Page 21 of Hammer

“Yeah, Hammer,” Levi confirmed.“Chase says he’s got a granddaughter, and even a great-grandkid.”

I busied myself with the microwave, not wanting Levi to see my expression.The thought of Hammer as someone’s grandfather, much less a great-grandfather, didn’t fit with the imposing figure who’d watched me while I worked today.But then again, nothing about the Dixie Reapers matched what I’d expected.

“Did he talk to you?”Levi asked, his voice casual in that deliberate way that told me he was fishing for information.

“Just asked how we were settling in,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.“Nothing special.”

The microwave beeped.I stirred the pasta, added more sauce from the fridge, and put it back in for another minute.My mind kept circling back to Chase at the garage, surrounded by bikers.The rational part of me knew these men weren’t Piston, but the mother in me couldn’t stop the parade of worst-case scenarios.

“He was in prison for a while,” Levi continued, eyes back on his homework.“I looked him up.”

I froze with the refrigerator door half-open.“You did what?”

Levi shrugged, not looking up.“Just wanted to know who was watching our backs.Scratch told me to always verify information.”

The microwave beeped again, but I ignored it.“Levi, I thought we agreed -- no more online digging.No more contact with Scratch or anyone from the clubs.”

“Mom, information is safety.”His voice took on that older-than-his-years quality that broke my heart.“And anyway, the Dixie Reapers aren’t our enemy.They’re the only reason Dad hasn’t found us yet.Even though some of them have spent time in prison, they’re nothing like Dad and his club.These are good people.”

The truth of his words hit me like a physical blow.I leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted.“I know, baby.I just… I don’t want you or Chase getting pulled into that life.”

“We’re already in it,” he said quietly.“We were born into it.”

The front door opened before I could respond, and Chase strode in.His dark hair was windblown, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek.But what caught my attention was the light in his eyes -- a spark of excitement I hadn’t seen in years.

“You will not believe what I learned today,” he announced, tossing his backpack onto the floor.“Tank showed me how to rebuild a carburetor, and --” He stopped abruptly, noticing my expression.“What’s wrong?”

“You went to the garage without telling me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Chase’s shoulders stiffened.“I’m sixteen, Mom.I can hang out with friends after school.”

“They’re not friends, Chase.They’re --”

“They’re what?”His voice hardened.

“They’re bikers,” I finished, hating how my voice shook.

Chase’s face darkened in a way that reminded me too much of his father.“So what if they are?These guys actually give a damn about us, which is more than Dad ever did.”

“Language,” I said automatically, then immediately regretted it.My son towered over me now, nearly a man, with shoulders broadening every day.Correcting his language felt ridiculous when we were discussing motorcycle clubs and violence.

“You don’t get it,” Chase continued, running a hand through his hair in frustration.“These guys aren’t like Dad.They don’t hit their women or terrorize their kids.They’ve got actual jobs and families they take care of.”

“And prison records,” I said.“These men may be helping us, but they aren’t fluffy bunnies, Chase.They can be dangerous.I just worry and want you to be careful.”

He sighed and nodded, but I knew he’d be back at the garage first chance he had.But that was a battle for another day.

Chapter Seven

Amelia

The Wednesday lunch rush had just begun to taper off when I spotted him through the front window.Black leather cut with the Devil’s Minions patch, a Prospect rocker where a full member would have his road name.My coffeepot tilted mid-pour, scorching liquid splashing across the table and onto my customer’s lap as recognition hit me like a physical blow.The Devil’s Minions.Piston’s club.They’d found us.

“Jesus Christ, lady!”The trucker jumped up, napkins clutched to his soaked jeans.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.My hands shook so badly I couldn’t even set the pot down properly.It clattered against the table edge, more coffee sloshing over the rim.

The Prospect lounged against a streetlight, pretending to check his phone, but he kept slightly turning his head and glancing toward the diner.He was young -- maybe early twenties -- with the hungry look of someone eager to prove himself.Those were the worst kind.The ones who’d do anything for their patch.Anything Piston asked.

---