Page 1 of Crow’s Haven (Savage Legion MC #15)

Crow

A in’t nothing better than that first hit of scalding coffee in the morning.

I’m standing at the stove, watching bacon sizzle.

The coffee in my mug is black and hot enough to burn a hole through my tongue.

Gotta haul my ass up early, move double-time if I wanna be ready when my twins come barreling outta bed.

It’s Saturday. Which means I’m hitching up the sidecar and we’re hitting the clubhouse. My boys love the clubhouse—it might not sound like the kinda place you’d wanna take kids, but during the day it’s family friendly.

When breakfast is almost ready, I stalk to the bottom of the steps and bark, “Wake up, sleepyheads! I got a surprise planned for ya today.”

From upstairs, I hear the faint shuffle of little feet dragging through carpet.

I go back to remove their pancakes from the skillet.

The stairs creak as Chase appears first, hovering in the doorway.

He tips back his head and yawns so wide I can see his tonsils.

His hair is sticking up every which way, like he spent the night wrestling wild animals in his sleep.

He’s barefooted and rocking black pajama bottoms along with an old t-shirt with our club’s logo on it.

Scout follows, a few minutes later, wearing the black long johns he slept in last night.

His hair’s a wild mess too. He is only wearing one sock, but he’s carrying the other in one hand.

I watch him climb up into the chair and cram his foot into it in one go.

I’ve already got their plates and orange juice set up at the table.

These two are hyperactive hell raisers during the day to be so groggy when they first wake up.

Their eyes are half closed, and their little mouths are hanging open.

I just shake my head because they didn’t get that shit from me. I wake up raring to go in the morning.

Still, I can’t help the smile that eats up my face. These two are the toughest little outlaws in my whole damn world.

I slide their pancakes in front of them.

“Hey, Sprocket,” I say to Scout. “Hey, Throttle,” I tell Chase, nodding at each of them.

“Sprocket!” Chase protests, pointing at Scout. “I want to be Sprocket. You can be Throttle!”

“Nope,” Scout says, waving a piece of bacon in the air. “I’m Sprocket because I’m older and cooler. Throttle is a lame nickname.”

“Older by like five minutes,” Chase complains. “Five minutes don’t make you cooler, bro.”

They turn to each other, eyes bright, and start bickering because any old excuse will do for these two. I let them argue, because it’s waking them up.

It don’t matter because tomorrow, one’ll be Roadking, and the other Chopper or whatever the hell suits our fancy.

They’re intent on trying out every club name I can think of.

It’s a game we play. They love pretending to be brothers in an MC.

And I’m the bastard responsible for making sure every day is the best one of their little lives.

I’m rocking this single dad shit right out of the ballpark most days.

I dig into my breakfast, because I’m fucking starving.

Before I know it, Scout’s out of his chair and trying to reach the juice jug on the counter.

I come to my feet just in time to keep him from touching the still hot stove.

I catch his elbow before he makes another in a long line of bad decisions and pull him back.

“Slow down, Sprocket,” I say, giving him my best growl. “The stove’s still hot. You want somethin’, you ask. Don’t go clawin’ around like you’re stealin’ the last drumstick at a biker cookout.”

Scout’s eyes go wide, but he nods, murmuring, “Sorry, Dad.”

Chase, who’s always trying to one-up his older-by-five-minutes brother, is already climbing the lower cabinet handles, the same way he does the rock wall at the local playground. I step over and scoop him up before he can hoist himself onto the counter.

“That goes for you too, Throttle,” I say, ruffling his hair. “The only climbing we’re doing today is onto the clubhouse picnic tables.”

He grins, “We’re going to the clubhouse?”

“Yeah, if we can make it out of the house this morning without mishap, like last weekend.”

Scout is already back in his chair, munching on the rest of his bacon. He stops long enough to swallow and say, “Didn’t mean to turn over that plant stand. I was running too fast and couldn’t stop in time.”

I wave away his words. “It was an accident. We don’t hold grudges in this family. Life’s too short for that shit.” Jerking my chin at him, I say, “Want more juice?”

He nods, grinning at me, and stuffs his mouth with bacon.

I pull their juice glasses over and fill them up again. Then slide another piece of bacon onto each of their plates. “Eat up. We’ve got lots of fun things to do today,” I say, nodding at the boys.

