Chapter 2 - Olivia
I press my cheek against Tyler's back, feeling the leather of his vest—cut, he called it—against my skin as the motorcycle rumbles beneath us.
The vibration travels up through my body, making my teeth chatter until I clench them tight.
Wind whips around the helmet, surprisingly loud, drowning out everything but my thoughts.
Tyler. A motorcycle club. A gun tucked in his waistband.
None of this makes sense. The Tyler I knew, the one I’ve always loved but never confessed, the one who left two years ago, was a quiet, intense ex-soldier trying to figure out civilian life. He'd been my rock after Dad died. My best friend.
Now he's something else entirely. Someone else.
We weave through the familiar streets of Hope Peak, passing the elementary school where I teach. Monday morning, my third-graders will wonder where I am. Mrs. Keller in the next classroom will have to cover my class, adding twenty-four energetic eight-year-olds to her already full plate.
Guilt pinches at me, but it's quickly overshadowed by fear as we pass Devin's auto shop. His red pickup isn't in the lot, but just seeing the building makes my heart race. My grip around Tyler's waist tightens reflexively.
He feels it, reaches down to squeeze my hand briefly. That small gesture of reassurance grounds me somehow. Whatever Tyler has become, he still knows me. Still cares.
We pull into the Blue Pine Motel lot ten minutes later.
It's a single-story horseshoe of rooms, painted with a faded teal that hasn't been refreshed in at least a decade and with a Christmas tree in the corner that has seen better days.
I've driven past this place my entire life but never had reason to stop.
It's where truckers and the occasional tourist stay, not locals.
Tyler kills the engine and helps me dismount on unsteady legs. My thighs ache from clenching the bike, and I stumble slightly as blood rushes back into my lower body.
"You okay?" Tyler's hand is at my elbow, steadying me.
"Fine," I say, the same response I give when students or colleagues notice a new bruise or my wincing when I move too quickly. "Just stiff."
He studies my face for a moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he sees right through the lie. The Tyler I knew could always tell when I wasn't being honest, and apparently that hasn't changed.
He grabs my bag from the bike and gestures toward the office. "Wait here. I'll get the room."
I stand awkwardly beside the motorcycle, watching as Tyler walks to the office with that purposeful stride I remember, albeit with a slight limp now.
Everything is happening so fast. Last night I was curled in a ball on my bathroom floor, crying silently after Devin stormed out following another explosive fight.
The bruise around my eye throbbing, I'd finally reached my breaking point and called the one person I swore I wouldn't burden with my problems.
Now here I am, running away to a motel with a man wearing motorcycle club patches.
Tyler returns with a key, nodding toward the far end of the building. "Room 18. End unit. Better visibility, more privacy."
Of course he'd think of that. Military training. Or maybe it's his new lifestyle that makes him consider tactical positions.
We walk to the room in silence. I'm aware of how we must look—me with my bruised face and nervous energy, him with his intimidating presence and leather cut. Mrs. Abernathy from the PTA would have a field day if she saw us.
The room is basic but clean. Two beds with faded floral comforters, a small table with two chairs, TV mounted on the wall, bathroom to the right. Tyler does a quick sweep, checking the closet, bathroom, and windows before seeming to relax.
"It's not much, but it's safe for now." He sets my bag on the bed nearest the door. "I'll take this one. You can have the other."
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what I've done. I've left my house. Run away from Devin. And now I'm hiding in a motel room with a man I haven't seen in two years, who's somehow transformed into someone I barely recognize.
"Tyler, are you finally going to tell me about that?" I gesture to his vest. "Outlaw Order? Are you in some kind of gang now?"
His jaw tightens. "It's a club, not a gang."
"What's the difference?" I challenge.
"Brotherhood. Purpose. Family." He shrugs off the cut, and lays it over the back of a chair. The T-shirt underneath stretches across broader shoulders than I remember, revealing new tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves.
"That doesn't really answer my question." I sit on the edge of my assigned bed, suddenly exhausted. "What exactly does the Outlaw Order do? You’re avoiding giving me a proper answer."
Tyler takes a seat opposite me, his forearms resting on his knees as he leans forward. "Look, I didn't come back to explain my life choices. I came back because you needed help."
