My Biker Valentine (Hope Peak Valentine’s Day)

Chapter 1 - Steel

I sit on my Harley, staring at what remains of my childhood home.

Twenty-five years haven't been kind to the old place. The white paint has long since surrendered to weather and time, leaving behind a sickly gray that reminds me of dead corpses. The front door sways in the night breeze, creaking like it's mourning its own decay.

The letter in my jacket pocket feels heavy. Does the town council think they can just tear down my mother's house? Over my dead body. Or theirs. I haven't decided yet.

My phone vibrates against my hip, the screen lighting up with a name I can't ignore: Hellfire, my MC President. Shit.

"Yeah?" I answer, my voice gruff from the long ride.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hellfire's voice booms through the speaker, making me wince.

I shut my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Look, I know I should've told you I was leaving-"

"Damn right you should have!"

"But I couldn't find you, and this couldn't wait." I swing my leg over the bike, boots hitting the cracked pavement.

"Where are you?" The question comes out more like a demand.

I hesitate, looking at the dilapidated house again. "Hope Peak."

The silence on the other end is deafening. When Hellfire speaks again, his voice has dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"Hope Peak? The same Hope Peak you swore you'd never set foot in again?"

"Yeah." I don't elaborate. Some wounds are still too raw to explain.

"Steel-"

"I'll be back when I'm done here." I end the call before he can respond, knowing I'll pay for that disrespect later.

Each step toward the house feels like walking through mud, memories trying to drag me under with every movement.

I push open the front door, and the hinges scream in protest. The sound echoes through the empty house, stirring up memories I've spent years trying to forget.

The living room is exactly as I remember, yet completely different. Mom's floral wallpaper peels from the walls like dying skin, and broken glass crunches under my boots. Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the floor – some teenager's idea of a good time.

Something catches my eye among the debris. A photograph, its edges curled and yellow. I bend down to pick it up, and my throat tightens.

It's me and Mom. It must've been taken when I was fifteen or sixteen. My hair's spiked up like some wannabe punk rocker, but Mom's smiling that same warm smile she always had. She never judged me, not once. Not even when the principal called about another fight or when the cops brought me home at 3 AM.

"Shit," I mutter, carefully tucking the photo into my jacket pocket.

My old bedroom's worse than the living room. The stench hits me first – stale beer and God knows what else. Used condoms scattered across the floor like confetti after a party. This was my room. Mom used to bring me soup when I was sick, right here in this corner.

The anger builds in my chest like a pressure cooker. How could the town let this happen? Just let people trash the place like it means nothing?

My fist connects with the wall before I can stop myself. The drywall crumbles easily, leaving a hole the size of my head. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I barely sense it.

The sound of tires on gravel catches my attention. I move to the window, staying hidden behind what's left of the curtains. A sleek black car pulls up, looking completely out of place in this neighborhood. Two men step out, both wearing suits that probably cost more than this house is worth now. A neighbor must have warned them about me.

A grin spreads across my face as I watch them straighten their ties and head toward the front door. This ought to be interesting.

I take the stairs two at a time, the old wood groaning under my weight. By the time I burst through the front door, the suits are already on my lawn.

"Who the hell are you?" I growl, planting myself between them and the house.

The taller one adjusts his tie, looking at me like I'm something he scraped off his shoe.

"I believe we should be asking you that question. This property is scheduled for demolition."

"I'm the owner of this house," I snarl, my fists clenching at my sides. "And you're not touching a single brick."

The tall one steps forward, probably trying to intimidate me. Cute.

"Listen, it doesn't matter who you are. This house is coming down, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Something snaps inside me. Before he can blink, I've got him by his expensive collar, lifting him off his feet. He lands hard on the patchy grass, the wind knocked out of him.

"Let me make this real clear," I say, standing over him. "You come back here – with cops, with bulldozers, with the whole damn army – I'll be waiting. This is my house, and I never authorized any demolition."

The shorter guy, round like a beach ball in his tailored suit, helps his buddy up.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," he pants, face red with effort or anger. "We have plans for this property, and we won't just walk away. You'll regret this."

