Coop (Reckless Souls MC 1)

“Nope,” I say, grimacing. “And I’m not interested in talking about our mother. She didn’t call for my birthday, and I haven’t reached out either,” reaching a bored, who-cares tone. “Her schedule says she should be in Milan this week.”

“I’m sure she’s just busy, Kels.”

“I don’t care, Kenna. I’m an adult, and I accept Mom and Daddy for who they are. I don’t expect them to change, and I’m done living my life to please people who aren’t built to be satisfied.”

It’s freeing to live your life for yourself, to work toward your own goals and expectations rather than others. “My path to happiness will be built by me, not them.”

“And you’ll find that path with your biker?”

“I don’t know, McKenna. It might be nothing more than a fling, or it might be the real thing. I’m only twenty-one, for fucks sake. Time is the only way to know for sure, but I’m intrigued enough to see what happens.”

McKenna lets out a sigh, and her gaze is dark and, thankfully, free of judgment. “You’re not worried about him and his lifestyle?”

“Constantly,” I admit with a smile. “But bad shit happens to people every single day, regardless of their occupation. He could get shot by another biker or get crushed working on an engine. How he’s taken away from me won’t hurt more or less than the fact that he’s gone.”

My sister’s mouth opens and then shuts in a hilarious impersonation of a guppy fish. “Holy shit, Kelsey, are you in love with this guy?”

“I think so. Hell. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am in love with him, Kenna.”

She leans back with a stunned expression on her face, taking a piping hot breakfast taco before the waitress even sets the platter down and pops it in her mouth with little fanfare for the melted cheese.

“That’s big, Kelsey. Really big.”

“I know.” The two words rush out on a sigh, but my lips tug into a smile as they sink in. “It’s big, and it’s scary as hell, like the first time we went down the blue runs. And then the black diamond runs.”

Kenna laughs. “Only you would compare falling in love to skiing, Kelsey.”

“It’s that same rush where it’s terrifying because the risk of injury is so great. Like skiing down a mountain with a big smile and you realize that you’re doing it, conquering this beast of a mountain. You feel amazing. Like you can do anything. That’s how it feels when I’m with him. That’s how it feels when I know I’m going to see him. When he looks at me like I am the most perfect woman he has ever seen.”

“Wow.” McKenna reaches for a mini quiche and pops it in her mouth. “I didn’t realize.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t,” she confirms. “Those guys are so rough around the edges, so brash. So crude.”

“They’re men, Kenna. You think guys in pastel polo shirts don’t talk the same way inside their cigar-smoke-filled rooms at the country club? They do, just not in mixed company.”

I shrug and take a breakfast taco in my mouth. “The bikers are, at least, more honest than the country clubbers.”

“I guess so, but that won’t stop me from worrying.”

“Worry,” I tell her. “I do. But I’m not going to run scared from something that feels so incredible.”

When the platter is just about empty, Kenna raises her newly replenished mimosa with a smile. “To being brave, taking chances, and hoping for the best.”

“I’ll drink to that.” We finish our drinks, and I let McKenna pay the bill before we walk out into the sunny day, not at all marred by even one hint of a cloud.

The parking lot is full of cars and people milling about, either waiting for a seat at Mimosa or hitting up the clothing boutiques, shoe stores, and tattoo shops that surround us.

“Hey, is that Mom?” I point across the parking lot to a woman with long hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She’s wearing ripped jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweater more appropriate for a twenty-year-old than a woman with two twenty-something daughters.

McKenna shakes her head. “I thought I saw her too, but like you said, Mom’s in Milan.”

“Kenna, look.” We’re about two rows away from the woman wrapped around a hipster with a man bun and no socks, smiling up at him as he presses her against a sky blue antique Jeep.

“That is definitely Mom.” I know it’s her, just as I know that Kenna is making excuses because she doesn’t want it to be Mom. She wants to live under the delusion that our parents are happily married and in love.

“Kelsey, it’s not her,” she pleads, almost fearfully.

“It is, and if she’s in the country, she damn well should have called for my birthday.”

I don’t care what she does in bed, but dammit, she’s my mom.