"And I appreciate that. I do." I touch the bruise around my eye self-consciously. "But I called Tyler Jackson, my old friend. And you show up looking like..." I gesture vaguely at him, at the cut, at the visible knife sheath. "This. It's a lot to process."
He sighs, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.
"After I left Hope Peak, things were rough.
I was angry. Lost. The transition to civilian life wasn't going well.
" His eyes meet mine. "The club gave me structure.
Purpose. People who understood what it's like to live with the things I've seen and done. "
"So, they're other veterans?"
"Some. Not all." He shifts, and I notice him subtly stretching his bad leg. "They took me in when I was at my lowest. That's all that matters."
I want to press further, but the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours is catching up to me. My body feels leaden, my thoughts foggy. Tyler must notice because his expression softens.
"You should rest," he says. "When's the last time you slept?"
I try to remember. Last night was spent crying and panicking. The night before, Devin had come home drunk. So..."Maybe two days ago? Really slept, I mean."
Tyler nods like this confirms something for him. "Lie down. I'll keep watch."
"Keep watch? Tyler, this is Hope Peak, not Afghanistan."
A shadow crosses his face. "Habit."
Something in his tone stops me from arguing further. I kick off my shoes and stretch out on the bed, not bothering to get under the covers. Despite my racing thoughts, exhaustion pulls at me immediately.
"What happens now?" I ask, my voice already slurring with approaching sleep.
"Now you rest," Tyler says, his voice low and steady. "I'll handle the rest."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I murmur, but sleep claims me before I can hear his response.
A few hours later
I wake disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling above me causing a moment of panic before memory returns. Motel room. Tyler. Escape.
Sunlight filters through the closed curtains, casting the room in a muted glow. I turn my head to see Tyler sitting at the small table, cleaning a disassembled gun. The sight is so unexpected that I freeze, just watching him.
His movements are practiced and efficient.
This isn't new to him. His focus is absolute, his face set in concentration, eyes sharp as they track each component.
This is the soldier I never really saw. Tyler came home from his last deployment already discharged, already a civilian trying to forget his military life.
I must make some small sound because his head snaps up, eyes finding mine instantly. For a brief moment, I see something dangerous in his gaze before recognition softens it.
"Hey," he says, setting down the part he was cleaning. "Feel better?"
I push myself up to sitting, surprised to find a blanket draped over me. Tyler must have covered me while I slept.
"What time is it?" My voice comes out rough from sleep.
"Almost two." He begins reassembling the gun. "You needed the rest."
Five hours. I've been asleep for five hours. Panic flutters in my chest as I realize Devin will be home from work in four hours, expecting dinner on the table. Expecting me to be there.
"I should call the school," I say, reaching for my phone before realizing I don't know where it is. "Let them know I won't be in Monday."
"Already taken care of." Tyler clicks the last piece of the gun into place, checks the chamber, and sets it on the table. "Called the principal, told her you had a family emergency. She said to take all the time you need."
"You... what? How?" I'm caught between gratitude and indignation. "That's my job, Tyler. My responsibility."
"You needed to sleep. I handled it." He shrugs like it's nothing. "I just used your phone, said I was your cousin. Simple."
"And she believed you?" Principal Wells is notoriously suspicious.
A small smile, the first I've seen since he arrived, touches his lips. "I can be convincing when I need to be."
I should be angry at him for overstepping, but all I feel is relief. One less thing to worry about. "Thank you."
He nods once, accepting my gratitude without comment. "Are you hungry? I picked up some sandwiches while you were asleep."
My stomach growls in response, and I realize I can't remember the last time I ate. Devin had been angry at dinner yesterday, and I'd been too afraid to eat more than a few bites.
Tyler retrieves a paper bag from the small refrigerator and hands me a wrapped sandwich. Turkey and swiss with extra pickles—my favorite from the deli downtown. He remembers.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I'm surprised by how ravenous I am, finishing the sandwich in record time. Tyler wordlessly passes me a bottle of water, watching me with those observant eyes that seem to miss nothing.
"So, what happens now?" I ask after draining half the bottle.
"Now we talk about Devin." Tyler's voice hardens on the name. "I need to know everything. How it started. How bad it's gotten. How often. All of it."