Page 12

“Just need to settle up with the gentleman in the corner first.” I glanced at Hammer, who raised his empty cup.

I stopped at his table, forcing a smile as I pulled his check from my apron pocket.

“Anything else I can get you?” I asked, my practiced waitress voice betraying none of the anxiety churning beneath my ribs.

Hammer looked up, his eyes the color of strong coffee, deep and surprisingly warm in his weathered face. Up close, I could see the lines etched around them -- laugh lines, not the hard creases of perpetual anger I’d grown accustomed to with Piston.

“No, darlin’, I’m good.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, low and graveled from years of cigarettes or shouting over motorcycle engines.

I turned to leave when his hand moved, not grabbing me -- thank God -- but reaching for the check.

I’d forgotten I was holding it. His fingers brushed mine, calloused skin against my knuckles, and something electric jolted through me.

I hadn’t felt that kind of spark in years, had trained myself not to feel it, not to want it.

“Everything good with you and the boys?” he asked, those coffee-dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously exposed and sheltered.

The question caught me off guard. Not “How are you settling in?” or “Need anything?” -- the usual questions from the MC members assigned to check on us. This felt personal. Like he actually wanted to know.

“We’re settling in,” I replied, my gaze darting to his cut, to the Dixie Reapers patch that represented my salvation and my deepest fears all at once. “The boys like the school.”

Hammer nodded, his silver beard catching the sunlight. “Chase came by the garage yesterday. Kid’s got a knack for engines.”

My stomach tightened. “He was at the garage?”

“Just lookin’. Nothing wrong with that.” Hammer’s expression softened slightly. “He wants to protect you. Reminds me of my boy.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. The thought of Chase anywhere near the club both terrified and exhausted me.

We’d fled one MC only to land in the shadows of another.

Different, yes, but still men who lived by their own rules, who carried guns beneath their cuts, and settled scores in ways the law wouldn’t sanction.

My body tensed as Hammer shifted in his seat, but he only reached into his pocket. He pulled out a worn leather wallet, extracting several bills that he placed on top of the check.

“Your boys are safe here, Amelia,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “And so are you.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I picked up the money -- far more than his coffee and pie had cost -- and turned away before he could see the tears threatening to spill. It wasn’t his kindness that undid me. It was the possibility that I might actually believe him.

From behind the counter, I watched as Hammer stood, his height impressive even from a distance.

He nodded to Jessie, who waved back with the easy familiarity of someone who’d known him for years.

These men were part of the community here, not outlaws passing through.

The realization felt strange, like trying on shoes that might fit but weren’t yet comfortable.

I moved to the window as Hammer pushed through the door, watching as he crossed the street to where his motorcycle waited.

Unlike Piston’s flashy custom Harley with its chrome skulls and flame paint job, Hammer’s bike was understated -- solid, practical, much like the man himself.

He swung his leg over the seat with a grace that belied his age and size, then paused, looking back toward the diner. Toward me.

I stepped back from the window, but not before our gazes met. He nodded once, a gesture both reassuring and respectful, before starting his engine and pulling away.

I felt something twist inside me -- relief that we’d escaped Piston’s brutality, fear that he’d find us anyway, and something unexpected: a flutter of interest in the gruff older biker who represented both my past trauma and current hope for safety.

“He’s a good one,” Jessie said, suddenly beside me. “Comes in every Thursday, same time.”

I didn’t always work this shift, or that section. Even still, I didn’t remember seeing him on a Thursday until now.

“You know him well?” I asked, trying to sound casual as I counted out Hammer’s change for the register.

“Sure. His son used to work over at Camelot’s Garage & Towing.” She patted my arm. “The Reapers take care of their own, honey. And right now, that includes you and those boys of yours.”

I nodded, sliding the generous tip into my pocket. The money would help with Chase’s growing appetite and Levi’s need for new glasses. But it was Hammer’s words that I carried with me as I clocked out and headed for the small apartment upstairs --” Your boys are safe here, Amelia. And so are you .”

My years with Piston had taught me not to trust promises from men in leather cuts.

A few weeks with the Dixie Reapers hadn’t been nearly enough to unlearn that lesson.

Yet something about Hammer’s steady gaze and the gentle brush of his fingers against mine had cracked the wall I’d built around myself.

As I walked to the rear stairs behind the building, I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone in a Devil’s Minions cut lurking in the shadows.

Instead, there were only the empty parking spaces, and the lingering rumble of Hammer’s bike fading in the distance.

For the first time since seeing Piston’s true colors, the sound of a motorcycle engine didn’t fill me with dread.

Maybe that was progress. Or maybe it was just the beginning of a whole new kind of danger.

I climbed the stairs to our apartment, each step a reminder of how far we’d come -- and how far we still had to go. The apartment above Jessie’s Diner wasn’t much, but it was clean and safe. Most importantly, it was ours.

“Mom!” Levi called as I pushed open the door. My younger son sat cross-legged on our secondhand couch, homework spread across the coffee table.

