Page 5 of Baby for the Bikers

Before I can talk myself out of it, I park in the empty spot right in front. The bell chimes softly as I enter. Coffee and vanilla fill my lungs, familiar scents that almost make me forget to check exits and escape routes.

“Welcome!” The barista’s smile is genuine. Her name tag reads Sarah. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee. Black.” My voice comes steadier than I feel. “And maybe one of those chocolate croissants?”

“Good choice. Just got them out of the oven.” She moves to the coffee station. “New in town?”

My shoulders tense, but her smile holds no threat. “That obvious?”

“Small town. We notice fresh faces.” She slides my coffee across the counter. “Especially ones who look at our pastries with so much interest.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Used to work in a kitchen.”

“Planning to again?” She packages my croissant in brown paper. “Heard Mae’s got a space opening up.”

“Maybe.” I take a careful sip of coffee—perfect temperature, perfect strength. “If things work out.”

“They usually do here.” Her smile widens. “Wolf Pike’s good at giving people fresh starts.”

The way she says it makes something in my chest loosen slightly. Maybe this town really understands new beginnings.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I leave cash on the counter.

“Come back soon!” Her voice follows me out. “We always need more good bakers in town.”

My car starts easier this time; maybe it just needed a rest. I check my list—grocery store next, then maybe that thrift shop I spotted earlier. Basic supplies to start testing recipes.

Black Dog Garage appears ahead, gleaming chrome and custom paint jobs displayed in the windows. My hands tighten on the wheel again, but I force them to relax. Not every motorcycle shop is connected to a club.

A perfect parking spot opens up right in front of the building. The universe is giving me a sign, maybe. Telling me this fresh start could work.

I check my mirrors obsessively as I pull past the space. More shop doors opening. More people starting their days.

My first attempt at parallel parking goes badly. I cut the wheel too late and end up at the wrong angle. Have to pull out and try again.

Three custom motorcycles line the curb behind me. Beautiful machines. The kind of bikes he’d kill to add to his collection.

Stop thinking about Dad.

The second attempt is worse than the first.

The truck’s backfire hits like a gunshot. Pure instinct makes me jump. My foot slips off the clutch. The car lurches backward before I can stop it.

The first impact feels like destiny shattering. Custom chrome catches sunlight as it twists—fork stabilizers I recognize from Dad’s personal collection, probably eight hundred just for those. The bike falls like poetry written in destruction, dragging down a second machine with hand-painted flames that probably cost more than three months’ rent.

The third bike’s gas tank reflects morning sun until it doesn’t. The kind of paint job that takes weeks to layer properly—each coat has to cure before the next. The thundering crash of metal meeting pavement makes my bones shake.

I’m out of the car before the last echo dies, moving on autopilot. Three steps to assess damage—Dad’s training never really leaves you. Quick sweep for witnesses—four people on the street,all civilians. Security cameras—probably, but no time to map angles.

The first bike’s chrome is scattered like broken dreams. The second’s frame is twisted beyond repair. The third…god, the third looks like someone’s masterpiece destroyed by my panic.

Combat math races through my head—repair costs, escape routes. Time before police response in a town this size. Whether the owners are close enough to hear.

Move.

The command burns through my panic. Years of club life taught me what to do when things go wrong: Don’t freeze, don’t panic, just move.

I pull away from the scene carefully—not too fast, not too suspicious. Just another car going about its morning business. Nothing to see here. My hands shake so badly I almost hit the curb, but at least I don’t take out any more bikes.

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