Chapter Three #2
Silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy from something unspoken.
He had watched me fall apart, as I huddled on the floor, hyperventilating over a sound that probably didn’t register for him beyond background noise.
I owed some kind of explanation, even if the full story stayed locked behind my teeth.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out rough, scraped raw by the panic that had closed my throat.
“Don’t be.”
“I made a mess. I should have --”
“Marci.” He said my name quietly, and something in his tone made me stop. “You don’t owe me an apology for being scared.”
I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. The position made me smaller, yet a hint of safety settled over me. “The siren. I just… something inside me snapped.”
“I figured.”
Red light pulsed again, washing both of us in shades of warning. My gaze drifted to the broken glass while I searched for the right words. Ones explaining enough without exposing too much. Ones giving him understanding without placing him in danger.
“I had a boyfriend.” My voice barely rose above a whisper, but in the quiet of the empty bar, the sound carried. “He… he disliked any attempt I made to leave.”
Ace didn’t respond, didn’t move. Just sat there beside me, solid and present, giving me space to continue.
“The first time, he found me in three days. Showed up at the motel where I was staying, convinced the manager to let him in. Said I was sick, needed help, and he was so worried.” The memory tasted bitter.
“He was always good at making people believe him, at seeming reasonable and concerned while I was the one who looked crazy.”
My fingers dug into my arms, nails pressing crescents into skin through my sleeves.
“The second time, I lasted almost a week. Different state, different name. He tracked my credit card, though. Showed up at my work with smiles and flowers, asking my boss if he’d seen his fiancée.
Told everyone I had suffered a breakdown and needed help. ”
“But you weren’t engaged.” Ace’s voice stayed low and controlled, yet an edge slipped through.
“No.” I shook my head. “We dated for eight months. I tried to end the relationship after six, once I realized he checked my phone and followed me to places I never mentioned. Trouble started then.”
Red light pulsed again. I watched the glow paint the floor in crimson before fading back into shadow.
“He targeted anyone who helped me. Friends who offered a couch, people who gave me work, anyone who showed kindness. He made their lives difficult. Investigations, firings, whatever created isolation around me.” My voice dropped lower.
“After the second escape, I stopped using my real name. No cards, no traceable habits. Just moving from one place to another for a few weeks or months, then vanishing before he found me.”
“How long?” Ace asked.
“Two years. Two years of truck stops and motels and jobs that paid under the table. Two years of looking over my shoulder, jumping at sirens, scanning every face in every crowd.” I pressed my forehead against my knees. “I’m so tired of running.”
Silence settled over us, heavier than anything before. I had revealed too much, offered him enough pieces for a full picture if he chose to look. No way existed to pull the words back or pretend nothing had happened.
When Ace finally spoke, his voice sounded harder and colder than any version I had heard from him. “He put his hands on you.”
The statement left no room for doubt. I nodded anyway.
His jaw tightened, a muscle jerking under the rough stubble along his face. His hands -- those scarred, steady hands -- curled into fists against his thighs before he deliberately relaxed them. “He know where you are now?”
“I don’t think so.” I lifted my head, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “I’ve been careful. No social media, no contact with anyone from my old life. I paid cash for everything, got a fake ID good enough to pass basic checks. But I want to stay here for a while, if I can.”
“Because of the job.”
“Because I need the job. Need the money, need something stable for once.” I hesitated, then added, “And because you didn’t ask questions I couldn’t answer.”
He let my words settle, hazel eyes focused on my face, an intensity strong enough to unsettle most people but strangely steadying for me. “Why did the siren set you off tonight? What specifically triggered it?”
“He called the cops on me. Multiple times. Told them I was unstable, suicidal, a danger to myself. They’d show up with that siren going, and he’d be there looking so concerned, so helpful.
And I’d be the one who looked hysterical.
” My hands were shaking again. “Sometimes I still hear that sound and think he’s found me. Think it’s starting all over again.”
