3. Tara
TARA
T he breakfast rush at Bea's moved differently when a six-foot-two biker MC president sat at the corner booth like a guardian gargoyle.
Viper had arrived at seven sharp, leather cut over a black henley, taking the booth that gave him sight lines to both entrances and the kitchen. He'd ordered coffee—black—and hadn't moved in three hours except to track my movements around the diner.
"That your new boyfriend?" Maxine, one of the other waitresses, whispered as we passed at the coffee station. "Because damn, honey."
"He's not my—" I stopped. What was he? Protector? Bodyguard I couldn't afford? The man who'd invaded my dreams last night with phantom sensations of solid muscle beneath my hands?
"Sure he's not." Maxine smirked. "That's why he looks ready to murder any man who gets within three feet of you."
She wasn't wrong. When Tom Bradley had reached out to steady me after I'd stumbled with a full tray, Viper's entire body had coiled like a spring. Tom had yanked his hand back like he'd touched a live wire.
"Order up!" Bea called.
I grabbed the plates, hyperaware of Viper's attention as I delivered breakfast to table four. Every move I made, he catalogued. Every customer I served, he assessed. The weight of his focus made my skin prickle with something that wasn't quite fear anymore.
The bell above the door chimed. A man in a suit walked in, and my stomach dropped before logic kicked in—wrong build, wrong walk. Not Harrison. Just another traveling salesman looking for eggs and weak coffee.
But Viper had already shifted, hand moving to his hip where I suspected he kept a weapon. His gaze tracked the stranger to a seat at the counter, not relaxing until the man opened a newspaper and ignored everyone.
"Your watchdog's making customers nervous," Bea said when I picked up my next order. But her tone held approval. "About time someone looked after you properly."
Three months of working here, and I'd never told her about Harrison. Never explained the jumpy behavior or the dark circles or why I'd changed my locks twice. But Bea knew anyway. Small towns had their own kind of magic.
"Table six needs a refill," she added, then lower, "His cup's been empty for twenty minutes."
Table six. Viper's booth.
I grabbed the coffee pot, willing my hands steady. He watched me approach with an intensity that made walking feel complicated.
"More coffee?"
"Thanks." His voice rumbled through me, setting off reactions I'd thought Harrison had killed.
I leaned in to pour, catching leather and motor oil and something woodsy that made me want to burrow closer. The coffee pot trembled.
"Easy." His hand covered mine on the handle, steadying it. Heat spread from his touch, warming something frozen inside me. "I've got you."
Three words. That's all. But they unwound something that had been knotted in my chest since yesterday's texts. Maybe since long before that.
"I don't need a babysitter," I whispered, though my hand stayed under his.
"No. You need protection until we handle your problem." His thumb brushed my knuckles before releasing my hand. "My job to make sure you get it."
"I can't pay?—"
"We covered this. My protection, my rules." He leaned back, but his presence still surrounded me. "What time you done?"
"Two."
"I'll be here."
Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact that should have rankled my hard-won independence but instead made me feel... safe.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of ordinary chaos tinged with extraordinary awareness.
Viper's presence changed the entire dynamic of the diner.
Conversations stayed quieter. Men kept their eyes on their plates when I served them.
Even Earl, who usually made harmless faux-flirty comments about my figure that I pretended not to hear, kept his observations to himself.
At five minutes to two, I untied my apron in the back room, trying to calm the flutter in my stomach. This was insane. I was a single mother with a dangerous ex-husband and eight hundred dollars to my name. I had no business getting butterflies over a biker who'd decided I belonged to him.
But when I walked out front and found him standing by the door, jacket in hand, those butterflies turned into full-blown birds of prey.
"Ready?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Outside, his Harley waited like a patient beast. He handed me the helmet—the same one from yesterday that fit perfectly.
"My car?—"
"Is fine where it is. Climb on."
That tone brooked no argument. I hiked up my uniform skirt and settled behind him, muscle memory from yesterday guiding my arms around his waist. The engine rumbled to life, vibrating through both of us.
