Page 42 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

ROWAN

I hate how pathetic my Honda—bought for cash from a dealer who didn’t ask questions—sounds limping into Wolf Pike like it’s one pothole away from giving up completely.

The sun’s still up, painting everything gold-pink, making this tiny mountain town look like something out of a movie.

Too pretty to be real. Too perfect to be safe.

Three months of running, and this is where I end up. A town I picked off a map because it looked far enough from anything important that Dad wouldn’t think to look here.

The motel room in Utah comes back to me—three nights ago, spread across a bed that smelled like cheap detergent, maps covering every surface. Seattle is too obvious. Portland has too many club connections. San Francisco might as well be in Dad’s backyard.

Las Vegas tempted me—easy to disappear in crowds, plenty of bakery opportunities. But Dad’s reach extends through every casino kitchen. One high roller requesting special pastries and I’d be made.

Denver looked promising until I remembered the Rocky Mountain chapter of Dad’s club. Chicago has too many questions about new businesses. New York is too expensive to start fresh.

Then I spotted Wolf Pike. Just a dot on the map, tucked into mountains far from major highways.

No club territories marked in my mental map of Dad’s alliances.

Small enough to need a good bakery, big enough to support one.

Three hours from the nearest major city—close enough for suppliers, far enough for safety.

I traced my finger along the mountain roads leading there, remembering Mom’s stories about growing up in a small town. About neighbors who look out for each other. About the kind of life I’ve only seen in other people’s kitchens.

Back in the present, my back aches from too many hours hunched over the wheel. My stomach’s been empty so long it’s forgotten how to feel hungry.

I take the exit marked “Welcome to Wolf Pike—Population 5,243.”

The sign needs repainting. Its shabby honesty makes me relax a bit. Not too perfect, after all.

I pass a supermarket first—one of those local places, not a chain. It’s perfect because local means suppliers who are willing to work with small businesses. It means fresh ingredients without corporate paperwork.

The gas station on the corner still has prices from the 1990s. The diner next door promises “Best Pie in Three Counties.” I make a mental note to test that claim later, solely for competition research.

Main Street wraps around the mountain like it grew there naturally. Old brick buildings, most of which were probably built decades ago, shoulder up against each other.

My eyes catch on a motorcycle repair shop—Black Dog something—but I force myself not to stare.

Not because I’m scared—there are thousands of outlaw motorcycle clubs in the United States and there’s a zero percent chance that they know of my Dad’s MC—but because I don’t want to remind myself of the life I’ve run away from.

A group of kids rides past on bicycles, laughing about something. Normal kids doing normal things. Not like the club kids I grew up with, learning to spot cops before they could walk.

I check my phone’s GPS again, though I’ve memorized the address. Dad always said knowledge keeps you alive. I push his voice away.

I find my apartment building easily enough—a two-story brick structure with a vacant storefront below. The realtor’s photos didn’t do justice to the vintage charm, the way the afternoon light hits the display windows.

A motorcycle idles at the curb—a clean vintage Harley. Its rider, a woman who has to be pushing seventy, stands beside it, checking her phone. Her leather jacket is worn softly with age, and tattoos peek from beneath her rolled-up sleeve.

The snake curling around her wrist catches my attention first—old work, probably from the seventies, but the style is unmistakable.

West Coast traditional, the kind only certain artists were allowed to do back when clubs controlled every aspect of ink.

The roses on her forearm show the same hand-clean lines despite decades of wear, the kind of quality that comes with earned trust.

But it’s the small marks I really notice. Dots and dashes that look random unless you know what to look for. Old school code, marking rank and affiliation. Not many people would recognize them now, but I grew up memorizing these patterns. Mae wasn’t just around clubs—she was, or is, deep in them.

“You must be Rowan.” Her smile transforms her weathered face. “I’m Mae. Your landlady.”

Her eyes are kind in a way I’ve never seen in the elderly people around me.

“Sorry, I’m late,” I manage. “Traffic was—”

“Honey, you’re right on time.” She pockets her phone. “Come on up, I’ve got coffee brewing—in your apartment. You look like you could use some. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

I follow her up the stairs. The hallway smells like lemon cleaner, not cigarettes and leather. The carpet’s worn but clean. Two other apartments share this floor.

“Last tenants ran a catering business,” Mae says, unlocking the apartment door. “Moved to Seattle six months ago. Left all the equipment because shipping would’ve cost more than replacing it.”

The floors gleam and sunlight pours through clean windows.

“Kitchen’s industrial grade.” She heads straight for the coffee maker. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, please.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I was hoping to open a bakery downstairs eventually.”

“Good.” She hands me a mug decorated with motorcycles. “Town needs a decent bakery. Nearest place is too far for fresh stuff.”

Her kitchen assessment is spot-on. With six burners, double ovens, endless prep space, and professional-grade equipment, I’ve hit a gold mine.

“Rent’s month-to-month.” Mae settles at the small table. “First and last due today. Utilities included except gas. And honey? No parties.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Not really the party type.”

“Good. The last thing I need is a bunch of kids thinking they can turn this place into a rave spot.” She pulls out a map. “Now, grocery store’s here. Hardware store there. Laundromat’s two blocks over. Diner makes decent breakfast, but skip the meatloaf.”

I try to focus on her directions, but my eyes keep catching on her tattoos. That’s definitely club work. The kind only certain artists can do.

