Page 1 of Biker Daddy

Chapter One

Drew

Drew looked up from his school sketchbook, the stench of the alley making his stomach roll, and glanced at his father, AKA Trigger or Prez, across the street. His father held some dude’s shirtfront, probably scaring the shit out of him. He could have been a dealer, a junkie, or a pimp, but whatever he was, he owed the Grinders something.

Just another day in paradise, Drew decided and rolled his eyes before returning to his drawing. He leaned the book against the handlebars of his dad’s Harley and made a swooping motion with his pencil under the yellow glow of the street lamp. The line was bold and swift but so was the river he was drawing.

He was good, and not just for a twelve-year-old kid either. His art teacher said Drew had a talent that he’d never seen in a lifetime of teaching. The words had made Drew’s chest flutter with pride a moment before the promise of hope evaporated, taking his pride with it. He’d never be an artist. He’d never be anything other than a biker and for now that meant he ‘kept six’ or lookout for the Grinders. That was his life. He was the youngest member of the Skull Grinders MC, destined to take his father’s place as president one day and no one got out of the Skull Grinders unless they were in a body bag.

Drew glanced up again, hoping the guys were done because he had homework and his top rocker and one percenter patch wouldn’t get him out of detention, but his heart jumped into his throat at the sight.

His dad had a gun pressed to the dude’s temple. Drew swallowed, almost choking as his mouth dried. The guy had his hands up, begging, blubbering pleases and promises to do better. The look on his face was so fear-filled, Drew’s own gut quivered. Drew’s instinct was to stop his father. He hated the way the big man was nothing more than a bully, but when a flicker of movement caught Drew’s eye, he yelled out instinctually.

More movement in the alley alerted Drew that a young boy was following several steps behind the man who had caught his attention, and before Drew fully realized what was happening, the man rounded the corner and was shot to the ground. A guttural shout of pain ripped from the man’s throat as he clutched his chest and fell, the bag of takeout he’d been holding spilling out beside him. The sound of the gunshot registered milliseconds later, loud enough to make Drew’s ears ring. Drew turned his head slightly, and his eyes widened in horror as he saw his father holding the gun, a look of pure satisfaction on his dad’s face.

Tears pricked behind Drew’s eyes and he glared at the still figure on the ground. The little boy stood frozen, hidden from everyone’s sight but Drew’s, staring at his father. A dark spot grew at the crotch of the boy’s pants.

“Nosy shithead.” Drew’s father spat the words at the man lying on the ground as if they were something vile on his tongue, and they echoed off the brick and pavement.

His dad had shot an innocent man and it was Drew’s fault.

“You got a real sharp eye, kid.” His dad spun and walked casually back to the man his MC brothers were roughing up. Bile rose in Drew’s throat and his sketch pad dropped from his trembling fingers, fluttering beneath the Harley’s back tire. He ran for the bleeding man, sliding on his knees at the last second, scraping denim and flesh across the pavement. The others were too busy to notice as he pressed his hands over the bleeding chest wound.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t die.” Drew’s voice was a high-pitched whisper that he barely recognized. He looked at the boy. His pants were wet down both legs now. He was no more than five. “Run!” Drew’s eyes darted behind him where his father was still busy. “Run, kid, run!”

The man tried to speak, looking frantically at his boy and Drew leaned closer, hearing nothing but a gurgle escape his blue lips.

“I’ll make sure he’s safe,” Drew said, figuring the man was worried about his son.

Drew stood, his glassy eyes finding his father again. His father’s gun, pointed at the guy he’d been threatening, rang out and that man fell too. A lifeless lump and a vacant stare as the dead man’s head lolled to the side. Drew’s gut rolled and his skull felt like a balloon filled with helium. Tears fell from his eyes as he looked back down the alley.

The kid hadn’t moved. Drew jogged to the kid, grabbing his arm and shoving him behind a dumpster. He put his finger to his lips to tell him to stay quiet. The boy, wide-eyed with terror, nodded. Drew stared for a moment at the bloody handprint on the kid’s arm where he’d grabbed him.

If Drew hadn’t yelled out, the man might have lived and this boy might not have been traumatized—he might have still had a father. Drew whispered an apology to the kid and went back to the father, holding his hands over the wound again, before anyone noticed where he was.

The man’s lips formed the words ‘thank you’ and then he was gone. His eyes were vacant as Drew hovered over him, holding pressure on the bloody hole. Panic welled inside him. The guy was dead and his child, so young and innocent, had seen everything.

“Is he dead, kid?” Drew nodded at his father’s question, looking at his hands covered in sticky blood. “Come on.”

“Hey, I got his patch name, Trigger. Reaper… the kid’s just like a fucking reaper sending them off to the other side.”

Drew didn’t move; his eyes were frozen on his hands. His bloody palms.

“Kid, we gotta move it.” Sirens called out in the distance. “He did good, didn’t he?” his dad said and Mauler, the vice president, made an agreeing grunt. Dingo, his sergeant at arms, howled and barked, but Drew was too numb to move. A family had been destroyed. Somewhere someone was waiting for her husband and kid to come home with dinner.

“Jesus, Trigger. We gotta go. I’m not going down for murder,” Dingo said, making Drew look up. His father walked his bike to Drew.

“He’s earned a drink tonight, eh, boss? Somethin’ strong so he’ll grow some hair on his balls,” Mauler said with a chuckle but before Drew could protest, his father grabbed the scruff of his jacket and yanked him to his feet.

“Get on, Reaper,” he demanded, his eyes showing impatience. “And wipe the goddamned tears from your face. You’re acting like a fucking pussy.”

As they sped off, Drew pressed his face into the back of his father’s leather cut and ignored the loud roar, vibration, and the ruckus of laughter and hoots as they outrode the law.

He didn’t want a drink. The only things he wanted were for the two dead men to be alive again. And for him and that kid to have normal lives.

* * *

Drew shot up from the couch, sweat coating his entire body. Hating the recurring nightmare he had at least once a week, Drew threw his legs over the side in frustration and rubbed his bearded face. Goddammit. He needed a drink. Leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his face in his hands, he fought to ease the jitters the nightmare had left. He’d done his time. Drew had served four years in a youth offender facility and had done two more of parole. But no matter how much penance he’d done, no matter how illogical it was to feel responsible when he was only a kid, he’d never be free of the guilt.

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