The ride home took the long way. Through downtown, past the hardware store where Elmer waved from the doorway, around the park where mothers watched their toddlers with eagle eyes. By the time we pulled into my driveway, the entire town had seen me wrapped around Viper Brennan on his motorcycle.
I suddenly realised what this was about. Message delivered. I was under his protection.
"Izzy gets home in an hour," I said as he helped me off the bike, his hands lingering on my waist a beat longer than necessary.
"I know." Of course he did. He probably knew her teacher's name, her favorite subject, what she ate for lunch. "Mind if I take a look at that bike in your garage? Noticed it yesterday."
"Izzy's bike?" I blinked at the subject change. “Well, it’s not really her bike. It was here when we moved in but she really wanted to have it. The chain's rusted, and the handlebars are loose though.”
"Got tools on the Harley."
Twenty minutes later, he had the small pink bicycle upside down on the front lawn, chain removed, rust treatment applied.
His large hands moved with surprising delicacy, adjusting brake cables and tightening bolts.
The contrast—this dangerous man being so gentle with a child's toy—made my chest tight.
"You know about kids' bikes?"
"Know about all bikes." He spun a pedal, checking the movement. "Plus, had a sister. She had one just like this."
"Had?"
His hands stilled for a moment. "Cancer. Ten years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"She would've liked you." He went back to work. "Would've called me an idiot for taking this long to find someone."
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. Someone. Not just someone to protect. Someone.
"Viper—"
"This should do it." He flipped the bike upright, bouncing it to test the repairs. "She'll need to grow into it a bit, but it's solid."
The school bus saved me from responding. Izzy bounced off, pigtails askew, backpack dragging. She stopped when she saw us, then her face lit up.
"Mr. Viper! You came back!"
"Told you I fix bikes." He gestured to the bicycle. "Want to try it?"
Her squeal could probably be heard three towns over. "It's the pink bike I wanted to keep! And it has streamers! Mama, can I?"
"Helmet first," I said automatically.
Viper was already pulling a child-sized helmet from his saddlebag. Brand new. Pink, with rainbow stickers. He'd bought my daughter a helmet.
My chest constricted as I watched him kneel to help her adjust the straps, his massive frame folded down to her level, patience incarnate as she chattered about school and her friend Lucy and how Tyler pulled her hair at recess.
"Tyler sounds like he needs to learn some manners," Viper said, steadying the bike as Izzy climbed on.
"Boys are stupid." She wobbled, and his hand shot out to balance her. "Except you. You're not stupid."
"Appreciate that, princess."
Princess. The endearment Harrison had weaponized, turned into something controlling and diminishing. But from Viper's mouth, it sounded like a promise. Like protection. Like she was precious.
I sat on the porch steps, watching my daughter ride circles in the driveway while a dangerous man jogged beside her, ready to catch her if she fell. The late afternoon sun caught the silver threading through his dark hair, highlighted the tattoos covering his arms, made his leather cut gleam.
He shouldn't look safe. Nothing about him should read as safe.
But when Izzy took a turn too fast and started to tip, he caught her with gentle hands, setting her upright with an encouraging word. When she succeeded in a full circle without wobbling, his grin was genuine and proud.
"Mama, look! I'm doing it!"
"I see, baby! You're amazing!"
She beamed and pedaled harder, confidence growing with each rotation.
"Inside before dark," I called. "Homework before dinner."
"Five more minutes?"
I glanced at Viper. He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I've got nowhere to be."
Five minutes turned into fifteen, then twenty, before Izzy finally tired herself out. She parked the bike carefully on the porch, helmet placed reverently on the seat.
"Thank you, Mr. Viper." She threw her arms around his legs, squeezing tight before I could warn her that he might not like?—
His hand settled on her head, gentle as butterfly wings. "Anytime, princess."
She disappeared inside with promises to draw him a picture of her bike. The door clicked shut, leaving us alone in the gathering dusk.
"You didn't have to do that." My voice came out rougher than intended.
"Wanted to." He moved closer, crowding into my space without quite touching. "She's a good kid."
"She's everything." The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
"I know." His hand rose to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Both of you. Everything."
The air between us crackled with tension so thick I could barely breathe. I should step back. I should remember I'd sworn off men, especially dangerous ones. I should protect my heart the way he was protecting my body.