“Hey, baby.” I dropped my purse on the counter that separated our tiny kitchen from the equally tiny living room. “Where’s your brother?”

Levi’s shoulders tensed slightly. “He went out with some friends.”

The alarm bells in my head started ringing immediately. “What friends? From school?”

“No,” Levi admitted, looking down at his math worksheet. “Some guys from the garage.”

My stomach dropped. It was one thing for him to stop by there and maybe learn a thing or two, even though I wasn’t thrilled about that either, and another for him to go off with those men.

None of them had done anything to make me feel ill at ease, but it was still damn hard to trust people.

“The Reapers’ garage? Levi, you know I don’t want --”

“They’re just teaching him about motorcycles, Mom.” Levi’s voice held a defensive edge. “They’re not like Dad and his friends. Chase says they’re actually nice.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ward off the headache that had been threatening all day. “When did he leave?”

“About an hour ago. He said he’d be back for dinner.”

I took a deep breath, battling the urge to call someone. No, I had to let him spread his wings a bit. Although, we’d be having a conversation when he came home.

“Finish your homework,” I said, moving to the refrigerator to figure out dinner. “I’ll talk to Chase when he gets home.”

The refrigerator’s contents were sparse -- some eggs, half a gallon of milk, leftover spaghetti from last night. My tip money would help, but not until I hit the grocery store tomorrow. I pulled out the spaghetti container, resigning myself to reheated pasta.

“Mom?” Levi’s voice was quieter now. “Are you mad?”

I turned to find him watching me, worry etched across his young face. He’d always been sensitive to moods, could read tension in a room before it erupted. A survival skill I wished he’d never had to develop.

“Not at you, baby.” I managed a smile. “Just worried.”

“Chase is okay. He texted me twenty minutes ago. Said he was having fun.”

Fun. When was the last time either of my boys had described anything as fun? I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“That biker was at the diner again, wasn’t he?” Levi asked, his perceptiveness catching me off guard. “The older one with the silver beard.”

“Hammer,” I said.

“Yeah, Hammer,” Levi confirmed. “Chase says he’s got a granddaughter, and even a great-grandkid.”

I busied myself with the microwave, not wanting Levi to see my expression.

The thought of Hammer as someone’s grandfather, much less a great-grandfather, didn’t fit with the imposing figure who’d watched me while I worked today.

But then again, nothing about the Dixie Reapers matched what I’d expected.

“Did he talk to you?” Levi asked, his voice casual in that deliberate way that told me he was fishing for information.

“Just asked how we were settling in,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. “Nothing special.”

The microwave beeped. I stirred the pasta, added more sauce from the fridge, and put it back in for another minute.

My mind kept circling back to Chase at the garage, surrounded by bikers.

The rational part of me knew these men weren’t Piston, but the mother in me couldn’t stop the parade of worst-case scenarios.

“He was in prison for a while,” Levi continued, eyes back on his homework. “I looked him up.”

I froze with the refrigerator door half-open. “You did what?”

Levi shrugged, not looking up. “Just wanted to know who was watching our backs. Scratch told me to always verify information.”

The microwave beeped again, but I ignored it. “Levi, I thought we agreed -- no more online digging. No more contact with Scratch or anyone from the clubs.”

“Mom, information is safety.” His voice took on that older-than-his-years quality that broke my heart.

“And anyway, the Dixie Reapers aren’t our enemy.

They’re the only reason Dad hasn’t found us yet.

Even though some of them have spent time in prison, they’re nothing like Dad and his club. These are good people.”

The truth of his words hit me like a physical blow. I leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted. “I know, baby. I just… I don’t want you or Chase getting pulled into that life.”

“We’re already in it,” he said quietly. “We were born into it.”

The front door opened before I could respond, and Chase strode in. His dark hair was windblown, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek. But what caught my attention was the light in his eyes -- a spark of excitement I hadn’t seen in years.

“You will not believe what I learned today,” he announced, tossing his backpack onto the floor. “Tank showed me how to rebuild a carburetor, and --” He stopped abruptly, noticing my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“You went to the garage without telling me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Chase’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m sixteen, Mom. I can hang out with friends after school.”

“They’re not friends, Chase. They’re --”

“They’re what?” His voice hardened.

“They’re bikers,” I finished, hating how my voice shook.

Chase’s face darkened in a way that reminded me too much of his father. “So what if they are? These guys actually give a damn about us, which is more than Dad ever did.”

“Language,” I said automatically, then immediately regretted it. My son towered over me now, nearly a man, with shoulders broadening every day. Correcting his language felt ridiculous when we were discussing motorcycle clubs and violence.

“You don’t get it,” Chase continued, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “These guys aren’t like Dad. They don’t hit their women or terrorize their kids. They’ve got actual jobs and families they take care of.”

“And prison records,” I said. “These men may be helping us, but they aren’t fluffy bunnies, Chase. They can be dangerous. I just worry and want you to be careful.”

He sighed and nodded, but I knew he’d be back at the garage first chance he had. But that was a battle for another day.