Page 2 of Baby for the Bikers

Three months of running, and this is where I end up. A town I picked off a map because it looked far enough from anything important that Dad wouldn’t think to look here.

The motel room in Utah comes back to me—three nights ago, spread across a bed that smelled like cheap detergent, maps covering every surface. Seattle is too obvious. Portland has too many club connections. San Francisco might as well be in Dad’s backyard.

Las Vegas tempted me—easy to disappear in crowds, plenty of bakery opportunities. But Dad’s reach extends through every casino kitchen. One high roller requesting special pastries and I’d be made.

Denver looked promising until I remembered the Rocky Mountain chapter of Dad’s club. Chicago has too many questions about new businesses. New York is too expensive to start fresh.

Then I spotted Wolf Pike. Just a dot on the map, tucked into mountains far from major highways. No club territories marked in my mental map of Dad’s alliances. Small enough to need a good bakery, big enough to support one. Three hours from the nearest major city—close enough for suppliers, far enough for safety.

I traced my finger along the mountain roads leading there, remembering Mom’s stories about growing up in a small town. About neighbors who look out for each other. About the kind of life I’ve only seen in other people’s kitchens.

Back in the present, my back aches from too many hours hunched over the wheel. My stomach’s been empty so long it’s forgotten how to feel hungry.

I take the exit marked “Welcome to Wolf Pike—Population 5,243.”

The sign needs repainting. Its shabby honesty makes me relax a bit. Not too perfect, after all.

I pass a supermarket first—one of those local places, not a chain. It’s perfect because local means suppliers who are willing to work with small businesses. It means fresh ingredients without corporate paperwork.

The gas station on the corner still has prices from the 1990s. The diner next door promises “Best Pie in Three Counties.” I make a mental note to test that claim later, solely for competition research.

Main Street wraps around the mountain like it grew there naturally. Old brick buildings, most of which were probably built decades ago, shoulder up against each other.

My eyes catch on a motorcycle repair shop—Black Dog something—but I force myself not to stare. Not because I’m scared—there are thousands of outlaw motorcycle clubs in the United States and there’s a zero percent chance that they know of my Dad’s MC—but because I don’t want to remind myself of the life I’ve run away from.

A group of kids rides past on bicycles, laughing about something. Normal kids doing normal things. Not like the club kids I grew up with, learning to spot cops before they could walk.

I check my phone’s GPS again, though I’ve memorized the address. Dad always said knowledge keeps you alive. I push his voice away.

I find my apartment building easily enough—a two-story brick structure with a vacant storefront below. The realtor’s photos didn’t do justice to the vintage charm, the way the afternoon light hits the display windows.

A motorcycle idles at the curb—a clean vintage Harley. Its rider, a woman who has to be pushing seventy, stands beside it, checking her phone. Her leather jacket is worn softly with age, and tattoos peek from beneath her rolled-up sleeve.

The snake curling around her wrist catches my attention first—old work, probably from the seventies, but the style is unmistakable. West Coast traditional, the kind only certain artists were allowed to do back when clubs controlled every aspect of ink. The roses on her forearm show the same hand-clean lines despite decades of wear, the kind of quality that comes with earned trust.

But it’s the small marks I really notice. Dots and dashes that look random unless you know what to look for. Old school code, marking rank and affiliation. Not many people would recognize them now, but I grew up memorizing these patterns. Mae wasn’t just around clubs—she was, oris, deep in them.

“You must be Rowan.” Her smile transforms her weathered face. “I’m Mae. Your landlady.”

Her eyes are kind in a way I’ve never seen in the elderly people around me.

“Sorry, I’m late,” I manage. “Traffic was?—”

“Honey, you’re right on time.” She pockets her phone. “Come on up, I’ve got coffee brewing—in your apartment. You look like you could use some. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

I follow her up the stairs. The hallway smells like lemon cleaner, not cigarettes and leather. The carpet’s worn but clean. Two other apartments share this floor.

“Last tenants ran a catering business,” Mae says, unlocking the apartment door. “Moved to Seattle six months ago. Left all the equipment because shipping would’ve cost more than replacing it.”

The floors gleam and sunlight pours through clean windows.

“Kitchen’s industrial grade.” She heads straight for the coffee maker. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, please.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I was hoping to open a bakery downstairs eventually.”

“Good.” She hands me a mug decorated with motorcycles. “Town needs a decent bakery. Nearest place is too far for fresh stuff.”

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