Page 5
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Like luck had anything to do with it. Like it wasn't my failure to see through her act, my arrogance in thinking I could save someone who didn't want saving.
She'd lived, eventually. Transferred to witness protection after she flipped on the Serpents, gave up names and locations in exchange for a new identity somewhere far from Colorado.
I never saw her again after that day in the hospital.
Never wanted to. But the lesson she taught me—that stuck around like scar tissue.
Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford. Emotion was a weakness enemies would exploit. Better to observe from a distance, catalog threats before they materialized, protect through prevention rather than reaction.
Movement across the street pulled me from the spiral.
Mr. Patterson in his wheelchair, trying to navigate the broken curb cut in front of his house.
The concrete had crumbled months ago, creating a two-inch lip that might as well have been a wall for someone on wheels.
He backed up, tried another angle, muscles straining in his thin arms.
I made a mental note. This weekend, I'd send prospects with concrete and tools.
Quiet work, no fanfare. Just fixing what needed fixing because that's what we did.
The Heavy Kings weren't just about territory and violence.
We were about community, about making sure the people under our protection could live their lives without unnecessary struggle.
That's what separated us from crews like the Serpents. They took. We provided. They destroyed. We built.
Most of the time.
My phone buzzed. Duke's response was predictably brief.
Church tonight. 8 PM. We need to discuss.
Church meant full membership meeting, all officers and patched members required. Duke didn't call church lightly. This graffiti, combined with other recent provocations, had pushed us past the point of watching and waiting.
The Serpents wanted attention. They were about to get it.
I took one more photo, this time capturing the sight line from the tag to the elementary school.
Three blocks of clear visibility. Any kid walking to school would see it, would start learning early that their neighborhood was contested ground.
That safety was an illusion maintained by whoever had the most spray paint and soldiers.
Not on my watch.
The engine roared back to life, vibration running through the frame like contained violence. I'd finish my route, document any other incursions, then spend the afternoon preparing for church.
Duke would want options. Thor would want action. Tyson would want intel. The other officers would want reassurance that we had this under control.
The broken curb cut grew smaller in my mirror as I pulled away. Small problem, easy fix. If only everything was that simple. If only territory disputes could be settled with concrete and good intentions instead of blood and bullets.
But that wasn't the world we lived in. That wasn't the life we'd chosen.
The morning route stretched ahead, more checkpoints to verify, more patterns to catalog. Somewhere in all that data was the answer to what the Serpents were planning. I just had to be smart enough to see it, careful enough to counter it, fast enough to prevent another disaster.
No more surprises. No more failures. No more ghosts.
M y workshop smelled like sawdust and motor oil, an odd combination that had become my version of home.
I wasn’t a professional mechanic, nothing like Thor.
I dabbled as a hobby, tuning up and tinkering.
This morning, though, I wasn't touching engines.
My hands had different work—careful, quiet, nothing like the violence they'd dealt in the past.
The dollhouse sat on my workbench like a promise. Pale yellow walls with white trim, each tiny shingle hand-cut and placed with extreme precision. Three stories of miniature perfection, windows that actually opened, doors that swung on brass hinges I'd fashioned from wire and patience.
I pulled out the soft tissue paper, the good stuff I ordered online because newspaper would smudge the paint.
Each sheet whispered as I wrapped, protecting months of late-night work.
My fingers traced the peaked roof, feeling the tiny imperfections that made it real.
Machine-perfect was easy. Human touch—that took skill.
Inside the dollhouse, furniture waited in perfect arrangement.
A kitchen table the size of my thumb, chairs with woven seats made from embroidery thread.
Beds with quilts I'd sewn from fabric scraps, each stitch smaller than a grain of rice.
A rocking horse carved from a single piece of pine, sanded so smooth a child's finger would never find a splinter.
Five dollhouses this year. Five secret gifts to children I'd never meet, signed only "Scout Craft" to maintain the fiction that some anonymous benefactor cared about their happiness.
The shelter staff had stopped asking questions after the second year, just smiled and added my donations to their toy drives.
Road Captain. Mechanic. Enforcer when necessary. But in this workshop, surrounded by tools meant for creation instead of destruction, I became something else. Something I couldn't name without feeling like a fraud.
The tissue paper crinkled as I tucked it around the dollhouse's base. Had to be careful here—too tight and the pressure would crack the delicate porch railings. Too loose and everything would shift during transport. Balance in all things, even gift wrapping.
The dollhouse disappeared into its cardboard cocoon, anonymous and patient. I pulled out a notecard, considering the words. Keep it simple. Don't reveal too much. Let the gift speak for itself.
For a someone who needs somewhere safe to play.
I tucked the note under the tissue paper where shelter staff would find it. They'd know what to do, which child needed it most. Maybe a little girl in the family section, creating stories with broken McDonald's toys. Maybe someone new, clutching nothing but fear and a garbage bag of belongings.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, patched member of the Heavy Kings MC, with a reputation for violence that kept even hardened criminals cautious. And I spent my free time crafting miniature worlds where everything was safe and beautiful and whole.
My brothers would laugh if they knew. Thor would make jokes about playing with dolls. Even Duke, understanding as he was, might question whether this hobby indicated some deeper softness that could be exploited. Only Tyson might understand, recognize the need to balance darkness with light.
But they didn't know, and I intended to keep it that way. Scout Craft was mine alone, a secret identity that let me give without the complications of gratitude or recognition. No one could betray what they didn't know existed.
