Page 133 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

An engine turns, idles, then shifts into gear.

The vehicle rolls away without a squeal. Even their tires are discreet.

We stay until the sound fades into trains and wind.

Roman pulls the knife out of the floor and wipes it on his sleeve.

Deacon picks up the broken chair and sets it upright for no reason except that order matters even in ugly rooms.

“Pike,” Roman says. It’s not a question.

“We have him traced to a diner and three dead-end rooms,” Deacon answers. “Crow says he will pass word. We can step back or we can step in.”

I look at the doorway to the mill with its missing door and the black mouth of dawn outside and I picture my daughter’s bed, the way she curls around a stuffed llama that went to war and won.

I picture two boys who like to be held two at a time.

I picture a woman who peels oranges with her thumbs and closes her eyes when she tastes clove.

“We keep the promise we made her,” I say. “No noise. No theater. No blood in the kitchen. Handle Pike far from home.”

Roman nods. He has already sent a name. The rest will move like weather.

We walk out into air that hurts in the good way.

The neutral riders are gone, as if the truck dissolved back into the dark it came out of.

The rails glint faintly.

Somewhere a light flips red to green and then to nothing.

We swing legs over bikes and sit for a second without starting.

“Coffee at the lodge,” I say, because someone has to say something normal.

“Molé at lunch,” Deacon says, because he knows how to aim my mind at what keeps it soft.

Roman pulls his glove tight. “She does not need to know the pace of this part,” he says, which is his way of telling me he will carry the burden then burn the record.

We fire the engines.

The sound rolls off brick and under bridges and out into cold that eats its share and lets the rest pass.

We take the long way home because the short way feels like a bad dream.

When we hit the ridge line, the sky on our left is a bruise thinning to lavender.

The feeling in my chest loosens the way a tight knot loosens under warm water.

I text Cara one-handed at a red light that is not for us but I obey anyway because I like being a good example. “Heading home,” I write. “Start the kettle. Tell the house to breathe.”

She replies with a tea emoji, two baby faces, and a knife.

I snort and tuck the phone away.

By the time the lodge comes into view, the porch lantern is still burning, stubborn as a saint.

The kitchen window glows a little.