Piston by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Nineteen

_{Every ounce of fluid in my body is flowing straight to my core.}

Holland

“Miss Holland, I’m sorry. I tried to stop him.”

I smile reassuringly at Marilee as she slumps against the kitchen island. Apparently, she’s been cooking since yesterday morning because my father insisted that he wanted to have a dinner party tonight. Unfortunately, I haven’t been home since I left for the cookout at the clubhouse yesterday and wasn’t here to talk some sense into him. Not that I could have. But I sure as hell would have tried.

“It’s fine, Marilee,” I assure her and look at all the dishes already prepared. “I can help. Just tell me what’s left.”

“Oh,” she exclaims as she clasps her hands together. “That would be wonderful, honey. If you could work on getting the table set, that’ll save me some time.”

“You got—”

“Holland! Is that you?”

I groan at my father’s voice and Marilee stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, Daddy, it’s me,” I shout back.

“You don’t have to yell.”

I whirl around and see him standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. How in the hell did I not hear him walking with that thing?

“Sorry, Daddy.” I make my way to the bar at the far end of the kitchen and pour him his favorite drink. “Daddy, what were you thinking, scheduling a dinner party at the last minute like that? It’s too much for Marilee.” I hand him his drink. “And quite frankly, it’s too much for you. You look exhausted.”

“I’ll do any damn thing I please, young lady.”

His expression is pinched, like he’s in pain, but his tone seems to be in working order. It’s even, demanding, and exactly what you would expect from a father annoyed with a child.

“Daddy, why don’t you sit down? Or better yet, go take a nap.”

I wrap my arm around his shoulders and urge him back in the direction he came from. He doesn’t argue with me, which says something about how he’s feeling.

“I didn’t think you’d be home for dinner. Your friend dropped your car off this morning.” He spares me a glance. “She explained that you were with a friend. Would have been nice to hear that from you,” he grumps.

“Daddy, I’m twenty-seven years old. An adult. I don’t need to account for my whereabouts all the time.”

“You do if you want to remain under my roof,” he grates out, which sends him into a coughing fit.

I wait until the hacking subsides before reminding him that I wanted to get my own place, but he begged me to stay. “I can move if that’s what you want.”

He harrumphs and I have to stop myself from laughing… or crying. I’m not sure when he got so crotchety, but I remind myself that, despite his larger-than-life attitude and stubbornness, he really is sick.

When we reach the sitting room, I ensure that he’s comfortable on the couch. I set his glass on the side table, fluff the pillows, and cover him with a blanket. The fact that he doesn’t protest says a lot. And it hits me hard.

Langston Tibideaux is the only person who can infuriate me and capture my heart, all at the same time. He’s the only man who puts me in my feelings more than should be possible.

No, he’s not. Piston does the same thing.

I ignore the little voice in my head and focus on my father.

“What time are the guests arriving?”

“Around six.” His eyes slowly drift closed. “Please wake me at four.”

“Okay, Daddy.” I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Have a good nap.”

I make my way out of the room, but before I can get too far, my father calls out to me.

“Invite your friend, Holland.”

“Janessa?”

“No, the one who was sleeping on our lawn. I’d like to meet him.”

I stand frozen at his request. Surprisingly, it was a request. It lacked his typical demanding tone. Second, can I do that? Can I invite Piston over for one of my father’s dinner parties?

Why not?

Because my father will grill him and likely not approve.

Do you care if he approves?

Yes.

No.

Both.

I want my father’s approval, but it certainly wouldn’t be the deciding factor for me when it comes to a relationship. What would be a factor is whether or not the person can handle my father, the life I was born into whether I like it or not.

If anyone can handle it, it’s Piston.

My father’s light snoring cuts into my thoughts. I glance at him one last time before quietly pulling the door shut. I head back toward the kitchen to help Marilee but change directions and go to my room first. As I’m walking up the steps, I pull out my cell phone and scroll to the texting app.

I flop down on my bed and stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard while I think about what to say. Knowing that I’m going to second guess every single word, I settle on something simple.

Wanna come over for dinner tonight?

Before I can even set my phone down, it dings.

Yes.

I type out a reply.

You might rethink that once I tell you that it’s a dinner party my father is throwing and he asked me to invite you.

Smooth, Holland. Real smooth.

My phone rings, startling me. When I see Piston’s name flash across the top of the screen, I groan. I hit the answer button and hold my breath.

“Do you want me to come to dinner?” Piston asks.

I nod my head and then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah. I… yes, I do.”

“You don’t sound sure about that.”

