Page 15 of Single Mom for the Bikers

I adjust my position to minimize the show, but by the smirk on the face of the woman who came up, it’s too late. Whatever, let her fucking look. I’ve got nothing to hide.

“Hey, Shel. Is it okay if I pick up Mia with Rosie on Tuesday? The girls want to play. I said it’s fine by me if it’s all right with you. She can stay for dinner.”

“Yeah! Yeah. That’s fine,” Shelby blurts out, cheeks flushed pink.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Sorry, Tracy this is Havoc, Havoc, Tracy. The girls go to the same sitter for daycare.”

I stand and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Tracy takes it, not at all bothered by the ink, scars or leather cut, proudly proclaiming exactly who I am. “Havoc? I bet you are. Nice job, Shel.”

“He’s not—I’m not—We’re just old friends,” she stammers.

“Too bad,” Tracy says, eyebrows raised.

And the damn thing is, I fucking agree.

10

PHOENIX

There arelights on in some of the houses, but it’s mostly dark as I ride slowly through the neighborhood that nearly got me killed the other night. Is it stupid to be out here on my own? Probably, but I fucking gotta do something or I’m going to go nuts. My head hardly hurts at all anymore when I shake it.

Good enough, right?

Ice runs down my spine as I get closer to the scene of the crash, like my body knows shit my mind still doesn’t remember clearly. Shelby's place looks dead to the world. Guessing she and Mia are asleep. Not that I planned on stopping by, much as I'd fucking love to get my eyes on her.

I roll to a stop under the streetlight near where she found me. Don’t want to be too suspicious in case a concerned neighbor calls the cops on me, but I need to see.

The skidmarks are almost invisible in the dark.

Fuck, it drives me crazy that I have these damn holes in my memory. That there are things I know I've fucking seen and done, and I can't remember them. Doc checked me out andagreed with Emily. There’s nothing wrong that rest and time won’t fix, but I can’t shake the thought that being here where it happened might jog my memory.

I look up and down the street like the answers are waiting for me, just hiding behind someone's trash can or something. Not surprisingly, there's nothing.

I shouldn't have fucking bothered.

What the fuck did I expect to find? A note? Fuck.

I keep going, retracing the path I took that night. It takes me through the neighborhood in a different direction from the clubhouse. The road turns, carrying me with it. Bunch of cookie cutter ranch houses, just like the one Shelby's renting from Sledge. Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes all the same…

My eyes snag on a black truck, parked in one of the driveways. Flashes from the crash flip through my brain like a slideshow missing half the slides. I stop in front of the driveway.

There are gray stripes painted on either side. Did the one that hit me have stripes? I don’t fucking know, damn it. The way my brain refuses to clarify, to show me the images that I know it's got stored in there, drives me fucking crazy. I'm doing my best, but fuck, man.

It’s probably nothing, but this is the first thing that’s triggered a memory. I walk the side of the truck, dragging my fingertips over the side panels, feeling for irregularities, dents or paint remains. The way I was going when I got hit, there should be something along the front left. I crouch, examining the driver’s side grill.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” The harsh yell has me jumping back, hand reaching for my belt. A floodlight comes onfrom the garage, bathing me in light and revealing a stocky man that comes charging out of the house, glowering at me. “Get the fuck away from my truck.” He pauses. “Ruin?”

That name hits me like a ton of bricks and I take a closer look. “Grinder? I figured you were worm food by now.”

“I could say the same thing about you, except no. You’re a fucking traitor, aren’t you? Didn’t have the guts to stick it out.” He spits.

“Not my fault you didn’t have the brains to know when to jump ship.” Last time I saw Grinder, we were in the same club, riding dirty and raising hell. And we fucking looked the part. What the fuck is he doing out here in suburbia? “Are those dad jeans?”

“Fuck off, asshole,” he growls. “I’m not as easily bought as you.”

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