Page 1 of Her Savior Biker
Shannon
Theenginedieswitha shudder that rattles through my chest. I coast to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires as momentum carries us another fifty feet before we roll to a stop. The silence that follows feels like a death sentence.
My gas light’s been glowing amber for thirty miles. Thirty miles of praying to a God I’m not sure gives a damn about women like me. Women who run in the middle of the night with bruises still fresh and a three-year-old who’s learned not to ask questions.
“Mama?” Aiden’s voice drifts from the backseat, thick with sleep. His cast catches the dim glow from the dashboard, that terrible white reminder of Mason’s last lesson about obedience.
“It’s okay, baby.” The lie tastes like copper in my mouth. “Just taking a little break.”
I turn the key. The engine wheezes, turns over twice, then gives up completely. The headlights flicker and die, leaving us in the kind of darkness that swallows everything whole. Nostreetlights out here. No houses with warm yellow windows. Just endless Texas nothing stretching in every direction.
I pull out my phone. No signal. Of course.
My hands shake as I count the cash in my wallet again. Eighteen dollars and forty-three cents. Same as it was an hour ago. Same as it’ll be tomorrow, dammit. The radiator’s been running hot since Denver. I knew this was coming. I just hoped we’d make it further before the choice got taken away.
Aiden shifts in his car seat, the plastic creaking. He's gotten so quiet this past month, learning to sleep through the sharp, angry edge in Mason's voice, through the sound of a door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. But he stirs now, sensing my fear the way kids do. Like they’re tuned to a frequency adults forget exists.
“Where are we, Mama?”
I stare out the windshield at the hulking shapes in the distance. Some kind of industrial area. Rail yard, maybe. Rust and abandonment outlined against a sky that’s more gray than black.
“Somewhere new.” I reach back and touch his forehead. Still cool. Thank God. “You hungry?”
He shakes his head, then asks the question that guts me every time. “When are we going home?”
Home. As if we had one to go back to. As if Mason's house had been anything but a prison in the making, one with better furniture.
“We are home, baby. Wherever we are together, that’s home.”
He accepts this the way he accepts everything else—with the quiet resignation of a child who’s learned not to push for answers that hurt. My heart cracks a little more. What kind of life am I giving him? What kind of mother lets her son grow up afraid of his own shadow?
But I know what kind of mother stays. I’ve seen those women in the grocery store, the ones who wear long sleeves in summer and sunglasses indoors. The ones who apologize for existing. I saw myself becoming one of them.
Not anymore.
I grab my purse, check that the tire iron is still wedged under my seat. The weight of it should be comforting, but it’s not. Metal won’t stop Mason. Nothing stops Mason when he sets his mind to something. And right now, his mind is set on what he calls “our future together” - a future where a month of dates somehow gives him ownership over me and my son.
“Come on, sweetheart.” I unbuckle Aiden and lift him into my arms, his good arm wrapping around my neck. He’s getting too big for this, but I need to feel his heartbeat against my chest. Need the reminder that I’m not just running for myself anymore.
The cold hits us the second we step outside. November in Texas isn’t supposed to be this brutal, but the wind cuts through my jacket like it’s made of paper. Aiden buries his face against my shoulder, and I pull both our coats tighter around him.
The rail yard looms ahead, all shadows and sharp edges. Chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Warning signs about trespassing and federal property. But there—about a hundred yards down—a section where the fence has been cut. Peeled back like a sardine can.
“One more night, baby,” I whisper against his hair. “Just one more mile.”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds on tighter as I pick my way across the uneven ground, my worn sneakers slipping on gravel and weeds. Every step takes us further from the road, further from any chance of help if this goes wrong.
But it’s also further from Mason.
The boxcar sits on a forgotten siding, rust bleeding down its sides like old blood. The door hangs open just enough for aperson to slip through. I peer inside, straining to see through the darkness. Empty. Cold. But dry.
It’s not much. But it’s shelter.
I boost Aiden up first, then climb in after him. The metal floor is ice against my palms, and the smell hits me—oil, rust, and something else. Something that makes my stomach clench. But Aiden doesn’t complain. He just curls up in the corner while I spread our jackets over him like a blanket.
“Is this where we’re staying tonight?” His voice echoes in the hollow space.
“Just for a little while.” I settle beside him, pulling him close. My body heat is the only warmth we have. “Close your eyes, baby. Morning will come faster if you sleep.”
