Chapter 16
I shouldn’t be here. The thought runs through my head for the hundredth time as I push open the heavy wooden door of Black Rose Tavern and step inside.
The smell hits me first—beer, overpowering perfume mixed with cologne, and something fried in old oil.
It’s loud, too. Music humming through old speakers, the clack of pool balls, men laughing too hard.
My fingers tighten around my purse strap. This was a bad idea.
What choice did I have? My ex called, making it known he found me, and wants to discuss our child.
I can’t ignore it. He will chase me out of this town and I’ve finally found footing again.
As much as I want to, I can’t run forever.
The life I have given to Quinn isn’t the one I dreamed of.
Two years of moving, two years without stability, I can’t keep it up.
She needs to make friends and keep them.
Which is why he called, I answered, and I’m walking into a dive bar like I know what I’m doing, even as every instinct in my body screams against this.
I glance around the bar, scanning the space, taking in all the faces. None of them are familiar—truckers maybe, a few locals, some rough-looking guys in worn denim and leather. A couple women sit near the bar laughing loudly with a group of men. But he isn’t here.
I check the time on my phone. Seven twenty-three. He said seven. I didn’t see his car in the parking lot and purposely waited to make sure he would already be here. And he’s not.
My stomach twists. Typical. He is playing games with me as usual.
A bartender with a gray beard wipes down the counter and nods in my direction. “You meeting someone?”
“Yeah,” I remark, forcing a polite smile as I step closer. “My ex. He said he’d meet me here.”
“What’s your name?” He ask still wiping down the bar top.
“Lucy,” I respond hoping maybe this will help somehow.
The man snorts softly like he’s heard that story before. “Well, honey, you can wait if you want, but I ain’t seen anyone come in looking for a Lucy.”
Great. I exhale slowly and slide onto a stool anyway. “Can I just get a soda?”
He pours one without asking questions and pushes it toward me. I wrap both hands around the glass, letting the cold seep into my fingers. Maybe he’s late. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. Maybe—My phone buzzes interrupting my thoughts.
My heart jumps as I grab it. Unknown number.
I answer quickly. “Hello?”
A slurred voice comes through the speaker. “Lucy?”
I stiffen as instincts kick in. Tension rolls through me as my body prepares to take the brunt of whatever comes next. Abuse is a funny thing like that. Even with years apart, my body reacts like I am back in the grips of his violence once again.
“Where are you?” He asks speaking clearly suddenly.
“I’m here,” I say carefully. “At Black Rose. Like you said.”
A long pause. Then a laugh. “Yeah, about that. I ain’t gonna make it tonight.”
For a moment I don’t breathe. “You asked me to meet you,” I respond delicately because everything inside me is screaming that I mixed it up. This is my fault. Old habits die hard.
“Relax,” he states like we are friends. “We’ll figure out something later.”
Anger flares in my chest. “You said it was about Quinn.”
“Yeah well,” he mutters, “I’ve been thinking we need to work out visitation.”
My stomach drops. “You can’t just decide that after two years. When I left you told me to take off and not to look back.” I leave off the part where he specifically told me if I did stay close he would kill me in front of our daughter to teach her a lesson about leaving.
His tone turns sharp. “She’s my kid too. You keep popping off and around, can’t find you, and I want to see her. You got off clean, Lucy. Ain’t got a taste for you right now. Just want to see my daughter.”
I close my eyes. Here it is. The reason I knew I shouldn’t come. “Call me when you’re sober,” I state, keeping my voice even. He won’t ever stay sober so this will buy me some more time.
Then I hang up before he can respond. My hands are shaking. I set the phone down on the bar and stare at the bubbles rising in my soda.
Two years.
Two years since I managed to walk away. Two years unsettled, looking over my shoulder constantly.
The first few months the calls were daily threatening to find me and kill me.
Then he would find another woman to keep his attention, giving me short bursts of peace.
In between girlfriends, though, he tormented me.
Which is why I went on the run with our daughter.
The life I have had isn’t good for a young child. She is registered for school in a few weeks. She’s excited. It’s the only reason I agreed to meet him and not just uprooting us once again.
Two years of raising Quinn alone.
And now he decides he wants to play dad and coparent in a safe way. That was what he said to arrange this meeting. A meeting in a bar… I should have known better. This is another game to feed his ego.
A laugh bursts from the far side of the bar, loud and sloppy. I try to ignore it. I finish half my soda and tell myself I’ll leave in five minutes. Just long enough to calm down and get myself straight. I don’t want Quinn to see me rattled.
The tension begins to ease as I let the cold liquid of my drink settle in my belly. That’s when I feel it. Someone standing too close behind me. The smell of whiskey hits my nose.
“Well now,” a man’s voice with a heavy southern drawl mutters. “Ain’t you the prettiest thing in here tonight.”
My shoulders stiffen. I glance over my shoulder. Big mistake. He wanted my attention and now he has it. The man looming behind me is huge. Thick neck, red face, eyes glassy from alcohol. His flannel shirt is half untucked and his beard looks like it hasn’t been trimmed in months.
He grins. And that smirk makes my skin crawl.
“Hi,” I say politely, already sliding off the stool. “Excuse me. I’m headed out.”
His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. The world stops. “Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “You just got here.”
My breath catches. Old instincts slam into place.
Freeze. Don’t make it worse. “I’m actually leaving,” I reply carefully.
He chuckles. “You ain’t leaving yet.”
My heart starts pounding. I try to pull my wrist free but his grip tightens. The bar noise keeps going around us—music, laughter, pool balls cracking.
No one notices. Or maybe they do. Maybe they just don’t care.
“Let go,” I whisper.
