Page 4 of Baby for the Bikers

“Hi, honey!” She breezes past me with the confidence of someone used to mothering. “I’m Annie from across the hall. Thought you might like a hot meal after moving.”

She heads straight for my kitchen, chattering about the building, the town, and how long she’s lived here. I catch maybe half of it, focusing instead on her movements. No club stance. No watchful eyes. Just…neighborly.

“You’ll want to get that back burner checked,” she says, putting her casserole down. “Previous tenants said it runs hot. And the oven door sticks sometimes, but my husband can fix it—he’s good with repairs.”

I’m still standing by my open door like an idiot when boots sound on the stairs again. Heavy steps, but not club heavy. A man appears—tall, bearded.

“Speak of the devil,” Annie laughs. “Tom, stop lurking and come meet our new neighbor.”

“Just checking the hall light,” he rumbles, but he comes in anyway. “Heard you moved in earlier. Everything working okay?”

I manage to nod. They’re so normal it hurts—just a couple looking out for the new girl. Annie serves casserole while Tom points out things about the apartment I should know. Which windows stick. Where the fuse box is. How to bang the radiator just right in winter.

A motorcycle roars past below, and I flinch hard enough to drop my fork. They don’t seem to notice.

“Black Dog boys heading home,” Tom says casually. “They keep decent hours, at least. Not like that crew that used to race at midnight.”

They don’t stay long—just enough to make sure I eat and have their numbers “in case anything needs fixing.” The apartment feels too quiet after they leave.

Another bike passes, but this time, the memories come with it.

It doesn’t take long before I hear another knock on the door. It’s different from Annie’s—lighter and almost hesitant.

The woman in 2C looks about my age. Dark circles under her eyes say single mom before she tells me.

“Just wanted to introduce myself,” she says, shifting a sleeping toddler on her shoulder. “I’m Kate. This is Ben. We’re right next door if you need anything.”

She doesn’t try to come in, just offers a tired smile and a welcome to the building.

“Thank you so much,” I tell her before she retreats to her apartment.

I stare longingly at the hallway. My neighbors are normal people living normal lives. The kind of life I could have if I do this right.

Once I’m back inside, I head straight to bed. I need all the rest I can get, because tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of my life.

2

ROWAN

My eyes snapopen at dawn, body still programmed for early rising despite getting no real sleep. The industrial kitchen gleams in the morning light, all that beautiful equipment waiting to be used. But first—coffee. And definitely a shower.

The bathroom mirror shows exactly how rough three months of running look. I brush my teeth hard enough to make my gums ache, like I can scrub away the exhaustion and morning breath. I splash cold water on my face until my eyes feel less gritty.

Clean clothes help, even if they’re wrinkled from living in my car. I pull my dark hair into a messy bun. The woman in the mirror looks almost normal, almost like someone who could belong in a small mountain town.

The morning air holds that mountain crispness I’m still getting used to as I head downstairs. My car sits where I left it last night, dusty but faithful. When I turn the key, it makes that worrying sound, which means it definitely needs maintenance soon. But it starts—it always starts, even after three months of highways and back roads with no proper care.

Main Street glows gold in the morning sun. A woman sweeps her storefront while her daughter helps, their matching aprons making my throat tight. Emma and I used to play normal like that. We’d sneak into Mom’s kitchen early, pretending we ran a real bakery instead of Dad’s front.

“Two chocolate cupcakes, please!” Emma would chirp, barely tall enough to see over the counter. At six years old, she still believed we could have regular lives.

“Coming right up, valued customer!” I’d play along, careful to keep my voice down. Dad hated hearing us pretend.

We got good at being quiet. At finding moments to be normal between Dad’s jobs. Even after Mom died, we kept playing—me teaching Emma to bake real things while the club slept off another party.

I grip the steering wheel harder, pushing away the ache of missing my sister. She’s safe now. That’s what matters.

A small café catches my eye—The Morning Bean. The front windows showcase pastries that make my eyes widen. Through the glass, I spot the morning crowd getting their caffeine fix.

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