Scout snatches his glass and takes a slow sip, fully alert now. Chase takes his too but immediately tips it back and nearly spills the whole thing down his front just before it gets to his mouth. I reach out and catch the glass just in time.

“Whoa there, Throttle,” I laugh, wiping the dribble off his chin. “Drink it like you’re fueling up for a long ride, not like you’re a rocket launching into space.”

Scout pokes at his eggs with his fork, until the yolk begins leaking out onto his plate. “What’s that fun thing you said we’re doing, Dad?” he asks.

“We’re gonna go to the clubhouse,” I say. “We’re gonna wrangle up the prospects and slap a fresh coat of paint onto the picnic tables. Gotta keep the place looking sharp for the brothers.”

Chase’s eyes light up and he immediately asks, “Can we paint too, Dad? Can we? Please?” he pleads, bouncing in his seat.

I grin. “You bet. But listen up. No running wild, climbing on the tables, or throwing paint at your brother.”

Chase pipes up again, eyes alight with excitement. “Are we gonna see Levi and Evan? I wanna show ‘em my paint skills!”

“You’ll see ‘em,” I promise.

Scout nods solemnly, but Chase’s grin just widens.

“Alright, you grease monkeys,” I say after breakfast is over. “Time to wash up and get dressed. We’re not wearing our Sunday best to paint in. You’re gonna wear old clothes, like me.” I stand up and begin clearing the plates. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up before we hit the road.”

The boys scramble for paper towels, helping in the way only six-year-olds can, mostly by knocking over glasses and wiping sticky syrup onto the floor. My boys work hard but create more problems than they solve in a day. But really? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chase states, “I’m gonna be the best painter in the crew.”

Scout asks, “Can we use our pretend club names today?”

“Hell yeah,” I tell him good-naturedly. “Just remember what I said about sticking close today. No running off or disappearing on me, Sprocket.”

Scout nods seriously. “Got it, Dad. Stay close, listen to you.”

“Damn right,” I say. “I ain’t losing either of you today.”

The boys settle down a little, the excitement mixing with the seriousness I laid down. Then I drop the big surprise of the day.

“Sidecar’s back from the shop,” I say. “That means you two will be riding to the clubhouse in style again.”

Their cheers erupt, loud enough to wake the dead.

“Sidecar rides!” Chase shouts, jumping up and down.

Scout high-fives Chase so hard it topples him out of his seat. Chase doesn’t care. He just laughs.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Alright, alright, calm down. But remember the rules. You have to wear your helmet and safety harness at all times, and no standing up while we’re moving. Can you do that? If not we’re takin’ the truck.”

They both nod solemnly. I catch a glimpse of the mess on the floor and sigh, but damn if that noise and those smiles don’t make it all worth it.

“Let’s head upstairs and find you two some old clothes to paint in,” I say, with a swift jerk of my chin towards the stairs.

Chase pauses, glancing at me with those big curious eyes. “Dad… is Mommy gonna be there?”

I freeze for a split second. This question comes up every so often, but it still catches me off guard every single time. I kneel down to their level, looking Chase in the eye.

“We already talked about this, Chase.”

“Throttle,” Chase reminds me. “I’m Throttle today, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

His expression pinches, “Is she dead?”

“What? Hell no, where did you get that from?”

He just shrugs.

“Look, son, your mom… she’s like a butterfly that couldn’t stay still. Had to fly off and do her own thing,” I say softly. “She ain’t comin’ back. It’s just the three of us now. You need to accept that.”

“But other kids got mommies.” After a slight pause he states reasonably, “We see ‘em at the park. They try to keep us from climbing the rock wall.”

Scout rolls his eyes and mutters, “It’s because they’re sissies. We don’t need no stinking mommies telling us what to do.”

Chase frowns, not quite satisfied but knowing the answer won’t change.

“Your brother’s got the right idea, little man. You got me, and you got the club. Family ain’t always blood. It’s the ones who stick around. That’s what matters.”

The boys smile, reassured for now.

I wipe up a smear of syrup off the floor. The clock is ticking, and we need to get on with our day. After the cleaning up, the getting ready chaos starts.

Chase is hunting for his missing socks instead of getting a clean pair out of the drawer. Chase puts his clean shirt on backwards, but when I flip it around, he makes a goofy face in the mirror, pretending to be some fierce biker outlaw.

Shoes? We have to hunt them down. I shake my head, smiling as I toss them their jackets and helmets.

