Chapter Seven #2
“What’s going on?” she asked.
I already had a solid guess, but I only shook my head. “We’ll find out.”
Three days at Atilla’s cabin had taken the edge off both of us.
Some of the tension had bled from Marci’s shoulders, and I had managed something close to real sleep without snapping awake at every small noise.
The space and quiet had helped. Still, hiding never counted as a permanent option.
The bar needed running, and real life kept rolling forward even while a cop carrying a grudge stalked your woman.
I climbed out, rounded the hood, and rested my hand at the small of Marci’s back as we walked toward the door. The touch had turned into routine -- quiet claim and warning in a single motion. Before we reached the entrance, the door swung open and Knuckles filled the frame.
“About damn time,” he said. “We’ve been waiting on you two.”
The main room looked normal. Chairs rested stacked on tables from morning cleanup.
No customers yet, nothing obviously out of place.
Voices drifted from the back, low music underneath, and a rough rumble signaling the brothers had taken over the rear space.
Marci hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping inside, and I kept my hand on her as we moved toward the back room.
The door stood open. Cigarette smoke curled through the air.
Inside, tables had been shoved together into a long banquet-style covered in bottles and glasses.
Most of the Savage Raptors had arrived. Atilla in his usual spot, back to the wall.
General near the jukebox holding a beer.
Spade and Rebel arguing softly by the pool table.
Leather and smoke lingered, heavy, familiar and oddly comforting.
Every head turned when we stepped inside. Marci edged closer, fingers wrapping around my arm. I scanned the faces quickly. No hostility. Just curiosity and something warmer.
“There they are,” Maui called, flashing that easy grin. Casey sat beside him, her hand resting on his thigh like it belonged there, which it did. “Thought you decided to move into the cabin for good.”
“Tempting.” My hand stayed at Marci’s back. “Then you idiots would burn this place down for sure.”
Laughter rolled through the room, cutting tension.
General nudged the volume on the jukebox a little higher, some old song about open roads playing soft under the noise.
Casey rose from her chair, smoothing her jeans, and shared a look with Maui, a silent exchange telling me they had planned something.
She carried a package wrapped in plain brown paper, roughly the size of a folded jacket. Stopping in front of Marci, she offered the bundle through a smile warmer than I usually saw from her. Casey never extended her trust easily, which made this gesture even louder.
“For you,” she said.
Marci flicked a glance at me, uncertainty in her eyes. I gave a small nod. Her fingers worked at the paper, careful rather than ripping, and I watched her face more than the package.
Black leather appeared first, soft but sturdy, shaped for a woman’s frame. The Savage Raptors insignia covered the back, smaller than the patches on the brothers’ cuts but unmistakable. Auxiliary jacket. The kind reserved for women the club claimed and protected.
She turned the back toward herself and froze. I saw the exact second she read the words stitched in white.
Property of Ace.
Pressure gathered in my chest. I approved the patch when Atilla called a couple days ago, but seeing the words on real leather in her hands still hit hard. Deep. Right.
“Property of…” she started, voice trailing off as she looked up at me, blue eyes wide.
“Means you fall under my protection.” I kept my tone even. “Anyone who wants to hurt you walks through me first. Means I claim responsibility for you.”
“And you join the family.” Casey moved behind her to help slide the jacket over Marci’s shoulders. “These aren’t just for fun. You wear this, every brother here stands between you and trouble.”
Leather settled over Marci’s hoodie. Casey adjusted the collar and smoothed the back. It fitted her perfectly. Atilla had either guessed her size, or Casey had. Marci ran her hands over the front, testing softness and weight, her face caught between disbelief and gratitude.
“Family now.” Casey stepped back to admire the view. “Nobody touches family.”
“Nobody,” Maui echoed, lifting his beer. “We defend our own. Anyone tries to lay a hand on you, they run through all of us.”
Bottles lifted around the room in silent agreement. Marci studied the faces, the raised drinks, the certainty in the room. She been on the run for so long she barely knew what backup meant. Now she had over a dozen men who’d decided she mattered.
