Page 54
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Cleo
T wo months later
I stood near the entrance of the Margaret Brown Community Resource Center, watching a little girl press her nose against the glass case holding Scout Craft toys. Her mother sat nearby filling out paperwork, shoulders relaxed for probably the first time in months.
Two months ago, this had been an abandoned storefront with boards over the windows. Now sunlight streamed through clean glass, warming bright yellow walls covered in children's artwork.
My mother's money had done this. Her sacrifice, her secret keeping, her love—it had all led to this moment where families like ours used to be could find real help instead of judgment.
The transformation still knocked the breath out of me sometimes.
We'd gutted the old retail space down to the bones, then rebuilt it with intention.
Comfortable chairs grouped in conversation circles instead of hard plastic rows.
A children's corner with soft rugs and low shelves, where kids could play while their parents handled the overwhelming business of survival.
Private meeting rooms with actual doors, because dignity mattered when you were discussing why you couldn't make rent.
And there, in pride of place near the play area—a whole section dedicated to Scout Craft toys.
Hand-carved trains and dolls, puzzle boxes and teddy bears, all available for children to actually touch and play with while they waited.
I'd insisted on that part, remembering how those anonymous donations had been the only beautiful things in our shelter Christmases.
"The scholarship applications are already pouring in.
" Elena's voice came from behind me, warm with the same satisfaction I felt.
She joined me by the reception desk, where Mom's photo sat in a simple silver frame.
Not a formal portrait—we'd never had money for those—but a snapshot from one of her good days, smiling over a cup of tea, looking directly at the camera like she could see the future we were building.
"Fifteen kids so far," Elena continued, shuffling through a folder thick with dreams. "Community college, trade schools, even a few brave souls aiming for four-year universities. Your mother would be so proud, Cleo."
I touched the edge of Mom's photo, feeling the familiar ache that never quite went away. "She always said education was the one thing no one could take from you."
"Smart woman." Elena's hand found my shoulder, squeezing gently. "And she raised a smart daughter. This place—it's going to change lives. Already is."
She was right. In just two weeks since opening, we'd processed thirty-seven applications for emergency assistance.
Helped six families avoid eviction. Connected twelve people with job training programs. Set up counseling for nine teenagers aging out of foster care.
Numbers that meant nothing until you remembered each one was a person, a family, a future that might have gone differently without this place.
"Best job I've ever had!" Mrs. Plumber's voice boomed across the lobby as she bustled past with a tray of fresh cookies.
The former diner owner had been our first hire, jumping at the chance to run our small café that provided free meals to anyone who needed them.
"Feeding people who actually need food, not just enabling sugar addictions.
And these kids—" She paused to ruffle a boy's hair as he reached for a snickerdoodle.
"These kids know how to appreciate a good cookie. "
The boy—maybe six, wearing a too-small Spiderman shirt—bit into the cookie with the kind of reverence usually reserved for communion wafers.
His mother sat at one of the computers, updating her resume with help from our job counselor.
She kept glancing over, checking on him, that universal mom-worry written in every line of her body.
But her shoulders had dropped from around her ears, and that meant everything.
The Center offered everything under one roof.
Legal aid for custody battles and eviction notices.
Job training that actually led to employment.
Addiction counseling that treated people like humans instead of statistics.
Childcare so parents could attend interviews without worry.
Even simple things like a closet full of professional clothes for interviews, or a quiet room with good light for students to do homework.
All of it funded by Mom's gift and the interest it had been earning.
Duke had helped set up the investment structure, making sure the principal would keep generating income for years.
The Heavy Kings had kicked in too in a big way—turned out community investment was an excellent way to launder their reputation along with providing tax breaks.
Win-win, as Tyson had said while writing a check that made my eyes water.
It was a crazy combination—the life’s savings of a teacher, plus money from a Motorcycle club. Together, they were making something beautiful.
"Good job, Mom," I whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "We did it."
I was now splitting my time between the community center and the bakery.
