Page 16 of Baby for the Bikers

“You think I care what that drunk thinks?” I keep my voice steady. “We’re not here for recognition.”

“We deserve some fucking respect.” Maddox’s knuckles go white around his glass.

“No.” I lean closer. “What we deserve is to sleep at night and wake up in the morning like normal people—without nightmares.”

The drunk at the bar is still going, but his words fade behind the roaring in my ears. This morning rushes back—waking from another nightmare where I’m too late, the girl’s already cold, and the men responsible are laughing. Waking to the silence of our house instead of helicopter rotors and commands.

Waking and remembering: We’re home now. We’re done. We’re free.

Except freedom feels more like exile some days.

“You remember what Matthews said when he handed us those checks?” I ask quietly. “When Cerberus officially cut us loose?”

Maddox’s anger falters. “Hard to forget being told we’re too fucked-up to be useful anymore.”

“He wasn’t wrong.” The whiskey makes honesty easier. “We were burning out. You with the drinking. Ryder barely speaking. Me not sleeping for days. We needed out before there was nothing left of us.”

“So what, we just let assholes like that talk shit about us?” He gestures toward the bar where the man is still holding court. “When they have no idea what we’ve done?”

“Yes.” I meet his eyes. “Because what we’ve done stays buried. Because we agreed to walk away clean. Because Tank would’ve wanted us to build something here, not burn it down because we’re unappreciated heroes.”

The mention of Tank does what nothing else could—deflates Maddox’s anger like a punctured tire.

“Fine.” He drains his whiskey. “But I’m not feeling particularly charitable about the diner discount for that asshole.”

I almost smile. “Fair enough.”

We settle our tab and head out before the situation can escalate. The night air clears my head as we walk back toward Black Dog. Stars blanket the sky above Wolf Pike, more visible here than in any of the cities we’ve operated in.

“You think we can do this?” Maddox asks suddenly. “Just be normal guys running businesses? After everything?”

The question hangs heavy between us. Can men who’ve seen what we’ve seen, done what we’ve done, ever truly come back? Can hands that have ended lives really build something worth keeping?

“I think we have to try.” I look at him—at my brother, who has followed me into hell more times than I can count. “I think that’s why Cerberus paid us off even though we didn’t want the money. So we’d have a chance to build something that doesn’t have blood in the foundation.”

We walk in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. The diner space comes into view—its windows still covered in brown paper, equipment waiting to be installed. Tomorrow, it will transform from an empty space into Black Dog Bites, our slice of normal in a world that’s anything but.

“One step at a time,” Maddox echoes the mantra we lived by in the field. “Starting with that baker and her five-grand debt.”

“Starting with the diner,” I correct him. “Focus on building first.”

“Whatever you say, big brother.” His grin returns, the shadow of the past receding again. “But you can’t tell me you weren’t thinking about those cupcakes. Or the woman who made them.”

I don’t bother denying it. The memory of Rowan Callahan’s defiant eyes and skilled hands has been circling my mind all day, competing with business plans and old nightmares.

“One step at a time,” I repeat, more to myself than him.

7

ROWAN

Steam billowsaround me as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body. The bathroom mirror shows a pink-cheeked version of myself, eyes a little too bright despite the exhaustion that should be dragging me down. What a day. What an absolutely insane day.

My mind keeps circling back to one detail that just won’t let go. Ryder Kane took my underwear. Just reached into my drawer, chose the expensive black lace panties I bought to remind myself I’m still a woman under all the running, and pocketed them like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The only time I’ve ever read about a man taking a woman’s underwear was in a book I picked up at a rest stop somewhere in Utah. The main character was a complete psychopath, but in that fictional, sanitized way that made heat pool in my belly despite knowing better. Now, it’s happened in real life, and I’m not sure what to do with the fact that my body’s reaction isn’t all that different.

I wring out my hair, patting it dry as I walk to my bedroom. The apartment feels bigger than it did this morning, emptiersomehow. The broken door stands as evidence that today wasn’t just a bizarre dream.

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