She turned toward me, jacket snug on her shoulders, and satisfaction rolled through me at the knowledge she had my name stitched across her back. Property of Ace. I wanted Mercer to see it, to understand exactly who stood between him and his favorite target.
“Thank you.” She faced the room but focused on me. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, just… thank you.”
“No speech needed,” Atilla answered from his corner. “Wear the leather. Let people see you have protection. That speaks loud enough.”
Celebration sparked from there. Shots appeared, stories followed.
Wildcard launched into a tale about a disastrous run five years back.
Ravager retold the story of his road name, adding extra drama for the new audience.
Marci settled into a chair beside me, fingers wrapped around the beer Casey pressed into her hand, and I watched her loosen by degrees.
This, more than hiding, was what I wanted for her.
Not only safety from Mercer but belonging.
Laughter. Faces she could trust. She threw her head back and laughed at some comment from Maui, the sound bright and real, and my chest tightened again.
My jacket on her shoulders, my name across her back, my brothers treating her like she had always sat at this table.
For a while, everything felt right. Felt like we had found solid ground.
Mercer turned into a problem for another day.
The future she described on the porch -- a little house and a garden -- felt real instead of imaginary.
With one arm draped along the back of her chair, I let my beer go warm and just breathed.
Then tires rolled over gravel.
The sound cut under the music, wrong in a way every brother recognized. Heavy vehicles, not bikes. Years of skirting the edge of legal trouble trained your ears for the arrival of law.
Red and blue light splashed across the walls a heartbeat later, harsh flashes visible through the windows.
I moved before my brain finished the thought, my hand finding Marci’s shoulder, positioning myself between her and the front.
Around the room, the Raptors shifted in practiced unison, drinks disappearing, anything questionable vanishing from sight, expressions flattening into polite disinterest.
“Nobody panic.” Atilla’s voice sounded calm yet strong as iron. “Likely nothing major. Let me speak for the room.”
His shoulders told a different story. Hands curled once before he deliberately relaxed them. Cruisers never came out to a biker bar for friendly conversation. Someone had pulled strings. Someone wanted pressure.
I already knew the name behind that decision.
* * *
Marci
Uniforms stepped through the doorway and my lungs locked.
Dark blue shirts, silver badges catching the rotating light from the cruisers outside.
Two officers, side by side. Every muscle I had remembered every time James had used his badge as a weapon.
Ace’s hand tightened on my shoulder, a steady anchor, reminding me this was a different town, a different department.
Reason insisted we faced routine cops. Experience whispered another story.
Local officers rarely stepped inside before opening hours carrying that level of presence unless someone had stirred them up.
“Routine inspection,” the first officer announced. His tone held practiced authority, the kind that shut down disagreement before a single word formed. Age showed around his eyes, gray threading dark hair. A career cop. His partner, younger and thicker through the shoulders, already held a notepad.
Atilla stepped forward. “Six months since the last one. Some particular concern?”
“Just checking compliance. Health codes, fire safety, alcohol licenses. Standard procedure.” The older man let his gaze drift over the room, taking in leather cuts, colors, the way we stood.
Technically, a fire marshal would check for fire safety, a health inspector for the health codes.
But the alcohol license? I could somewhat see that one.
They were clearly here on a BS excuse. “We should finish quickly.”
Standard procedure. The phrase scraped across my nerves like sandpaper. Nothing about this felt routine. James had stirred the pot. He’d made calls, leaned on someone, pulled favors. This inspection worked like a message, a reminder he could reach into my new life whenever he wanted.
Ace steered me behind the bar and planted himself between me and the crowd.
I tightened my fingers around polished wood, knuckles white.
The auxiliary jacket suddenly weighed a ton on my shoulders -- promise and target rolled into one.
Property of Ace. James would notice sooner or later.
He’d realize I’d found someone willing to stand in front of me, someone who didn’t bow to fear. He’d know his hold had slipped.
The officers moved in slow, methodical passes. Cooler. Storage. Paperwork. Licenses on the wall. The older one scribbled on a clipboard while the younger checked corners and fire equipment. Brothers drifted through the room, not blocking, not threatening -- just watching, every muscle wound tight.