We didn’t have a huge amount of funding for staff—although Tyson told me he was working on it—so I tried to reduce the financial strain by working as many hours as I could.
I was loving working at the bakery though, and Mrs. K was teaching me lot and lots of very delicious secrets!
My phone buzzed. It was Dex.
“Looking forward to seeing you later. Got a couple of surprises to share, baby girl.”
My heart pounded. Surprises? Who didn’t like surprises?
Life with Dex had been wonderful. I’d moved in with him, leaving behind that awful apartment I used to live at. He was surprisingly easy to live with, too. Kind, clean, thoughtful.
A thrill of heat passed through my body. “Can’t wait,” I replied, and I meant it.
" C lose your eyes," Dex said the moment we reached the hallway. His voice carried that particular vibration that meant he was fighting to contain excitement. "And no peeking, little one. This is a surprise two months in the making."
I'd barely gotten my shoes off after the long day at the Center. My feet ached from standing, my heart felt full from all the lives already being touched, and now Dex was practically bouncing on his heels like a kid on Christmas morning.
"What did you do?" I asked, but obediently squeezed my eyes shut. The last time he'd surprised me, it had been with a brand-new coloring book featuring fairy tale castles. Before that, a stuffed elephant whose ears crinkled when squeezed.
"Trust me." His hands settled on my shoulders, warm and steady, guiding me forward. "Few more steps. Watch the doorframe—there we go."
The smell hit me first. Fresh paint, sharp and clean. New fabric, that particular store-bought crispness that meant someone had been shopping. Sawdust, which always clung to Dex now, part of his scent like leather and engine oil. And underneath it all, something sweet—vanilla? Cinnamon?
"Okay," he said, and I could hear his smile. "Open them."
The gasp that escaped me came from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been empty so long I'd forgotten it existed. My hands flew to cover my mouth, but that couldn't stop the sound that was part sob, part joy, part disbelief.
He'd transformed his spare bedroom into the most perfect little space I could have imagined.
Soft lavender walls—not baby pink, not little-girl purple, but that perfect in-between shade that made me think of spring mornings.
White trim around the windows, fresh and clean.
Fairy lights strung in deliberate patterns across the ceiling, not haphazard but arranged like constellations.
Some were shaped like moons, others like stars, creating a night sky I could get lost in.
"Oh, Dex," I breathed, taking a tentative step inside.
The floor had thick carpet now, cream colored and soft enough that I immediately wanted to take off my socks and dig my toes in.
A daybed stretched along one wall, piled high with pillows in every shade of purple and blue.
Not just regular pillows—these were the fancy kind, some with tassels, some with embroidered flowers, some that looked like clouds.
Shelves lined another wall, built right into the studs, painted white to match the trim.
Books filled some of them—picture books I recognized from childhood library visits, new ones with bright spines, even some young adult novels for when I felt bigger.
Other shelves held stuffed animals, each one carefully arranged.
Not just any stuffed animals either. Each one had that handmade quality, that sense of being chosen rather than grabbed off a store shelf.
"The rocking chair was my first project after you told me about the inheritance," Dex said, his voice rough with emotion I'd rarely heard from him. "Wanted something that would last forever, that you could maybe rock our babies in someday."
The chair sat in the corner, carved from honey-colored wood that seemed to glow in the afternoon light.
Not rough or rustic, but smooth, polished, with a high back and wide arms. Carved into the headrest were tiny flowers and vines, delicate work that must have taken hours.
A cushion in soft gray made it look even more inviting.
Babies. He'd said babies. Future tense, plural, like he could see our whole life spreading out from this moment.
"It's beautiful," I managed, crossing to run my fingers over the smooth wood. It rocked gently at my touch, silent on the thick carpet.
"Wanted it to be right. Something our kids could point to someday and say 'Daddy made that for Mommy when she was feeling little.'"
Our kids. The words sent warmth spreading through my chest. This wasn't just a room for now. This was a room for always, for the family we were building, for the life we were choosing together.
Table of Contents
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- Page 54 (Reading here)
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