“Town’s pretty quiet.” She marks something else on the map. “Some bike traffic from the garage down the street, but they keep it respectful.”

My heart skips. “Bike garage?”

“Black Dog. Good boys, do quality work.” She waves dismissively. “Don’t let the leather fool you. This town’s got all types.”

I must look as exhausted as I feel because she stands, gathering her mug. “Get some rest, honey. Shop for supplies tomorrow. Here are your keys—building, apartment, mailbox. My number’s on the fridge if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I mean it more than she knows. “For the coffee and…”

“For not asking questions?” Her smile turns knowing. “Honey, everybody’s running from something. Just keep your nose clean, and we’ll get along fine.”

She leaves me with keys, a map, and the unsettling feeling that she sees more than I want her to.

I stand in my new kitchen, staring at the motorcycle mug she left, debating everything I know about Mae. The tattoos say she understands the life I’m running from. That knowing look in her eyes says she’s probably helped others run before. But that could make her more dangerous, not less.

Dad always said there are three types of people who leave the life: the dead, the imprisoned, and the ones smart enough to become resources. Mae doesn’t look dead or imprisoned. Which means she either got out clean—almost impossible—or she maintains connections.

The map she marked sits on my counter, innocent-looking but full of information I didn’t ask for. Every mark could be helpful guidance or careful surveillance. Every friendly suggestion could be a test.

But the alternative is running again.

Trust no one—that’s the first rule of running. But maybe, just maybe, Mae earned her freedom the same way I’m trying to. Maybe those old tattoos represent a past she left behind, not connections that could drag me back.

I’ll have to be careful. Watch for signs of contact with other clubs. Listen for names I recognize. But for now, I have the keys to a perfect kitchen and a landlady who didn’t ask the questions most people would.

My car is still loaded with my life’s remains—what little I could take with me without my father or his guard’s notice. It takes three trips to get everything upstairs, and by then, my arms shake from fatigue. But the budget I’ve mapped out won’t stretch if I don’t get supplies today.

Clean clothes help. Real food would help more.

The grocery store Mae marked is small but well stocked. I fill my cart with the basics—cleaning supplies, paper towels, coffee, and real food that doesn’t come from a gas station. The cashier makes small talk about the weather, and I manage to sound normal.

By the time I put everything away, the sun is setting. My arms ache from carrying bags, but the apartment feels more like mine now. The coffee maker is set up, the air mattress has fresh sheets, and there’s food in the fridge. I’m getting started on my sandwich, and life is worth living again.

The kitchen’s potential taunts me. Tomorrow, I’ll see what those ovens can do. Tonight, I’m too tired to do more than eat a sandwich and dream about what this place could become.

A real bakery. Display cases filled with things I create just because they’re beautiful. No more coded messages in frosting patterns. No more special deliveries that have nothing to do with baking.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs freeze me mid-thought. Not Mae’s familiar tread. These are boots, coming up slow and steady.

They stop outside my door.

The knock makes me jump enough to slosh water over my sandwich plate.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, bright with forced cheer. “2A here—brought you a welcome dinner!”

I press my eye to the peephole and see a middle-aged woman with a covered dish.

Unlocking the deadbolt makes my hands shake a little. Three months of running can make you forget how to do normal things, like answering doors.

“Hi, honey!” She breezes past me with the confidence of someone used to mothering. “I’m Annie from across the hall. Thought you might like a hot meal after moving.”

She heads straight for my kitchen, chattering about the building, the town, and how long she’s lived here. I catch maybe half of it, focusing instead on her movements. No club stance. No watchful eyes. Just…neighborly.

“You’ll want to get that back burner checked,” she says, putting her casserole down. “Previous tenants said it runs hot. And the oven door sticks sometimes, but my husband can fix it—he’s good with repairs.”

I’m still standing by my open door like an idiot when boots sound on the stairs again. Heavy steps, but not club heavy. A man appears—tall, bearded.

“Speak of the devil,” Annie laughs. “Tom, stop lurking and come meet our new neighbor.”

“Just checking the hall light,” he rumbles, but he comes in anyway. “Heard you moved in earlier. Everything working okay?”

I manage to nod. They’re so normal it hurts—just a couple looking out for the new girl. Annie serves casserole while Tom points out things about the apartment I should know. Which windows stick. Where the fuse box is. How to bang the radiator just right in winter.

A motorcycle roars past below, and I flinch hard enough to drop my fork. They don’t seem to notice.

“Black Dog boys heading home,” Tom says casually. “They keep decent hours, at least. Not like that crew that used to race at midnight.”

They don’t stay long—just enough to make sure I eat and have their numbers “in case anything needs fixing.” The apartment feels too quiet after they leave.

Another bike passes, but this time, the memories come with it.

It doesn’t take long before I hear another knock on the door. It’s different from Annie’s—lighter and almost hesitant.

The woman in 2C looks about my age. Dark circles under her eyes say single mom before she tells me.

“Just wanted to introduce myself,” she says, shifting a sleeping toddler on her shoulder. “I’m Kate. This is Ben. We’re right next door if you need anything.”

She doesn’t try to come in, just offers a tired smile and a welcome to the building.

“Thank you so much,” I tell her before she retreats to her apartment.

I stare longingly at the hallway. My neighbors are normal people living normal lives. The kind of life I could have if I do this right.

Once I’m back inside, I head straight to bed. I need all the rest I can get, because tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of my life.