Grabbing Hold (The Motorcycle Kid #1)

19. Birthday Bombshell, Part Two

"Aren't you going to get up?" Dominique Tulesa asked her grandson as she leaned against the doorpost.

"For what? There's nothing to do."

Miss Tulesa folded her arms.

"Maybe if you'd kept your mouth shut, you'd still have a job."

"Quit it, okay? I get it."

"So you're just gonna lie around aimlessly for the rest of the summer? You've got to have a Plan B by now."

Ryder shrugged. "I just want to go home."

"Boy, get up. Now."

"Stop telling me what to-" he cut himself off with a high-pitched squeal as his grandmother tightened her grip on his ear, pulling him off the bed.

"Walk," she commanded, and Ryder complied, in too much pain to argue. She pulled him right down the stairs and outside onto the porch.

"OW!" he yelled as she released him. "Díos mio! Did you have to do that?"

"Come with me."

"You gonna pull my ear again?" Ryder demanded, cradling his earlobe.

"Oh, grow up, you little baby! Follow me, come along."

"Alright, alright!"

Ryder followed his grandmother over to the workshop, where there were planks and sheets of wood spread among about twelve different machines, including two table saws.

"Whoa. Un momento, chiquita. I work with metal, not wood."

Miss Tulesa raised an eyebrow as she stopped to face him. There was a wicked-looking handsaw in her grip.

"Well, you're gonna learn today."

"What?"

"What what? Go down inside there and open the back doors."

"This is crazy, woman," he muttered under his breath. "Hey, Tulesa! You better have first aid waiting when I cut my hand off!"

"There's no ambulance, so make sure not to sever anything vital. I'm not paying your medical bills."

Ryder's mouth dropped open in surprise. He hadn't seen that coming.

He kept his mouth shut.

Derek's first thought was Emma. His eyes scanned the room for her, and he sighed heavily as he watched her stare blankly at the granite countertop. Her fingers clenched and unclenched repetitively.

"Emma-"

"Don't," said his daughter darkly. "I don't want to hear your excuses."

"Emma, let me explain," Derek pleaded with his daughter, who had stood to her feet and was making her way up the staircase.

She whirled her head around, blue eyes flashing angrily as they met her father's.

"Explain what, huh?!" she demanded. "What is there to explain?"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this!"

"Yeah right," said Emma sarcastically. "You expect me to believe that you actually cared enough to make this week special?"

"Emma-"

"One week," she said softly, cutting him off. Her face betrayed her hurt.

"One week, Dad. I just wanted one normal birthday with no appointments or endless phone calls or stupid family drama, and you had to go ruin it."