Page 14 of Siren's Salvation

Turmoil and Sera could have lost their baby.

Hell, the fucking bitch killed Sera’s grandpop.

If that isn’t some fucked up shit, I don’t know what is.

Before long the rumble of our engines fades as we approach the clubhouse gate.

A lean figure steps out from the guardhouse, and I recognize him immediately.

Bama.

His golden curls catch the late afternoon sun, making him look more like a surfer than a biker.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Bama calls out, a grin splitting his face. "If it ain't the prodigal sons returnin' home. Y'all are a sight for sore eyes!"

I can't help but chuckle.

His Alabama drawl is thick as molasses, a stark contrast to his California surfer boy looks.

"Bama," Kade nods, "Good to see you. How's things been up here?"

Bama's grin widens. "Oh, you know. Livin' the dream, one coffee run at a time."

As he buzzes us through, I catch a glimpse of a colorful tattoo peeking out from his collar—a snake wrapped around flowers.

Interesting choice for a guy who looks like he should be catching waves instead of riding Harleys.

We roll through the gate, and I can't shake the feeling that we're crossing some invisible line.

The clubhouse looms ahead, an unassuming building that holds more secrets than I can imagine.

"Remember what I said last night," Kade calls over his shoulder as we approach the garage. “Damn blizzard’s coming in. We need to get these bikes tucked away pronto."

The memory of our late-night hotel conversation comes flooding back.

Right, the storm.

Just what we need on top of everything else.

"Roger that," I reply, following Kade's lead as we pull into the garage.

As the door closes behind us, sealing us in, I can't help but wonder if we're locking ourselves in or locking the world out.

I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike, stretching out the kinks from the long ride.

My eyes scan the garage, taking in the tools, the spare parts, the same scent that reminds me of our club—gasoline, diesel, motor oil, carb and choke cleaner, engine degreaser.

It smells like a full on garage here.

It's familiar, comforting in a way.

No matter where you go, some things never change.

"Home sweet home, huh?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Cobra overhears me and snorts. "For now, at least. Don't get too comfortable, rookie. Something tells me this ain't gonna be a vacation."

I nod, knowing he's right.

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