Instead, I swayed toward him, my body making decisions my mind wasn't ready for.
"Tara." My name on his lips sounded like a claiming. "Tell me to stop."
"I can't."
"Thank fuck."
His mouth crashed into mine, and every careful wall I'd built crumbled. This wasn't Harrison's possessive brutality or the fumbling boys from before him. This was consuming fire that somehow didn't burn. Demanding but not taking.
His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head for better access. His tongue swept past my lips, and I opened for him, a sound escaping that I didn't recognize as mine. He backed me against the porch rail, his body caging me in, but instead of feeling trapped, I felt protected. Surrounded. Safe.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more of this feeling—this alive, burning, desperate feeling I'd forgotten existed.
He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, pooling heat low in my belly.
His free hand found my waist, fingers splaying possessively, thumb stroking the strip of skin where my uniform had ridden up.
The kiss deepened, turned hungrier. Years of careful control shattered as I pressed against him, feeling the hard planes of his chest through the thin henley.
He was solid everywhere I was soft, rough where I was smooth.
My hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers digging in as he kissed me like he was trying to brand me, claim me, remake me into something that belonged only to him.
And God help me, I wanted it. Wanted to be claimed, protected, cherished. Wanted to let someone else be strong for once.
"Fuck, sweetheart." He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to mine. His chest heaved against me, and I realized mine was doing the same. "Been wanting to do that since you walked into my clubhouse looking terrified and fierce."
"This is complicated." My protest would have been more convincing if I wasn't still clutching his shirt, if my lips weren't swollen and tingling from his kiss.
"No, it's not." His thumb traced my lower lip, and I fought the urge to catch it with my teeth. "It's simple. You're mine. I'm yours. Everything else is just details."
"I have baggage?—"
"Which I'm handling."
"My daughter?—"
"Already loves me."
"We barely know each other?—"
He silenced me with another kiss, shorter but no less devastating. This one was softer, almost tender, but still left me breathless and aching. "We know enough. The rest we'll figure out as we go."
A door slammed somewhere down the street, breaking the spell.
I remembered we were standing on my front porch, in full view of anyone passing by.
The same porch where just yesterday I'd been terrified and alone.
My lips throbbed, my skin felt too tight, and every nerve ending seemed to be reaching for him.
"I should go inside. Dinner, homework, normal mom things." The words came out breathy, nothing like my usual voice.
"Lock the doors. Phoenix is on watch tonight, but still." His hand cupped my jaw one more time, thumb stroking my cheek with unexpected tenderness. "Dream of me, sweetheart."
He was on his bike and gone before I could respond, leaving me standing there with swollen lips and shaking legs and the absolute certainty that my carefully controlled life had just exploded.
Inside, Izzy was already at the kitchen table with her coloring books, tongue poking out in concentration.
"Mama, is Mr. Viper your boyfriend?"
The question I'd been dreading all day. "It's complicated, baby."
"Lucy's mom has a boyfriend. He brings her flowers and takes them to dinner." She selected a purple crayon. "Mr. Viper fixed my bike. That's better than flowers."
I smiled at her words.
My phone buzzed as I started pulling ingredients for spaghetti. My heart stopped, expecting Harrison.
But it was an unknown number with a local area code.
This is Viper. Lock your doors. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.
I saved the number, then noticed another text from earlier I'd missed.
Your ex had someone watching the diner. We handled it. You're safe.
My blood chilled. Harrison had someone here. Watching me. Watching Izzy. But Viper had handled it. Whatever that meant in MC terms, I didn't want to know. I just knew that for the first time in eight months, I believed those two words.
You're safe.
I locked the doors, made dinner, helped with homework, gave Izzy a bath, read bedtime stories.
Normal mom things, just like I'd said. But through it all, phantom sensations haunted me—the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his hands, the solid wall of his chest. My body hummed with awakened desire, skin sensitive to even the brush of my clothes.
That night, lying in my bed, I did exactly what he'd told me to do.
I was going to dream about Viper, and this time it wasn’t going to stop at a kiss.