda Glade has been staring at you all night like you’re an entrée on a menu.”
I turn my head in Linda’s direction. She smiles. I nod back. That I will keep in mind. But later. “I’m not going to hit on the new girl.”
I want to ask her if anyone has warned the new girl off Ron yet. I don’t, because the mention of Ron makes Rebecca nauseous. He cornered her once, and it was a mistake. While he didn’t get far, it was far enough to freak Rebecca out, and far enough that Charlie beat the hell out of the bastard. But that’s the thing about bastards like Ron—they don’t learn.