Ace was quiet for a long moment. The neon sign buzzed outside, and somewhere in the distance, I heard an engine pass on the highway. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. But they felt thin as paper after everything I’d just said.
“I’m taking you home.” Ace pushed to his feet.
“That’s not necessary. I can --”
“I’m taking you home,” he repeated, offering his hand again. “It’s late, you’re shaken up, and I’m not letting you drive like this.”
“Ace, really, I’m fine now --”
“Marci.” He waited until I looked up at him. “Let me do this. Please.”
The please broke through my resistance. I took his hand and let him pull me up, staying on my feet as he guided me out from behind the bar.
He grabbed the broom and made quick work of the broken glass while I gathered my things, neither of us speaking.
The routine of cleanup felt grounding, normal. Well, until it had all gone to hell.
He locked up, checking the door twice before pocketing his keys. The parking lot stretched dark and empty except for my Honda and his motorcycle. The massive bike dominated the space, black and chrome throwing back the lone beam from the light above the lot.
“I’ll take you on the bike and have one of the guys bring your car around tomorrow.” He was already moving toward the motorcycle.
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”
He glanced back at me. “Then this’ll be a first.”
The night air felt cool against my skin after the warmth of the bar, carrying the scent of dust and distant rain.
My legs still felt unsteady, but I followed him across the gravel, each step taking me farther from the safety of the building and closer to the man who’d just seen me at my most vulnerable.
Ace straddled the bike, the movement easy and familiar. “I have a helmet Jenna used occasionally when she needed a ride. Just didn’t realize I’d need it.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure you’re a careful driver.”
“Climb on behind me. Hold my waist. Lean through turns. Never fight the motion.”
I swung my leg over, settling onto the seat behind him. The motorcycle felt alive beneath me, all potential energy waiting for release. I hesitated for a heartbeat, then wrapped my arms around his waist, absorbing the solid warmth of his body through his shirt, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The engine roared to life, vibration rolling through every muscle.
And as we pulled out of the parking lot into the Oklahoma night, I realized something had shifted between us -- something unnamed, yet undeniable, felt as clearly as the wind on my face and the unwavering strength of the man holding me steady as we rode through the dark.
* * *
Ace
The clubhouse smelled like cigarettes and old leather, smoke hanging in layers above the scarred wooden table where a dozen Savage Raptors sat in various states of attention.
I headed to Church after getting some sleep.
Even after I’d dropped her off, staying long enough to watch her unlock the door and step inside, my mind had stayed halfway on her -- the way she had shaken behind the bar, the fragments of story she handed over piece by piece -- even now I struggled to focus, but Atilla was talking, and when the President spoke, you listened.
The old man sat at the head of the table, his long gray braid hanging over one shoulder, weathered hands folded in front of him.
Seventy-something, yet he still commanded the room through presence alone.
Overhead lights threw shadows across his face, deepening the lines mapping decades of decisions most men would never carry.
“Third time this month,” Atilla was saying, his voice measured and deliberate. “Knuckles got pulled over Tuesday night on Highway 71. No cause. Cop claimed a taillight was out.”
“Taillight was fine.” Knuckles’ usual humor was nowhere to be found. “I’d checked it myself that morning. Bastard just wanted to run my license, ask questions about where I was going, where I’d been.”
“Same thing happened to Ravager last week,” someone else added. “Different cop, same questions.”
I reached for my beer, the bottle cold and slick from condensation.
Around the table, men shifted in their seats -- some leaning back, arms crossed, others hunched forward, elbows planted on scarred wood.
The walls carried decades of club history: photographs of members long gone, patches from chapters across the state, a Raptor flag flown over the clubhouse.
“They’re fishing,” Atilla said. “Looking for cause to dig deeper. We give them nothing. No outstanding warrants, no violations, no excuses to haul anyone in.”
“Fucking harassment is what it is.” Wildcard’s large frame made the chair beneath him look like children’s furniture. “Can’t even ride without some badge deciding to flex.”
Maui, sitting to my left, tapped his fingers against his beer bottle. “They say what they’re looking for?”