Instead, he steps closer. Too close. “You come here alone?” he asks, breath smothered with the scent of whiskey.
My body locks up. Memories flash like lightning behind my eyes. Another man. Another hand grabbing my arm. Another room where no one helped. I stop breathing.
“C’mon,” he coaxes, tugging my wrist. “Let’s go have a drink somewhere quiet.”
My feet won’t move. My voice won’t work. The old fear creeps up my spine like ice water. I hate this feeling. Absolutely hate it. I told myself when I left, this was it. I wouldn’t feel this frozen by fear thing again.
“Hey.” A voice cuts through the air like a knife.
Deep. Calm. Dangerous. The drunk man pauses. He doesn’t release me though.
“The lady asked you to let go.”
My head turns. And everything shifts. The man standing a few feet away is tall.
Tall enough that the overhead light catches the top of his dark hair and leaves the rest of him shadowed.
He wears a leather vest over a black T-shirt, jeans worn pale at the knees, heavy boots planted like roots in the floor.
The vest is covered in patches. I can’t read all of it in the darkness of the bar.
His eyes move from the man gripping my wrist to my face. And something in them hardens.
“Let. Her. Go.”
The drunk man laughs. “Mind your business.”
The man in the leather steps closer. Slow. Controlled. The air around him feels heavier somehow. “This is my business.”
“Since when?” Drunk man challenges.
“Since you decided to grab her.”
The drunk man snorts. “She ain’t complaining.”
I finally find my voice. “Yes I am.”
The biker’s gaze flicks to me briefly. Something soft flashes there. Then it disappears as if it never occurred leaving me wondering if I was losing my mind.
He looks back at the drunk. “You heard her.”
The drunk tightens his grip on my wrist. “Why don’t you make me?”
The biker doesn’t hesitate. His fist moves so fast I barely see it.
CRACK.
The sound echoes through the bar as the drunk’s head snaps sideways.
My wrist is suddenly free. The man staggers backward, crashing into a table. Chairs scrape. Glass shatters. People shout. Chaos ensues.
The biker grabs the front of the drunk’s shirt and slams him down onto the table with a bone-rattling thud. “You don’t touch women like that,” he growls. “She said let her go. You let her go.”
The drunk swings wildly. Misses. The biker drives another punch into his jaw. Then another. Someone yells, “Hey!” Followed by the bartender shouting something about taking it outside. But the biker already has the man by the collar again.
“Say you’re sorry.”
The drunk spits blood and curses. Bad choice. The biker slams him through the table. Wood splinters. The bar goes silent. The drunk groans and doesn’t get up. For a moment no one moves. Then the biker straightens slowly and wipes his knuckles on his jeans like nothing unusual just happened.
He turns toward me. My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it. Up close he’s even bigger. Broad shoulders. Dark eyes. A scar cutting through one eyebrow. And something about him radiates pure, controlled danger.
“Are you okay?” His voice is softer now.
I nod automatically. “I—I think so.”
He glances down at my wrist. A faint red mark is forming where the man grabbed me. His jaw tightens. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” My voice sounds small.
He nods once. “Good.”
Behind him, two guys drag the drunk man toward the door while the bartender mutters about broken tables.
The biker steps slightly closer. “Do you have someone with you tonight?”
“No.”
He studies me for a moment. And it feels like he’s seeing more than I’m saying. “Let me walk you outside.”
“I’m okay,” I reply quickly. But even as I say it, I realize my hands are still shaking. His gaze drops to them. Then back to my face.
“Humor me.” Something about the way he says it isn’t pushy.
It’s steady. Reliable.
I hesitate. Then nod. “Okay.” What else is there for me to say? I don’t want to be rude.
He leads the way toward the door, clearing a path through the curious stares. When we step outside, the cool Alabama night air washes over me. I inhale deeply. My lungs finally remember how to work. Motorcycles line the gravel lot, chrome gleaming under the yellow streetlight.
The biker stops near the curb and turns toward me. “You parked nearby?”
“Yeah,” I say, pointing toward my little sedan.
He walks with me to it. Not too close. Not touching. Just there. When we reach the car, I turn to face him.
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. But they’re all I have.
He shrugs slightly. “No thanks needed.”
“Yes there is.” I hesitate. “Most people didn’t even notice.”
His eyes flick toward the bar door. “They noticed.”
“Then why didn’t they help?”
He studies me for a moment. “Because sometimes people wait for someone else to step in.”
The truth of that stings a little. I unlock my car but don’t get in yet. “What’s your name?”
He pauses. Then says, “Tucker.”
Before I can respond, the bar door swings open and a voice calls out. “Mellow! You coming back in or what?” Tucker sighs. Then looks back at me.
“Get home safe.”
“Mellow?” I ask before I can stop myself.
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Nickname. Road name to be specific.”
“It doesn’t seem very accurate.”
He chuckles. Low and rough. “No. It’s not. That’s why it fits.”
For a second neither of us moves. Then he steps back. “Drive safe, Lucy.”
I blink. “How do you—”
“The bartender said your name earlier.”
“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say without feeling stupid. I climb into my car and shut the door.
When I look up again, Tucker—Mellow—is already walking back toward the bar. The streetlight catches the patch on the back of his vest as he pushes through the door.
Kings of Anarchy MC.
I’ve heard of them. People talk in a small town like Freedom Falls.
When I first got into town and tried to settle in I was told they are more reliable than the local cops.
If tonight is anything to go by that statement is fact.
I start the engine and pull out of the lot.
But halfway down the road, I realize something strange.
For the first time in a long time… I don’t feel afraid. And I can’t stop thinking about the man everyone calls Mellow.