Page 3 of Baby for the Bikers

Her kitchen assessment is spot-on. With six burners, double ovens, endless prep space, and professional-grade equipment, I’ve hit a gold mine.

“Rent’s month-to-month.” Mae settles at the small table. “First and last due today. Utilities included except gas. And honey? No parties.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Not really the party type.”

“Good. The last thing I need is a bunch of kids thinking they can turn this place into a rave spot.” She pulls out a map. “Now, grocery store’s here. Hardware store there. Laundromat’s two blocks over. Diner makes decent breakfast, but skip the meatloaf.”

I try to focus on her directions, but my eyes keep catching on her tattoos. That’s definitely club work. The kind only certain artists can do.

“Town’s pretty quiet.” She marks something else on the map. “Some bike traffic from the garage down the street, but they keep it respectful.”

My heart skips. “Bike garage?”

“Black Dog. Good boys, do quality work.” She waves dismissively. “Don’t let the leather fool you. This town’s got all types.”

I must look as exhausted as I feel because she stands, gathering her mug. “Get some rest, honey. Shop for supplies tomorrow. Here are your keys—building, apartment, mailbox. My number’s on the fridge if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I mean it more than she knows. “For the coffee and…”

“For not asking questions?” Her smile turns knowing. “Honey, everybody’s running from something. Just keep your nose clean, and we’ll get along fine.”

She leaves me with keys, a map, and the unsettling feeling that she sees more than I want her to.

I stand in my new kitchen, staring at the motorcycle mug she left, debating everything I know about Mae. The tattoos say she understands the life I’m running from. That knowing look in her eyes says she’s probably helped others run before. But that could make her more dangerous, not less.

Dad always said there are three types of people who leave the life: the dead, the imprisoned, and the ones smart enough to become resources. Mae doesn’t look dead or imprisoned. Which means she either got out clean—almost impossible—or she maintains connections.

The map she marked sits on my counter, innocent-looking but full of information I didn’t ask for. Every mark could be helpful guidance or careful surveillance. Every friendly suggestion could be a test.

But the alternative is running again.

Trust no one—that’s the first rule of running. But maybe, just maybe, Mae earned her freedom the same way I’m trying to.Maybe those old tattoos represent a past she left behind, not connections that could drag me back.

I’ll have to be careful. Watch for signs of contact with other clubs. Listen for names I recognize. But for now, I have the keys to a perfect kitchen and a landlady who didn’t ask the questions most people would.

My car is still loaded with my life’s remains—what little I could take with me without my father or his guard’s notice. It takes three trips to get everything upstairs, and by then, my arms shake from fatigue. But the budget I’ve mapped out won’t stretch if I don’t get supplies today.

Clean clothes help. Real food would help more.

The grocery store Mae marked is small but well stocked. I fill my cart with the basics—cleaning supplies, paper towels, coffee, and real food that doesn’t come from a gas station. The cashier makes small talk about the weather, and I manage to sound normal.

By the time I put everything away, the sun is setting. My arms ache from carrying bags, but the apartment feels more like mine now. The coffee maker is set up, the air mattress has fresh sheets, and there’s food in the fridge. I’m getting started on my sandwich, and life is worth living again.

The kitchen’s potential taunts me. Tomorrow, I’ll see what those ovens can do. Tonight, I’m too tired to do more than eat a sandwich and dream about what this place could become.

A real bakery. Display cases filled with things I create just because they’re beautiful. No more coded messages in frosting patterns. No more special deliveries that have nothing to do with baking.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs freeze me mid-thought. Not Mae’s familiar tread. These are boots, coming up slow and steady.

They stop outside my door.

The knock makes me jump enough to slosh water over my sandwich plate.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, bright with forced cheer. “2A here—brought you a welcome dinner!”

I press my eye to the peephole and see a middle-aged woman with a covered dish.

Unlocking the deadbolt makes my hands shake a little. Three months of running can make you forget how to do normal things, like answering doors.

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