The morning sun slanted through the workshop's single window, highlighting dust motes that danced like ballerinas.
Time to go. The shelter would be opening soon, and I preferred to drop off donations when foot traffic was light.
Less chance of questions, of someone connecting the biker who showed up monthly with the mysterious toymaker.
It wasn’t just dollhouses. I made dolls, blocks, dominos, anything that I could fashion from wood. Main thing was I donated regularly, and asked for nothing in return.
I lifted the box carefully, feeling the weight of hours invested.
Not heavy in pounds, but dense with intention.
Each dollhouse took approximately eighty hours to complete.
Eighty hours when I could have been sleeping, drinking, pursuing the simple pleasures that helped other brothers forget their demons.
Instead, I carved and painted and assembled.
Created tiny worlds where furniture never broke, where walls stood strong, where a child's imagination could flourish without fear.
It wasn't enough to balance the scales—nothing could bring back people I’d lost. But it was something.
A small weight on the other side of a cosmic ledger I'd never balance.
The box fit perfectly in my saddlebags, protected by foam I'd cut specifically for this purpose.
Everything in my life had become about protection.
Protecting territory, protecting brothers, protecting the community.
And now, protecting tiny wooden houses that might give some kid a few hours of joy.
T he Ironridge Homeless Shelter's parking lot made my pulse jump in a way that had nothing to do with threat assessment.
I'd been telling myself for two years that these monthly visits were about community service, about anonymous donations.
But my timing—always when the morning shift started, always when she'd be there—told a different truth.
I parked in my usual spot, far corner where I could see both entrances and the street. Old habits. The dollhouse sat secure in my saddlebag, but I didn't move to retrieve it yet. First, I watched. Always watched.
Through the shelter's front windows, morning light caught honey-colored hair pulled back in a messy bun.
Cleo Brown moved through the children's area with the kind of grace that came from practice, not performance.
She bent to retrieve a fallen book, her oversized sweater sliding off one shoulder to reveal skin that looked too delicate for the weight she carried.
Two years of monthly visits. Two years of watching her create order from chaos, tend to other people's children with infinite patience, serve food to the needy, change bed-linen and clean up messes that people made.
Two years of telling myself I was just being thorough, cataloging everyone who worked at the shelter for security purposes.
Right. Security purposes. That's why I knew she favored her left ankle on cold mornings—old injury, probably.
Why I'd noticed she touched her thumb to her lips when concentrating, a gesture so unconscious she probably didn't know she did it.
Why I could predict which sweater she'd wear based on the weather—the green one with holes in the cuffs for days like today, when warmth mattered more than appearance.
Elena had mentioned her name during my third visit, when I'd asked about the volunteers. Claimed I wanted to thank everyone personally for their hard work. Elena's knowing smile had said she wasn't buying it, but she'd indulged me anyway.
"Cleo's been with us about a year," she'd said, watching me try not to react to finally having a name. "Sweet girl. Works too hard, gives too much. Everyone loves her, especially the children."
Of course they did. Children had instincts about people, knew who was safe, who would protect without conditions.
It was a shame she wasn’t interested in me. Not even a little bit. Whenever I was in the shelter, she’d stiffen up like a board.
Her wariness should have bothered me. Instead, it made me respect her more. Too many people saw the leather and chrome and thought excitement, rebellion, some bad boy fantasy that had nothing to do with reality. Cleo saw threat assessment. Saw someone who could hurt her and acted accordingly.
She was right to be cautious. The Heavy Kings protected this community, but we weren't saints. Violence was part of our world, and it had a way of splashing onto anyone who got too close. Just ask Vanessa. Ask Lena and Mandy. Ask the prospects we’d lost over the years.
I forced myself to look away, to stop cataloging details about a woman I had no business noticing.
Her jeans, worn soft at the knees from kneeling with children.
The way she'd rolled the cuffs twice to accommodate her petite frame.
How she moved with the economy of someone who'd learned not to waste energy because there was never enough to spare.
A strand of hair escaped her bun, and she tucked it behind her ear with fingers that trembled slightly. Exhaustion or hunger or worry—maybe all three. The gesture revealed the delicate curve of her neck, the shadow beneath her jaw that begged for—
Stop.
I jerked my attention to the street, where it belonged. Where it was safe.
Black SUV, tinted windows, parked across from the shelter. Not there when I'd arrived ten minutes ago. Colorado plates, but something about it screamed wrong. Too clean for the neighborhood. Too still, like whoever was inside was watching, waiting.
My hand moved automatically to my phone, switching to camera mode.
Quick shots of the plate, the vehicle position, the angle that suggested surveillance rather than someone waiting to pick up a friend.
Could be nothing. Could be cops running their own investigation.
Could be Serpents, scoping the shelter for some reason I hadn't figured out yet.
The math was simple. Shelter served the vulnerable. Vulnerable people made easy targets for recruitment, exploitation, or worse. If the Serpents were expanding operations, they might see opportunity where we saw community.
Not happening. Not on my watch.
I memorized the plate number, adding it to the mental file of information I'd share at church tonight. Duke would want to know about any surveillance near protected territory. Thor would probably volunteer to introduce himself to whoever was behind those tinted windows, get answers the direct way.
But that was for later. Right now, I had a delivery to make.
Table of Contents
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- Page 5 (Reading here)
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