Page 3 of Dad Bod's Daring December

The last thing I need is someone shattering the quiet of my self-imposed exile, disrupting the silence I’ve wrapped around myself as a shield. I’ve worked hard to make this place mine, an oasis away from the clamor and mess of human connection.

She steps out of a cherry-red sedan, and even from this distance, her presence strikes me, unsettling the peace I’ve become accustomed to. She’s cute, with a bounce in her step thatscreams optimism. Sexy, too. The kind of woman who doesn’t know it, which makes it all the more true.

But her movements hold a flicker of hesitation—a glance over her shoulder, the way her fingers fidget as she tucks a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, a gesture that’s both charming and oddly vulnerable. It does something strange to my chest, igniting a pang that’s foreign and forgotten.

My jaw clenches as memories claw to the surface, unwelcome guests that come with the anger and betrayal I’ve tried to bury. Rebecca, my ex-wife, now cavorting with that filthy biker gang across town. The Demons, they call themselves, as if they’re proud to be the scourge of this place. And they’re not the good kind of MC that looks out for the community—no charity rides or brotherhood. No, they’re thugs who thrive on chaos and fear. She didn’t just leave me; she abandoned me for a life of mayhem, for a man whose idea of a bath is standing in the rain. The betrayal still stings, fresh as a wound that refuses to heal, festering with each thought of her and the life she’s chosen over the one we shared.

“Dammit,” I whisper, my voice gruff with unspoken anger. “Not now.”

I force my gaze from the window, but images of Rebecca intertwine with glimpses of the newcomer, two women, worlds apart. One sought the thrill of danger; the other seems like she might be running from her own brush with danger. As if she might enjoy a quiet Sunday reading in the sun or the comfort of a stable life, the kind I once thought I’d found with Rebecca. I can’t help but wonder what storm she’s unwittingly sailed into by moving here.

“Edward, keep it together,” I coach myself, ignoring the inexplicable pull of curiosity that tugs at me.

But I know, deep down, that the fragile peace I’ve cobbled together is about to be shattered. It’s only a matter of time before the past roars back into my life, and I’m unsure if I’m ready to confront it.

I catch another fleeting glance of her through the window, and something inside me shifts, an ache I thought had long gone dormant. It’s a reluctant admission that no matter how tough I pretend to be, there might just be a sliver of hope left in this scarred heart of mine. And that terrifies me more than any biker gang ever could.

A few weeks later, I’m on my front porch again, the wood creaking beneath my boots as I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The dusky sky bleeds orange and purple, a beautiful wound across the horizon. It’s quiet out here. Too quiet, like the calm before the storm. The kind of silence that brings a heavy weight as if the world is holding its breath.

I’ve been trying to steer clear of trouble, or what looks like trouble, but it’s not in my nature to ignore a new face, especially one that moves in right next door. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that getting to know her would invite more chaos into my life.

“Trust is a luxury,” I mumble under my breath, a mantra that’s become all too familiar.

There was a time when I believed in people, believed in second chances and fresh starts. But after Rebecca? After she chose thatlife over ours, I don’t know what to believe anymore. My heart has become a heavy stone inside me, sinking me deeper into a sea of skepticism, a weight that pulls me down every time I dare to think about letting someone in.

The evening air is cooling, and I pull my coat tighter around me as the chill seeps through the seams. I should go inside and shut out the world like I usually do, but something keeps me rooted here, staring at the house next door. Memories flood in, memories of a home a few miles on the other side of town. Memories of people who didn’t reject me, as so many others have in my life.

James and Meredith Bland were different; they saw something in a sullen, unloved boy that no one else bothered to look for. They’d adopted me when I was twelve, my last hope for a family of my own. They were my haven in a merciless world. Every Christmas was a marvel with them, every Halloween an adventure. Even family vacations, something I never dreamed of, became memories etched in sunlight, warmth, and laughter.

“Life sure has a twisted sense of humor,” I say to no one, thinking about how James and Meredith were snatched away so suddenly.

Their plane went down somewhere over the Atlantic, in the Bermuda Triangle. Oddly enough, my parents were on their way to Bermuda to explore my father’s odd fascination with the Triangle, a place as mysterious and unforgiving as fate itself. I still remember staring at the ocean, its vast, indifferent expanse mocking me as if it, too, knew how quickly everything could slip away.

A light flicks on next door, pulling me from my reverie. I watch, curious despite myself, as shadows move within. She must besettling in, making that space her own, adding bits of herself to a place that’s been empty for so long. I should feel indifferent, but a tug pulls at my chest, a whisper of something like concern. But why? Making friends with her would probably lead to me being even more pissed off than I already am.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” I chuckle darkly, acknowledging the dilemma she’s unknowingly thrust upon me.

I stand, my joints stiff from sitting too long, and head inside.

“Keep to yourself, Edward,” I tell the empty room as I close the door behind me. “It’s safer that way.”

But even as I try convincing myself, I know that safety is an illusion, one that shattered the day James and Meredith’s plane failed to make it to Bermuda. And deep down, I fear that whatever peace I’ve found since that horrible day and the day my wife left me might be the eye of the storm. I’m in the middle, waiting for it to fling me into nothingness on its destructive course.

Jesus, I’m a miserable fucker. I know it, but I can’t seem to do anything about it. I’ve stopped taking care of myself. Despite my active lifestyle, I’ve gained weight. Sure, I’m strong, but my gut protrudes over my belt these days, and my once-solid frame has softened around the edges. I have no illusions about myself—I’m not some chiseled gym junkie like the guys on the covers of those romances Rebecca used to read. Those days, if they ever existed, are long behind me.

I change into black pajama pants and a black t-shirt, frowning at my bedroom window. It faces hers, and I don’t want to think about how I know that. I don’t want to remember catching her changing one night or how I kept the curtain pulled away fromthe window, hidden in the shadows, as I watched her undress. Yeah, add Peeping Tom to my list of sins.

I slide into bed, telling myself that sleep will bring me peace.

The growl of motorcycles rips through my sleep, shattering the stillness of the night. I’m on my feet before I’m fully awake, instincts that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anger driving me to the window. Through the glass, I see them. The Demons circle the house next door like wolves scenting blood, their engines snarling against the silence.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, the familiar surge of fury that Rebecca’s betrayal always ignites pouring through me.

I know why they’re here. I’m a thorn in their sides, along with the land around my property. The bile of betrayal rises in my throat as I think about my ex-wife, her schemes as dirty as the bikers she’s thrown her lot in with. She thought she could break me, send me packing with my tail between my legs. But I’m rooted in this soil, defiant as an old oak.

I grab the baseball bat propped against the wall, a relic from a past life where home runs and cheers drowned out the roar of Harleys. As I barrel out the door, my heart thunders in my chest, but it’s not fear that fuels me; it’s a fierce resolve to stand my ground.

“Get the hell away from her house!” My voice is a cannon blast, cutting through the night.

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