Page 6 of Baby for the Bikers

The drive back to my apartment feels endless. Every motorcycle sound makes my heart race, and I keep expecting leather-clad riders to appear in my rearview mirror.

I take three extra turns, doubling back twice to make sure no one follows. Old habits. The coffee and croissant sit forgotten beside me, the morning’s brief hope of normalcy as crushed as those chrome pipes I left scattered on the street.

My hands won’t stop shaking as I navigate the quiet streets. Every stoplight feels like exposure. Every passing car could be someone who saw what happened. By the time I pull into my apartment building’s back lot, my shirt sticks to my spine with cold sweat.

Some first impression I’m making in Wolf Pike.

Dad would be so proud.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” The voice makes me jump as I get out of my car. It’s Kate from 2C. She stands by her car, Ben balanced on her hip. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” The word comes out too sharp. I force my voice softer. “Just… It’s nothing.” I swallow my confession. Can’t risk having any witnesses.

She studies my face with the knowing look of someone who understands running. “If you need anything…”

“Thanks.” I manage something like a smile.

Inside my apartment, the morning sun fills the kitchen with mockingly cheerful light. I pace the length of the counter once, twice, three times. The urge to run burns in my blood.

I could leave now. My car’s still running warm. I’ve got enough cash left. Could be two states away before anyone connects me to those destroyed bikes.

But my eyes catch on the kitchen equipment I’ll never find again. The perfect layout for a bakery. The dream I’ve carried since before Dad twisted it into something darker.

The coffee cup from The Morning Bean sits on my counter, half empty and still warm. Normal coffee from a normal café in a normal town. Everything I’ve wanted since I first started planning my escape.

Running means starting over again. It means finding another perfect kitchen, another quiet town, and another chance at alegitimate business. It means letting Dad win, in a way. Letting his life ruin any chance I have at building my own.

Before I can think too hard about it, I pull out mixing bowls, measuring cups, and the basic supplies I bought yesterday.

No one saw me hit those bikes. No one knows which apartment I live in. No one’s looking for me yet.

Maybe, just maybe, I can fix this. Pay for repairs anonymously once the bakery starts making money. Make it right without revealing myself.

The familiar rhythm of baking helps steady my hands. Vanilla extract and fresh butter—this is the recipe I perfected at sixteen, back when I still thought Dad’s kitchen was just a kitchen.

The first batch of cupcakes slides into the oven just as voices drift up from the street. Male voices. Deep. Angry.

I press myself against the wall beside my window, my instincts screaming danger. But it’s just locals talking about the bikes—normal people reacting to property damage.

The oven timer dings to remind me to rotate the pans.

The cupcakes rise perfectly golden, and the frosting whips to exact peaks. The rhythms of baking help push back the panic that’s trying to claw up my throat.

A door slams somewhere below. Heavy boots on the stairs make my whole body tense.

The chocolate ganache drips precisely from my piping bag. I manage to keep my hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Each cupcake gets the same perfect swirl and the same delicate design.

Just focus on baking. Just focus on creating something beautiful. Just focus on anything except the voices getting closer.

3

BRICK

The supplierin Mason City always holds the good parts for me. Been that way since Tank first introduced us, back when Black Dog was just a dream in a run-down building. This morning’s haul is worth the early drive—custom chrome pieces you can’t find anywhere else, as well as specialty tools most mechanics don’t even know exist.

Maddox sprawls in the passenger seat of our work truck, boots on the dash like always. In the rearview, I catch Ryder going through the inventory list again. Three brothers, three different ways of handling the morning.

“Could’ve waited ’til later for parts.” Maddox yawns. “Sun’s barely up.”

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