“Get in here,” Dad said. “Close the door.”
I stepped the rest of the way in and nudged it shut with my heel. The tray felt heavier in my hands than it should’ve.
I crossed the room, trying to get my pulse under control, and set the tray on the corner of the desk, careful not to bump his paperwork.
“I brought your lunch,” I said, because that was the only normal sentence my brain could find.
Wrecker didn’t look at the food. Didn’t look at me either. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long breath, like he was trying to put out a fire inside his head.
“Sit,” he said.
The chair across from his desk creaked when I lowered myself into it. My palms were damp against my jeans.
He finally lifted his head, and the look on his face made my stomach drop.
His hand slammed down on the desk without warning. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough that the coffee mug rattled and my pulse jumped.
He went still after that, jaw locked, like he’d just leashed something ugly inside himself.
Not just anger—though that was there—but something heavier. Something like fear.
My dad didn’t get scared. Not that he’d ever admit to it.
“Tell me you didn’t talk to him,” he said.
“Lock?” The name felt too big in my mouth. “I—no. He barely looked at me.”
Wrecker’s frown deepened. “Good.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t say anything. Just stared at the desk like the wood had personally offended him.
“What happened?” I asked quietly. “Why was he here?”
“Club business,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always the truth.”
There it was, that tone. The one that meant a door had just slammed shut in my face. I’d grown up with it. I’d never been good at listening to it.
“Is it about the territory lines?” I tried. “Or the shipment problems you were talking about last week? Or?—”
“Kellan.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the warning in it stopped me cold. “Drop it.”
My mouth snapped shut. The tension between us went from bad to worse. Dad wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t cruel either. If he was shutting me out this hard, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because something was bad enough that he felt like he had to.
He looked older than forty-two. More tired than he’d ever admit.
“Eat something,” I murmured, nudging the sandwich toward him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You say that, and then you get a headache and yell at everyone within a five-mile radius.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, there for a split second and then it was gone. “Smartass.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
