Until then, Eli was a figment of my imagination. He was this floating nonexistent guy who had spared a few minutes of his life to create me. Thanks to a school report on family trees that included pictures, the eyelid-flipping boy I had hated since kindergarten pointed out that I resembled no one in my family. Not Dad’s parents, not my mother and definitely not my father.

I called the boy a jerk. He called me a brat. We were both called into the principal’s office. My parents were also summoned and in the middle of the parent-principal powwow, I asked if I resembled Eli.

My one question snowballed into a slew of arguments between my parents, a whole lot of tears from Mom, and it avalanched into a day at McDonald’s PlayPlace with this freaky-looking guy with tattoos and holes in his earlobes. He crouched in front of me with a sprig of daisies in his hand and introduced himself as my dad.

I’ve never been slapped before, but that’s as close to the pain as I could imagine. I curled myself around my father and he had to repeatedly pry me off him like dried-on glue. Since then, Eli, my father and I have been playing this game of once-yearly awkward visits because I was curious.

Curiosity is highly overrated.

Pushing reply, I text my mother:

It’s me. Just woke up with a dog next to me. Eli’s here. Glad to know you’re safe. I love you. Tell Dad I love him too. What’s going on?

Mom’s response is immediate. The cell buzzing every couple of seconds as she sends a flurry of texts:

We both love you very much. A dog? Please tell me they at least let you have a bed in the house. If you are in the clubhouse, tell Eli I’ll castrate him. Did Eli explain?

Not one explanation. Will demand one now.

“Mom threatened you with castration. Besides that, would you mind filling me in on what’s happening?”

Eli chuckles then pulls on his earlobe.

“She’s serious,” I say.

He chuckles more. “I know she is.”

I can’t stop gawking at his ears. I don’t understand plugs. It’s holes in your ears.

In your ears.

Holes.

Like stick-your-finger-through-them holes.

That will never close up.

I drag my eyes away and focus on the dog that currently has a sticky line of drool hanging from its mouth.

“You know the business I own?” Eli asks.

I should say yes because that would imply I know Eli, but the truth is I don’t know much about him or his business. “No.”

Eli’s expression falls as if my answer disappointed him. Dad asked me once if I ever told anyone I was adopted or that my biological father was part of a motorcycle gang. I told him no. He asked if I was embarrassed by either and I gave him the truth: Dad was my dad, Eli was Eli and the most I ever felt about Eli was ambivalence.

I’ve never told any of my friends about Eli, not even Trisha, and she’s the type of friend you can tell anything—the type that doesn’t judge me for being scared of the dark or adopted.

“I’m part owner of a security company,” Eli explains. “There’s a ton of different aspects to the job, but the one that concerns you involves a company we do business with in northern Kentucky. We escort their most expensive semi-loads to make sure they aren’t hijacked on the road.”

He pauses. I make eye contact long enough to confirm I’m listening. Eli continues. “It’s in a territory that another motorcycle club claims and they aren’t happy that we’ve been running in their area without their permission.”

“What do you mean ‘claim’?” I ask.

“Think of it in terms of invisible boundary lines. Some clubs claim certain areas as theirs. We don’t do that, but this other club, they do, and they expect other motorcycle clubs to ask for permission to ride their bikes through the area they consider theirs.”

He gives me a second to digest and I’m not sure there’s enough time in the world to comprehend this insanity. “They’ve been trying to sabotage us. Hitting us on the road with the business and our club, but we’ve taken whatever they dish out so they’ve changed tactics.”

“Hitting? Like they’ve been attacking you?” Panic starts to crazily grow inside me.

Eli waves his hand like my questions are the type to be easily dismissed. “It’s a part of our life but I promise none of this will touch you.”

Not liking where this is headed, I tuck my legs underneath me. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You’re my daughter.”

“And?”

“They decided that since they couldn’t get what they wanted through hurting the business or the club, they’re going after my family.”

“You have a ton of other family.” Not that I’m wishing a mean motorcycle club would stalk Olivia or Izzy, but I’m in favor of them not chasing me.

“Yes, but I only have one child. One they didn’t know existed until yesterday. They must have had someone at the wake willing to give them information on me and word spread rather quickly that I had a daughter and that she showed.”

“Has someone explained to them that the only connection between us is genes? You know...that you didn’t want me...and...you gave me up?”

Eli goes still—like a rock—and the dog beside me whines. As if this wasn’t awkward enough, I also have a dog willing to do sound effects in Eli’s favor. Wasn’t this mutt supposed to hop off the bed? He left me and Mom, Lars, not the other way around. You’re rooting for the wrong team.