"Heard you had car trouble up on Mountain Road," he said, cutting into his steak with precise movements. Mom had been gone five years, and he still set the table the same way, still cooked her pot roast recipe every Sunday even though it never tasted quite right.
"Alternator died. Like McCarthy said it would." The admission tasted bitter.
Dad's jaw tightened at the name. "Should've listened when I told you to stay away from them. That whole MC is trouble brewing. Just because Viper's playing house with that waitress and her kid doesn't mean they've gone soft."
I pushed mashed potatoes around my plate, appetite gone. "They seem to help a lot of people in town."
"Help." He snorted. "That's what they want you to think. But I've seen their type before. Violence dressed up as brotherhood. Criminals hiding behind leather and chrome." He pointed his fork at me. "That Wolf especially. Cocky bastard thinks his smile can get him out of anything. Probably has a different woman every night."
The words hit wrong, making me think of how Wolf's face had looked when I'd called our encounter a mistake. Not cocky. Hurt.
"You don't actually know him," I said quietly.
"I know enough. And so should you." His stare turned sharp, suspicious. "You haven't had any other run-ins with him, have you?"
"No." The lie came out smooth, but my throat burned with it.
"Good. Because I'd hate to think my daughter, a deputy sheriff, would be foolish enough to get mixed up with MC trash."
Trash. The word echoed in my head through the rest of dinner, through washing dishes, through the drive home to my apartment. Is that what Dad really thought? That anyone outside his narrow definition of respectable was trash?
The next morning's shift brought a call I couldn't avoid. Minor accident on Main Street, right in front of Bea's. No injuries, but traffic direction needed.
I arrived to find Wolf's bike parked at the curb, him crouched beside Mrs. Cook’s ancient Buick where she'd backed into a lightpole. The elderly woman sat on the curb, shaking, while Wolf held her hand and spoke in low, soothing tones.
"It's just metal and plastic," he was saying. "Nothing that can't be fixed. The important thing is you're not hurt."
"But Harold saved for months to buy me this car," Mrs. Cook said, tears streaming down her weathered face. "He'll be so disappointed."
"Harold loves you, not the car." Wolf squeezed her frail hand gently. "And any man who'd be disappointed about a dented bumper instead of grateful his wife is safe isn't worth crying over."
That's when he saw me. The warmth in his expression vanished like someone had flipped a switch. He stood, all business, stepping back from Mrs. Cook.
"Deputy Jenkins. Good. You can take over now." His tone was professional, distant, exactly what I'd asked for. "I'm sure you don't need me."
The emphasis on 'need' sliced through me like a blade.
He walked past without another word, without even looking at me. The absence of his attention felt wrong, like sudden cold after standing in sunlight.
"Such a lovely young man," Mrs. Cook said, watching him stride toward his bike. "So patient and kind. Stayed with me the whole time, made sure I was alright. We need more men like him in this town."
I helped Mrs. Cook with her statement, directed traffic around the minor damage, waited for the tow truck. Through it all, I kept replaying the transformation in Wolf's expression. From gentle warmth to icy professionalism in a heartbeat. He'd given me exactly what I'd demanded—pretending nothing had happened between us.
It felt like punishment. Worse, it felt like loss.
The rest of my shift crawled by. Every motorcycle engine made me look up. Every leather jacket in my peripheral vision made my pulse spike. But it was never him. He was respecting my boundaries, staying away, being exactly who I'd insisted we had to be—deputy and biker who meant nothing to each other.
By the time I got home that evening, I was exhausted from pretending not to care.
I stood in my apartment, still in uniform, staring at myself in the hall mirror. Deputy Quinn Jenkins. Sheriff's daughter. Rule follower. The woman who always did the right thing, even when the right thing felt completely wrong.
When had I become this person? This careful, controlled version of myself who lived entirely within the lines my father had drawn?
In college, I'd dated a philosophy major who played guitar in terrible punk bands. I'd gotten a tiny tattoo on my hip that Dad still didn't know about. I'd been Quinn—not Deputy Jenkins, not the sheriff's daughter. Just Quinn.
Somewhere along the way, I'd lost her.
I changed into jeans and a soft sweater, nothing special, nothing that looked like I was trying. But I brushed my hair out until it shone, added the cherry lip gloss I never wore on duty. Small rebellions.