“Alright, little riders, let’s hit the road.”

They race out the door, laughter echoing down the hall. And that’s just how I like it.

We rush into the garage, and right there, gleaming under the overhead lighting, is the sidecar.

It’s fresh from the shop and looking like a damn work of art.

The paint’s new, vibrant, and the brothers didn’t cut any corners when they painted it.

It has a sprawling forest scene wrapping around the curved metal with wolves prowling along the edges, their eyes sharp and wild.

Sleek motorcycles move across the background, kicking up dust in their wake.

It’s the kind of paint job that turns heads at every stoplight, and my boys’ eyes are wide with awe.

Scout and Chase bounce excitedly around it, poking at the wolves and tracing the painted bikes with their fingers. “Dad, look! That wolf’s got flames on its tail!” Chase shouts, excitedly.

Scout leans in close, squinting. “That’s the meanest wolf I’ve ever seen.”

I kneel and put each of them inside the sidecar in turn and squat down to strap them in with the safety harnesses, making sure each clip snaps tight.

“Alright, little outlaws, helmets on,” I say, handing each a snug, worn-in helmet. Their helmets have seen more miles than most weekend riders.

“Safety first. Let’s get those helmets strapped down snug.”

They pull the helmets down, the quick slide and click making everything feel official. I catch Scout grinning at me through the visor. “Ready to ride, boss?”

“Always, Sprocket,” I say, getting onto my bike and putting on my own helmet. I grin, revving the engine softly, causing the sidecar to vibrate a bit.

***

The sight of the bike and sidecar turns heads long before we pull into the Savage Legion clubhouse parking lot. Scout and Chase are practically vibrating with excitement.

“Look, Dad! There’s Levi!” Chase shouts, waving wildly at a tall, lanky prospect unloading paint cans from a beat-up truck.

Scout’s already jumping out, sprinting towards a cluster of prospects who are setting up ladders and drop cloths by the patio. “Hey, Evan! Tank!” he calls out, the boys’ voices ringing out with excitement. Tank squats down to give him a high five and welcome him to the painting party.

Most of the prospects nod or grin, greeting the twins with the kind of easy familiarity reserved for family. Rigs is there, working side by side with Evan.

I walk up beside Tank. “Morning, brother,” I say as I touch the top of Scout’s head. Chase walks beside Levi, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to get started.

Tank claps me on the shoulder with a grin. “You’re late,” he jokes, “but these two look like a handful.”

I chuckle, wiping sweat from my brow. “Yeah, they run me ragged every damn day. Thanks for getting me into the renovation business, by the way. Wouldn’t be where I am without you.”

He shrugs, “It ain’t easy money but you get to set your own hours and sweat equity pays well.”

The boys are already bouncing around, saying hi to familiar faces and trying to find a paintbrush that fits into their little hands comfortably.

I watch them for a moment, liking the easy way they interact with the prospects and my club brothers. It makes me feel even more strongly that this club is where we belong. My boys love the brotherhood almost as much as I do.

When Rigs and Tank wander off to attend to other club business, I pick up where they left off.

“Alright, listen up,” I say, gathering up the prospects in a rough semicircle on the patio, their faces a mix of eager and guarded.

I’m the one responsible for doing most of their training.

I don’t play games, especially when it comes to setting a good example for the prospects and my boys.

After allocating jobs, I pick a couple of smaller brushes for my boys and walk them through dipping their paintbrushes into the can and making long swipes along the grain.

Then I pick up a large paintbrush for myself and dip it in the can.

“Let’s get this job done because I have a proposition for you when we’re finished. ”

The first swipe of paint hits the weathered picnic table, the brush dragging a thick black streak along the grain.

I’m kneeling beside Scout, who’s already swiped eight lines of paint down the top of the table that’s been turned over on its side for easy access.

He’s clearly trying to cover the whole tabletop in one sloppy swoop.

“Easy there, Scout,” I say with a grin. “Slow and steady beats wild and messy every time.”

Scout glances up, paint smudged across his cheek, and shrugs. “I’m covering more ground.”

“You’re making a mess, kiddo. Aim for the wood, not the tarp.”

It doesn’t take long until the boys have paint on their hands, smears on their clothes, and grins as wide as they’ve ever been.

They dart around the table, grabbing brushes off the prospects who don’t seem to mind the extra help, and dabbing paint here and there, more for the fun of it than the job itself.