Page 51 of Single Mom's Bikers

Her laugh gets cut short by my phone buzzing. Teller’s name flashes on the screen, and my good mood evaporates. Third call this week.

“You should take your call,” she says, already stepping away. “I’ve got to get back to work anyway.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot. “What happened?”

“Death’s Head hit Mario’s garage last night. Trashed three bikes we were storing there. Left their mark on the door.”

“Shit.” Mario’s shop sits two blocks from the elementary school. “Anyone hurt?”

“Just property damage. You need to be careful. I’m calling every fraction to warn them.” Ice forms in my gut. “We have a meeting in one hour.”

After hanging up, I watch Evie through my office window. She’s laughing at something Chase is showing her, completely unaware of the dangers unfolding in our town. I want to keep her that way.

The club meeting runs long. Every report brings fresh concerns—Death’s Head members watching school zones, recruiting local muscle, marking territory closer to our core businesses.

“They’re systematic,” Clay points out, marking locations on our map. “Working their way inward.”

“Using the schools as pressure points,” Kip adds. “Smart bastards.”

I study the pattern, memories surfacing of teaching Violet to count last week. Of Daisy reading us her favorite book. Of family dinners and bedtime stories and all the normal things I never thought I’d have.

“We should double the patrols around the schools,” I say. “But subtle. Don’t want to spook parents.”

Back home, Chase and Zane have already started preparing dinner. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills our kitchen—another of Mrs. Wilson’s recipes we’ve perfected over the years.

“Evie and the girls will be here at six,” Chase tells me, not looking up from his chopping. “And before you ask, yes, I cleaned my‘dungeon.’”

Zane snorts from where he’s setting the table. “Threw everything under the bed, you mean.”

“Like you’re any better.” I loosen my tie, trying to shake off club business. “Your room still has that half-built engine from last summer.”

“It’s art,” both my brothers say together, an old joke between us.

At exactly six, our doorbell rings. Violet bounces in first, already chattering about secret passages and hidden treasures. Daisy follows more sedately, but her eyes are wide as she takes in our space.

Then there’s Evie, standing in our doorway, looking nervous but perfect. “Hi.”

“Welcome to our home,” I say.

The tour starts in our living room, where photos tell our story. Us, as teenagers, fresh-faced and angry at the world. The old gallery storefront. Tank’s memorial service.

“Who’s this?” Evie asks, touching a frame.

“Mrs. Wilson when she was much younger,” I explain. “She basically adopted us when we moved in. Taught us to cook, kept us in line.”

“And now she spoils these two with cookies,” Chase adds as Violet inspects our TV setup.

Each room brings questions and stories spilling out naturally. My brothers join the tour, adding their own memories and their own pieces of our history.

“First tattoo Chase ever did.” I point to art framed in the hallway. “Nearly passed out halfway through.”

“Did not.” He ruffles Daisy’s hair as she examines the design. “Just got lightheaded.”

“From fear,” Zane adds helpfully.

The kitchen has always been the heart of our home. Now, it fills with new sounds—children’s laughter, Evie’s soft exclamations over family recipes posted on our fridge.

“It’s perfect,” Evie whispers, watching Violet help Chase with sauce while Daisy carefully arranges silverware under Zane’s guidance.

---