Page 6 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

Once Kyra is settled in her booster seat, I get behind the wheel and check the mirrors. A Harley is parked a couple of houses down from ours, but it’s not Knox’s. I can’t see who the rider is, but I recognize the Riders’ vest and patches, even from this distance. It gives me a slight sense of safety if only for a moment or two as I turn the key in the ignition.

“Mommy, are you okay?” Kyra asks.

“Of course, baby. Why do you ask?” I’m trying so hard to sound happy and upbeat, even though my daughter has repeatedly proven she’s way more perceptive and hard to fool.

“You just look really tired.”

“Oh, I’m okay, Kyra, I promise. It was just a bad dream, but I’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight. You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?”

We lock eyes through the rearview mirror, and she smiles. “We’ll read a bedtime story,” Kyra says. “The one with the octopus and the puffer fish. You like that one.”

“Not as much as you, though.”

With Kyra dropped off at kindergarten and a warning left with their staff to remind them that her father isn’t allowed to approach her in any way as per the restraining order I got shortly before Calvin was arrested, I head into the nail salon with a glimmer of hope in my tired eyes. It’s been quiet, so far.

Outside, I bump into Paulie sitting on his Harley, patiently waiting for me.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a weak smile. “Knox told me about Calvin.”

“Hey, Paulie,” I reply. “Yeah. Crazy, huh?”

“I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. We were all just hoping it would be later.” He scoffs, tucking a lock of his wavy brown hair behind one pierced ear. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Robyn.”

“What are you sorry for?” I ask, somewhat confused.

Paulie gives me a weak shrug, barely able to look me in the eye. “I had a clue about what was going on with you and Calvin, and—”

“You know what, Paulie, I’m just going to go ahead and stop you right there,” I reply. “We’ve already had this conversation. And like I told you and the others before, you have nothing to be sorry about. It was a toxic relationship and a horrible marriage, yes, but it didn’t start out like that, okay? The abuse came in sequences. It was calculated. He knew what he was doing to keep me under his thumb until I had enough. Everything else, well, it doesn’t even matter anymore.”

“So, we’re cool, you and me?”

“We’ve been cool for almost four years, dude.”

Paulie chuckles lightly. “That’s good to hear, Robyn. Have a good day at work. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

“Thank you.”

Paulie and Calvin used to be best friends. They came up together. They joined the Rogue Riders together. They were inseparable, though they didn’t always share the same moral code. The rift between them grew wider after Knox and the guys found out about the violence directed at me and about how dangerous he had become.

I shudder as I walk into the salon, which is like a different world altogether.

“Morning, sunshine!” Rita, my colleague, calls, greeting me with a broad, veneered smile. “It’s just the two of us today. We’ve got the place to ourselves and maybe five clients between us.”

“And why does that make you happy?” I say and almost laugh. “It means less money.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got Thursday and Friday packed and then some,” she quips. “We’re getting the big fish too. There’s a fancy wedding on Sunday at the Roxbury, and all the Redwood royals will be coming in for a mani-pedi before that affair.”

I groan as I settle behind my workstation, first checking that all my tools and colors are handy. “I don’t know whether to rejoice or gag. Who’s going to deal with Mrs. Steiner?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Because we both know she’s going to be there. She’s at every wedding.”

“Oh, crap, I didn’t check the booking log for her,” Rita gasps, suddenly horrified.

I laugh as she rushes over to the reception desk to look through the booking software. I can almost see the beads of sweat blooming on her tanned forehead, followed by a tremendous exhale.

“Craaaaaaap,” she says.

“You’ve got Mrs. Steiner.” I’d laugh some more, but the bell above our front door chimes, and I turn to see who’s come in.

A woman in her late thirties walks in. She’s skinny but pretty, with her wavy brown hair combed into an elegant bun at the back of her head. She sashays across the reception area, giving me a full view of her peach-colored cashmere pencil skirt and jacket.

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