Page 10 of Fallen Dove (Fallen Lords MC 2nd Gen #1)

Adley

The Social Club finally went quiet at two-thirty. For the first time all night, I could actually hear my own breath instead of glasses clinking and Thorn singing off-key behind the bar like he thought he belonged on The Voice.

I shoved my apron into my bag and rubbed at the back of my neck. I was already dreaming about my pillow and was halfway to the door when a voice stopped me.

“Not so fast.”

Junior leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, cut hanging open over a gray t-shirt. His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes had that no-nonsense gleam.

I lifted a brow. “What?”

“I’m walking you to your car.”

I groaned, adjusting the strap on my bag.

“Junior, I don’t need an escort. The lot’s empty.”

He didn’t move.

“Slayer chewed my ass for not walking you the first night. Said if anything happened to you, I’d be buried in the back forty. So, yeah, you’re getting an escort.”

That made me pause. Dad had actually…? I sighed, muttering under my breath.

“Overprotective biker dads should come with warning labels.”

Junior’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but didn’t dare.

“Let’s go.”

We stepped out into the night together. The lot was lit by one harsh bulb buzzing overhead, moths suiciding into it like kamikazes. Gravel crunched under our boots as we crossed to my car. He scanned the shadows like he expected trouble, while I fished my keys out of my bag.

“I’m thirty-one,”

I grumbled, and unlocked the driver’s side.

“Lived fourteen years in Chicago without a bodyguard. Pretty sure I can handle Weston.”

“Tell that to your dad,”

Junior said dryly.

“And maybe wait until he’s not cleaning his guns.”

I rolled my eyes, but his lips quirked, just a little. He stood back while I slid into the driver’s seat.

“Drive safe,”

he said firmly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I waved, trying to sound casual, but there was something oddly brotherly about the way he lingered until I cranked the engine. Only when my headlights lit the lot did he turn back toward the club.

I pulled out onto the road, radio low, night air spilling in through the cracked window. Weston at two-thirty was a ghost town. Just empty intersections, dark storefronts, and fields stretching black and endless.

Halfway home, my car coughed.

My stomach dropped.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

Another cough. Then the steering wheel trembled in my hands as the engine wheezed and cut. The headlights dimmed, flared, and died. I coasted to the shoulder with my hazards blinking red in the dark.

“Fantastic,”

I muttered and smacked the wheel. I tried the key once, twice, three times. Nothing but clicks. My phone sat in my bag, but calling Dad meant a lecture that would last until morning. Calling Junior meant admitting Dad had been right. Calling Mason… not a chance in hell.

I sat there in the pulsing red light, weighing pride against practicality, when the low, unmistakable growl of a Harley rolled up behind me.

I didn’t even have to look. My whole body knew.

Mason.

His headlight washed over my car before he pulled around me, parked, killed the engine, and swung a leg over. His boots hit the gravel with a crunch. He came up beside my window, leaned in, and his jaw was set hard.

“What the hell are you doing out here by yourself?”

His voice was sharp, gruff, and laced with something too close to anger.

I pushed my door open, and stepped out with my arms crossed.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on breaking down, Mason.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Pop the hood.”

I yanked the release and leaned against the fender while he fiddled with a flashlight. He muttered under his breath, metal clanging, before slamming the hood shut again.

“Not starting tonight,”

he said flatly.

“You should’ve called someone.”

That jab landed sharp. I lifted my chin.

“Who, exactly? Ghostbusters?”

“Me. Your dad. Hell, even Junior. Not sit out here like bait.”

“Bait?”

My laugh was bitter.

“You do remember I lived fourteen years on my own, right? No club watching my back, no one hovering. And I managed just fine.”

He stepped closer, and the shadows deepened the lines of his face.

“That was then. You’re back now. Things are different.”

“Different for you maybe,”

I shot back.

“Not for me.”

Silence stretched between us. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

Finally, Mason reached up, unbuckled his helmet, and held it out.

“Get your bag. I’m taking you home.”

I stared at it, then at him.

“You’re bossy, you know that?”

“Helmet, Adley.”

His voice was low, steady, and impossible to argue with.

I snatched it from his hand and muttered, “Fine.”

I grabbed my purse, locked the car and buckled the helmet onto my head.

The leather seat was cool under my jeans as I swung on behind him. My knees brushed his hips, and I didn’t know what to do with my arms until the engine rumbled to life and he said, “Hold on.”

I did.

The road blurred under the wheels, and the wind was tearing at my hair. My chest pressed against his back with every curve and bump. Heat radiated through his cut, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t ignore the way it felt to be that close again. It had been years since I was on the back of a motorcycle. I had missed it.

Not even ten minutes later, the familiar glow of my parents’ porch light cut through the dark. Mason slowed into the driveway, and gravel crunched under the tires.

The light flicked on, and there he was, Dad. Slayer. Arms crossed, shoulders wide, and eyes sharp as blades.

Perfect.

The Harley went quiet, leaving only the tick of cooling metal. I slid off, tugged the helmet free, and my hair stuck out in every direction. My cheeks burned, not from the ride but from Dad’s stare.

“Everything alright?”

Dad’s voice was low, even, and carried across the yard.

“Her car broke down,”

Mason answered before I could. His tone was calm, but his hand flexed on the handlebar.

“I brought her home.”

Dad’s gaze lingered on Mason, then flicked to me. “That so?”

“Yeah,”

I said quickly, clutching the helmet to my chest.

“It just died. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

Mason held his hand out to me and I gave him the helmet.

“Next time, call,”

he muttered, and his eyes locked with mine.

I swallowed hard. “Noted.”

He gave Dad a short nod, then cranked back up the bike. The roar filled the driveway, then dwindled as he disappeared down the road with his taillights shrinking into the night.

I stood there, pulse still racing, and wondered if my dad could hear my heart beating.

Dad tilted his head, voice softer now.

“You good?”

“Yeah,”

I said, forcing a smile as I walked past him toward the door.

“I’m good.”

“I’ll get your car figured out tomorrow,”

he promised.

I nodded and opened the front door.

But the truth followed me inside, louder than the engine that had just carried me home:

I wasn’t good. Not even close.