I scoot into a sitting position and lean back against my headboard. “I’m sure. It’s just—”

“Sit the fuck down and shut up,” Piston shouts.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you, sweet cheeks.” There’s a rustling sound and I realize when I hear muffled voices that he’s put his hand over the phone. “Okay, sorry ‘bout that. Dealing with a situation.”

“Oh. We can talk later. Forget—”

“What time should I be there?”

“Um, guests will start arriving at six so, five-thirty? That way I can introduce you to Daddy first. And if you decide to bail before anyone else comes, you’ll have a chance to.”

I’m only half kidding. I would understand if Piston didn’t want to stay. My father can be a lot to handle sometimes. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be disappointed if he bailed.

“I’ll be there at five-thirty,” he assures me.

“Okay, great.”

“I don’t mean to cut this short but I gotta run.”

“Right, club business. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.” I go to hit the end button but his voice stops me. “Oh, and Holland?”

I lift the phone back to my ear. “Yeah?”

“Is this a fancy dinner party?”

I sigh, expecting my answer to make him change his mind. “Yeah, it is.”

“So you’ll be in a dress?”

“Well, yes.”

“Good.” He lowers his voice to a growl. “Do me a favor and leave the panties in the drawer.”

With that, he hangs up, leaving me breathless.

* * *

“What is going on with you? You haven’t stopped to take a breath in almost an hour.”

“Nothing, Daddy. I just want everything to go well tonight.”

I glance at him and my face heats at his smirk. “For me or for your friend?”

I ignore his question. Marilee scurries around like a chicken with her head cut off, carrying dishes of food. I did manage to get a few more staff to help out so it shouldn’t be too rough a night for her.

A quick glance at the clock sends my nerves into overdrive. If Piston gets here on time, I’ve got ten minutes until his presence either—

Ding-dong.

My father’s eyebrows raise as he glances at me.

“What?” I snap.

“He’s early, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting him to be on time, let alone early.”

“Well that’s awfully judgmental.”

“Maybe so,” he concedes. “Are you going to let him in or what?”

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. “Daddy, I need you to promise me you’ll be nice. Can you do that for me?”

“Holland, I promise you I’ll be on my best behavior. Now, go let the man in and bring him to the sitting room. We can have a drink and chat before the other guests arrive.”

I groan as I make my way toward the front door. The bell chimes again, seconds before I reach for the knob and yank it open.

My jaw drops and my mouth fills with cotton. I take in the man before me, from his freshly cut dark hair to his polished shoes. He’s wearing black dress pants and a light blue button-down shirt. I didn’t realize that he owned anything other than jeans, T-shirts, and leather. Who the hell is this person?

“I can’t look that different,” Piston jokes.

I try to swallow but can’t. Every ounce of fluid in my body is flowing straight to my core.

“I, um…” I clear my throat. “You look great.”

Piston glances down at himself and when he lifts his head, he grins. “I do, don’t I?”

I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist to drag him inside, pushing the door closed behind him. His head swivels as he takes in the foyer, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. When his attention returns to me, the grin is still in place.

Piston reaches out and brushes a tendril of hair off my cheek. He drops his gaze to my lips, then lower and lower still. I squirm under his stare even as my skin heats. Every inch of me is ablaze, as if he’s physically caressing my flesh.

He curls his hand around my neck and rubs my jawline with his thumb while at the same time, pulling me closer to him.

“You look fucking delicious,” he whispers in my ear.

I press my cheek to his chest and his arms go around my waist. The dress I’m wearing has a completely open back, other than some wisps of lace, and his fingertips graze my skin. This close to him, I can feel the wild thumping of his heartbeat. It matches my own, which is weirdly intoxicating.

“Did you do as I asked?” I nod against him and he groans. “This is going to be torture, isn’t it?”

I grin and step back from him to look him in the eyes. “You have no idea.”

Piston takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, almost as if preparing himself for battle, and then gives a curt nod. If it weren’t for the fact that facing my father is the relationship equivalent of facing a firing squad, it would be comical.

“I made Daddy promise to be on his best—”

“Holland?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll be fine. If I can handle a bunch of thugs and bikers, I can handle your dad.”

I smirk at him. “I’m going to remind you later that you said that.”

“Fine.” He links his hand with mine. “Now, take me to him, sweet cheeks.”

I lead Piston to the sitting room and when we walk through the door, I notice that my father is standing at the wet bar and his cane is nowhere in sight. I bite into my bottom lip and Piston must notice because he drops my hand and rests his on the small of my back.

He leans in close. “Breathe, Holland. It’s going to be okay.”

