Page 1 of A Christmas Surprise for the Biker

Chapter One

Braelynn

The Greyhound pulls into the bus station, its brakes squealing loudly before finally comes to a complete stop. Eyes wide, I glance down at my son, praying that God-awful noise didn’t wake him again. I let out the breath I was holding when I see he’s still sleeping soundly in his car seat beside me.

Thank the gods.

Ryder was fussy the entire ride from Jacksonville to Miami. My gut tells me he knows something is off. They say babies can pick up on stress, and I’ve been a nervous wreck since the second we climbed on this bus this morning.

To make matters worse, I haven’t missed the looks I’ve gotten from the people seated around us. Some have pity on their faces for the single mom all alone on a bus with a screaming baby. Others have disdain written all over their judgy faces.

Assholes.

I can’t worry about it, though. I came here to confront my son’s father, and that’s the only thing I need to be focused on.

“Here we go, baby boy.”

I unbuckle Ry’s car seat, then slide out into the aisle, lifting his carrier into one hand while adjusting my backpack and his diaper bag on my shoulder with the other.

Time to get the hell off this bus.

Loaded down with too much stuff, I inch down the aisle toward the front, not missing the latest round of judgmental looks. It’s taking all my self-control not to snap at them.

Do they think I don’t know what I look like with the dark circles under my eyes, my hair that looks like a rat’s nest pulled up on top of my head in a messy bun, and my clothes that are covered with my baby’s spit-up?

I get it.

I’m a hot mess, but losing everything I worked for while trying to figure out how to be a mom hasn’t been easy.

Whatever.

I lift my chin and steel my spine as I maneuver down the steps. When I hit the bottom one and step out into the Miami heat, I look around for a taxi. My heart sinks when I don’t see one anywhere.

“Shit.” This place is a ghost town.

I guess with it being Christmas Eve, nobody wanted to be working, hauling around tourists when they can be at home with their families.

My eyes drop to my son. “Looks like we’re walking, buddy.”

Hiking our bags higher up on my shoulder and adjusting my hold on Ry’s carrier, I take off in the direction of the Miami Saints clubhouse.

Ready or not. Here we come.

What has to be every bit of two miles, I finally see the clubhouse come into view. Thank the gods.

I’ve got sweat in places I don’t even want to think about. Approaching the fence that surrounds the compound, I set Ryder’s carrier down on the ground and look around. The fence is high, every bit of ten feet with razor wire at the top. I’m surprised at how different it is from the clubhouse in Jacksonville.

“How the hell do we get in there?” I whisper the words out loud as I look around for a way in.

No sooner are the words out of my mouth than a man wearing a black leather cut and faded jeans step outside the gate with his eyes trained on me.

“What the fuck are you doing snooping around out here?” he shouts, his voice deep and growly.

I quickly grab the handle of Ry’s car seat and take a healthy step back. This guy is huge, and he doesn’t look friendly at all.

“I’m looking for Legend.”

His massive arms cross over his chest and my eyes zero in on the Prospect patch on the front of his leather vest.

---