They scramble back to their fancy car, kicking up gravel as they speed away. I watch until they disappear around the corner.

"Fuck." The word echoes in the empty street.

What kind of hornets' nest did I just kick? I could call the boys from Iron & Blood MC – they'd ride up here in a heartbeat. But they've got their hands full with those Outlaw Riders trying to increase their territory in Cedar Falls. No, this is my mess. My fight.

Back inside, I drop onto the musty couch. The springs protest, but I've crashed in worse places during my younger days. I stare up at the ceiling, counting the patches of black mold spreading like ink stains.

My eyes grow heavy as exhaustion finally catches up with me. The last thing I see before sleep takes over is a water stain that looks almost like Mom's face, watching over me like she used to.

A loud bang jolts me awake. Sunlight streams through the holes in the ceiling, making me squint. For a moment, I'm disoriented, forgetting where I am until the musty smell of the old house hits me. What the hell is that noise?

Another bang. And another. Each one making my temples throb.

I push myself off the couch, my joints protesting after a night on those ancient springs. The leather of my cut creaks as I stretch, my back popping. Someone's about to get their ass kicked for-

"Son of a bitch!"

The words tear from my throat before I can stop them. Through the grimy window, I see those same two suited pricks from yesterday going at my bike with steel bats. My vision goes red, blood pounding in my ears. Each hit they land on my bike feels like they're striking me directly.

I charge through the door, the rotting wood nearly coming off its hinges. My boots thunder against the porch steps as I barrel toward them, fists already clenched so tight my knuckles are white. They spot me coming and bolt like scared rabbits, dropping their bats as they scramble toward their car.

I snatch one up and hurl it at their retreating vehicle. The satisfying sound of shattering glass isn't nearly enough compensation for what they've done, but it's something.

My hands are shaking as I inspect my bike. Twenty-five years we've been together, through every shit storm life's thrown at me.

Through bar fights everywhere, through lonely nights on desert highways, everything. The dents aren't too bad – nothing August's can't fix, assuming it's still the only garage in this backwater town. It better be, or I'm screwed.

The ride there is like a parade of judgment. Every face I pass either looks away or stares like I'm some kind of circus freak. Women pull their kids closer, and men pretend they're not watching but keep me in their peripheral vision.

Some things never change in Hope Peak, though the new storefronts try to pretend otherwise. A flower shop where the old diner used to be, some fancy boutique replacing Joe's Hardware. Lipstick on a pig.

I pull into August's, the familiar smell of oil and rubber hitting me as I park inside. The concrete floor is stained with decades of grease and memories.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Nothing. Great. Just fucking great.

I wander deeper into the shop until I spot someone at a makeshift sink. A woman, from the looks of it, with ginger hair pulled back in a ponytail that catches the morning light like copper wire.

And curves that make my mouth go dry. The kind of curves that make a man forget his own name. Christ, please let her face be a trainwreck, or I'm in trouble.

She's got headphones in, hips swaying slightly to whatever she's listening to while she scrubs at her hands. I reach over and pluck them out, probably not my smartest move.

She whirls around, all fire and fury.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

Damn it. She's gorgeous. Amber eyes blazing with anger, cute little nose scrunched up in annoyance, full lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. Just my type. Exactly my type, which is the last thing I need right now.

"Been calling out. No one answered." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"That's because we're closed. It's too early." She wipes her hands on a rag, leaving dark smudges on the cloth.

"The door was open. That means you're open. I need to speak to whoever handles the bikes." I try to keep my eyes on her face and not let them wander south.

She crosses her arms, chin tilting up defiantly. The movement pulls her shirt tight across her chest. Fuck.

"You're looking at her."

That throws me. Not because she's a woman—I've known plenty of female riders who could outride any man, and some of the most badass mechanics I've met wore lipstick. But she looks too clean, too polished for grease and engines, like a pin-up calendar girl playing at being a mechanic.

"That surprising?" There's a challenge in her voice that stirs something in my gut.

"Nah," I smirk, leaning against a nearby workbench. "Just wondering if you're as good with bikes as you are with that mouth of yours."