Before I even have a chance to wrap my brain around the fact that he’s comforting me, he strides across the room to stand next to my father. The difference in the two men is startling. My father, on a good day, is no more than five foot eleven and today isn’t a good day. He’s hunched over and no doubt in pain from pushing himself too far to avoid using his cane. Then there’s Piston. Six foot four, solid muscle, broad shoulders. He’s a living, breathing titan and towers over my father.

“Hello, Mr. Tibideaux.”

Piston sticks out his hand. My father turns and tips his head back to look Piston in the eyes as he shakes his hand. “And you are?”

“Piston, sir.”

My father’s brow wrinkles. “Surely that’s not your given name?”

Piston chuckles. “No, sir, it’s not. My parents named me Samuel… Sam. But my friends call me Piston.”

“And which name do you prefer?”

“Piston,” he responds quickly. “But please, call me whatever you’re most comfortable with. I’ll answer to either.”

My father eyes Piston up and down. “Piston it is then.” He holds up a crystal decanter. “Would you like a drink?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Mr. Tibideaux.”

“Langston, please.” Huh? “Mr. Tibideaux sounds too formal and makes me feel like I’m working.”

My father hands Piston a tumbler of brandy and turns to carry his own to his chair. I start forward so I can make sure he doesn’t fall and he glares at me. Again, my bottom lip goes between my teeth. Piston winks at me and then proceeds to walk close to my father but not so close as to make my father feel like he’s being coddled.

Once my father is seated, he looks up at Piston. “Have a seat, son.” He shifts his gaze to me. “You too, Holland. No need to stand there and hover.”

Piston and I sit on the Italian leather loveseat and he rests his hand on my knee. I don’t miss the way my father’s eyebrows shoot up, but I choose to ignore it.

“So, Piston,” my father begins. “Tell me about yourself. I know you ride a motorcycle and like to sleep outside, but I’m hoping, for Holland’s sake, there’s more to you than that.”

My muscles coil and Piston squeezes my knee reassuringly.

“Well, where would you like me to start?”

“Tell me about your parents, your upbringing.”

Here we go. Brace for impact.

“There’s not much to tell. My parents were high school sweethearts, married when they were nineteen. I’m an only child. My parents wanted more kids but it wasn’t in the cards for them. Unfortunately, they died when I was ten.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did they die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all.” Piston clears his throat. “They were killed in a motorcycle crash.”

“Yet you still ride?”

“Absolutely. It’s kind of required in my family.”

“How so?”

“Daddy, do you have to ask so many questions?”

“If I’m to get to know your young man, yes.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Unless you want me to continue making assumptions?”

Exasperated, I stand and throw my arms in the air. “I’m going to go check and see if Marilee needs any help. The other guests will be here soon.”

I make my way out of the room and footsteps sound behind me. A large hand settles on my shoulder as I step into the hall.

“Holland, c’mon. Don’t storm off angry.”

I whirl around. “Don’t storm off angry?” I shout, not caring if my father hears me. “What am I supposed to do? Sit idly by while he disguises his judgement of my boyfriend with not-so-subtle questions? I don’t think so. He’s judged everything I’ve ever done. I go overseas and make a name for myself, a career that I was proud of, and do you think that was good enough? Hell no! I come home to take care of him, giving up said name and career and do you think he’s ever once said thank you? Nope to that too.” My chest heaves with anger and I hang my head. “I’m sorry, Piston, but I can’t—”

“Stop.” He grips my chin and forces my head up. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. I get it… parents can be difficult. But, Holland, they aren’t around forever. You know that. And I don’t give a shit about his judgement or questions. He’s not who I’m going to be fucking later. He’s not who I’m trying to have a relationship with. All I care about is you.”

“He just makes me feel like a little kid sometimes, like I’m not smart enough to figure life out on my own.”

“I hate to break it to you but—”

“Holland, get in here.”

I roll my neck at my father’s beckoning. I know Piston is right and there will come a time when I miss the demands and the arguments and feeling like a little kid, if for no other reason than it means my father is still around. But, shit, it’s hard to remember that sometimes.

Piston lifts my hand in his and squeezes. “C’mon. I’m right here with you.”

I march back in the sitting room, Piston by my side, and stand in front of my father’s chair.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“You called him your boyfriend,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I…” I glance at Piston out of the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction. His shit-eating grin tells me all I need to know. “Yes, I did.”

“Do you love him?”

“Sir,” Piston interjects before I can respond. “I understand that Holland is your daughter and you barely know me, but as far as our feelings for one another go, I’d like to have that conversation with Holland before you do.”

My father’s eyes dart from Piston to me and back again. Then, a miracle happens. Langston Tibideaux’s face softens and he looks at Piston with respect.

“Fair enough, son. Fair enough.”