Page 3 of The Biker & the Baker

When, two years into their marriage, the two men told Brei-Ayn and Mike they decided to adopt a boy and a girl, twins, victims of severe parental neglect, they couldn’t be happier, especially since the woman suffered her fourth miscarriage in a row and was still depressed. She volunteered to help her brother and his husband with advice and whatever else they might need, and was a blessing in disguise for the two.

She still is, Albert smiled, leaving the room. He walked to the end of the hall, then stopped in front of a door. After listening intently for a few seconds, he opened it and, from the door frame, contemplated the two twelve-year-old children sleeping serenely on their beds, a tender smile brightening his features.

A few minutes later, on the way to his room, Albert shook his head, wondering what he was thinking about when he let that fucker Rick into his life. Three years passed since Clayton died, and he was doing fine by himself, with Brei-Ayn and Mike being there and helping him to overcome the grief, and the children

The leather-clad, brick-like biker was as different from Albert’s deceased husband as the day was from the night. Bearded, long-haired, with a guttural voice, inked skin, rough manners, no desire to settle down and having a place of his own, and little to no love for children, Rick was everything Clayton wasn’t.

According to the shrink Albert started to see over the past few months, it was precisely this what drew him to the biker. Each time he went there, the man let the psychiatrist talk,politely listening to their theories, but, deep down, he knew the answer: he craved something his supportive in-laws or the children couldn’t give him: the physical intimacy, the feeling of a warm body resting next to him, of a strong arm protectively wrapped around his waist.

Rick gave him that at the beginning of their relationship, and that was why Albert forgave him so easily after the first beating. Thinking with the heart of the man in love, and not with the mind of the one in danger, he considered it a slip, an isolated incident. He was bitterly wrong, of course, but, when he finally realized, Rick’s hold on him became too tight for him to escape.

Albert stepped into the room serving as his temporary bedroom for him, plopped down on the bed, head buried in his hands. Scenes of the abuse he endured at the hands of his biker boyfriend’s hands flooded his mind, and it took all his strength to push the dark memories back in the furthest corner of his mind.

I have more important things to focus on, Albert thought, standing and heading to the nightstand. He took the paper from the top of the furniture piece, sat on the bed again and started studying it with great interest. Detailed directions to that sanctuary for the victims of domestic violence, names of the people to contact once he’ll get there, and a couple of emergency phone numbers—Old Jim’s nephew or whoever the guy was really thought about everything.

The name of his only friend from that hellhole biker colony brought a pale smile to Albert’s lips. The man, ownerof a tattoo parlor, had the reputation of a hermit, but he took an instant liking to the blond, vulnerable newcomer, who, with his soft voice and warm, kind eyes, didn’t seem to fit into that loud crowd or share their hobbies, limited to drinking, swearing, fighting with one another or against other biker gangs, and doing drugs.

For quite some time, Albert limited his interactions with Old Jim to replying to the man’s greetings and a short conversation about weather. This was mainly because, although he didn’t possess an impressive physique, the tattooist was, for some odd reason, respected, feared even, by all the inhabitants of the biker colony.

Eventually, Old Jim’s manners, his smooth, heavily accented, but cultivated voice, and great love for books and reading won Albert over. To his great surprise and shock, Rick didn’t object to him being friends with the owner of the tattoo parlor, and used this opportunity to sneak out of the colony and visit his children, left in Brei-Ayn’s care, every day.

Smiling, Albert remembered how he spent hours on end listening fascinated to Old Jim’s stories about the Bratva, the Russian Mafia, their most powerful and respected leaders, and the numerous times they collaborated with the local and federal police in dismantling child trafficking rings and rescuing the innocent victims.

For some time, Albert thought Old Jim’s stories were just that, until one day, when he brought the subject of the Mafia helping the authorities in a conversation with Brei-Ayn, andhis sister-in-law confirmed the information. She added the old tattooist must have been a very important person in the Bratva’s hierarchy; not everyone had access to that kind of stuff or permission to talk about it.

Well, Albert said to himself, going back to the sheet of paper in his hand, I guess we’ll never know. Elias, the de facto boss; Ardan, the founder; Lothier, the chief of security; Fergus, the head of the HR department. At this point, the man huffed a short laugh. Really, he thought, why would a sanctuary for domestic violence victims need something like that?

Carter, the psychiatrist that specialized in domestic violence and sexual abuse trauma; Peyton, the school’s principal; Ira, Elias’s right hand; Digger, head guard at the gates. No last names, Albert frowned, as he continued reading, only nicknames, given names, and the position each of them holds in whatever this is.

Albert shrugged. Well, I guess they have good reasons to keep their identities secret. Brian, the librarian. The name made the man softly gasp, as a hopeful smile spread on his face.

CHAPTER 3

If his childhood friend Brian worked at that military base, or whatever that place was, he and his children will be safe and protected. The thought renewed Albert’s hope in a better future for the three of them, without him constantly having to look over his shoulder to see if Rick was not following them. Now, with Old Jim dead, nothing and no one was standing between that predator and his vulnerable prey.

Money. This was what the muscular, tattooed biker saw in Albert the whole time, but he was gullible enough to believe the other one’s compliments on his look and fun conversation. Not gullible, Albert mentally scoffed at himself, but vain and stupid.He should have imagined that someone leading a nomadic life was attracted by a widowed homebody, with roots and a routine, predictable life.

The man shook his head, the gesture meant to help him push the bad memories and thoughts back in the furthest corner of his memory. It worked, Albert starting to think instead about Brian the librarian whose name was featured on that list, but his mood remained gloomy. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that his childhood friend and the librarian were two different persons.

The Brian Albert knew had high dreams and hopes, he wanted to study to become a teacher for special needs children, like his mother he adored and admired. The boy was also greatat track running, the best of their school, already having a few trophies under his belt at the age of fourteen, before their ways parted so unexpectedly.

Albert was sure his best friend, hard-working and stubborn as he knew him, didn’t abandon track running; on the contrary, he most likely used it to secure a college scholarship, if his love for study faded away during high school. Brian had a lot of options to choose from, he wouldn’t have settled for something so underpaid.

Sleep, elusive until then, started to circle Albert, making his eyes droopy and lids heavy, so he shrugged all the thoughts off, put the piece of paper back on the nightstand, and, turning the light off, got on the bed, pulling the blankets over him.For the first time in so long, tension left his mind and body, replaced by relaxation and serenity.

***********

“Hello, mister, where to?” The biker member of Steel Raiders MC guarding The Base’s gates scanned the man in front of him from head to toe.

“I…um…I want to get inside.” The imposing stature and somewhat harsh voice of the guard intimidated Albert, who started to stutter. “I’ve heard the victims of…um…domestic abuse can find protection and shelter here and…”

The biker cut him short. “You don’t look like a victim of domestic violence to me, buddy, and trust me, I saw a lot. Sorry, but you better go back to where you came from.”

“Oh, come on, Wheeler, give the poor guy a break!” A long-haired, bearded man on the other side of the gate exclaimed, a hint of amusement in his deep, rich voice. “He almost pissed his pants off. We have to welcome and help those in need, not scare them.”

“You are absolutely right, Digger.” The guard from outside replied in a bit softer, even submissive voice. “On the other hand, this one is well-fed, with a clean face. No bruises, no black eyes, and he doesn’t look terrified either.” The edge from earlier was back in the biker’s voice.

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to judge a book by its cover?” The guard going by the name of Digger calmly spoke, casting a concern-filled look in Albert’s direction. “I’d say you let the guy in and escort him to the clinic. He may be bleeding internally, have a broken rib or another injury that’s not visible with the naked eye.”

---