The Devil in Her Bed(2)
Despite having half of the police force in the Coconut Grove area in their pocket, having a bright, new, young lawyer on their side would still be helpful to the club. She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that she intended to be a prosecutor—so, if anything, she would be on the other side of the courtroom from the club. She had thrown herself into her studies and was currently ranked second among her peers. She was determined to surpass her rival and graduate at the top of her class. However, having her dad call and make her late wasn’t helping her achieve that goal.
“Jenny,” his slightly wheezy voice came from the phone. “You need to come home. Now.”
“Dad! I have class in twenty minutes. Can’t it wait?”
“No. It’s about your mother.”
Her dad seemed off, and she felt the chill rocket down her back. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
She paused, torn between conflicting desires. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She feared something tragic had happened and broke every speed limit as she drove from her apartment in Coral Gables to her parents’ house in Coconut Grove, dodging and weaving through morning traffic until she skidded to a stop in the drive.
Her dad was waiting for her at the top of the steps by the front door, clinging to the railing for support. It was raining, as it had been for days, but his face made her wonder if the liquid pouring down his face was all rain. As she started walking towards him, he straightened and wiped his face, every inch the macho leader of a motorcycle gang.
“I’m so sorry, Jenny,” he began, the words catching in his throat.
“Why? What’s happened?” Her eyes flick to the windows for signs of her mother, as her face twisted in terror.
“It’s your mom. She’s dead.”
Jenny felt her heart sink into her stomach, the sudden downward lurch pushing bile in her throat. “No…” she gasped.
In shock, she stumbled forward and up the steps without concern for her footing and fell into her father’s arms. They sank to the steps, crying together, as the rain began to pour down harder on them.
***
Silence reigned over the usually vibrant and noisy clubhouse. Where there were usually jokes and banter, today it was somber faces and solemn sighs. Normally the higher ups would work in their offices, running the empire that was the Heartless Devil’s Motorcycle Club. However, today, they remained in the main room, silent, with their eyes cast low. Most of the club was in attendance to pay their respects to the president’s beloved wife, Melissa.
When Jenny entered the great room, still dressed in the respectable black attire of the funeral itself, the silence in the room thickened and became almost palpable. As members turned their gaze upon her, with a mixture of both sympathy and curiosity, she had to suppress the desire to bolt then and there. She wasn’t accustomed to going to the clubhouse, her father wanting her to remain on the straight and narrow for as long as possible and maintain plausible deniability should the shit ever hit the fan. Now, standing in front of all these people, she had never felt so out of place or awkward in her life.
She had been brought up a respectable lady, primarily under her mother’s supervision. Table manners, education, everything a young woman would need to get by in proper society—how to dress, how to act, how to cross your legs in a manner that was flattering and ladylike. It simply wouldn’t do to get too excited about anything, and to show any anger or distaste openly was frowned upon.
Quite different from the ruffians she saw before her today. Everyone was wearing black, but whether out of respect or not was unclear to her, and the sheer amount of motorcycle leathers made her think perhaps that this was their usual attire. In her formal black dress with a white collar and pussy bow, sheer black tights, and simple black pumps, she felt totally out of place.
She nervously flicked her hair over her shoulder and threw a cautious smile at those around her. A couple of older guys smiled back, but—for the most part—stony silence met her. She was different, but the Boss’s daughter, so she warranted a certain amount of respect even though she had actually done nothing to earn it. Her eyes searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, and she found a few, but none that she felt comfortable approaching.
Part of her desperately wished she’d invited her friends, so she wouldn’t be quite so obviously alone, but they didn’t know anything about her father or his business. They assumed she, like themselves, had a father who made money in some quiet and boring way. Her father's “business” had never, and could never, be described as boring.