Chaos’ Obsession (Savage Riders MC #8)

Chapter 1 – Chaos

The morning sun burns through the clubhouse windows as I finish my third cup of coffee, watching King and Luna sitting close on the couch across from me. His hand rests on her knee like it's the most natural thing in the world, and she leans into him without even thinking about it.

I drain the last of my coffee and stand, stretching my arms over my head until my shoulders crack. The movement makes my shirt ride up, exposing the tattoos covering my ribs, a reminder of how far I've come.

"Heading out?" King asks.

"Yeah, need to check on my bike," I say. "Plus, I'm getting restless just sitting around."

Luna smiles at me. "You could help us plan the expansion. We need someone with fresh eyes."

I shake my head. "Business planning isn't my thing. I'll leave that to the smart people."

King's mouth twitches like he wants to smile. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, prospect."

The word "prospect" stings less than it used to, but I still can't wait for the day when it's gone.

Two months since we took down the Iron Eagles.

Two months of proving myself over and over again.

I thought after everything, after helping rescue those women, after standing with Shadow when bullets were flying, that maybe I'd get patched in immediately.

But King runs this club with discipline, and I respect that. Even if the waiting makes me want to punch something.

"I'll see you both later," I say, heading toward the door.

Outside, the early morning air feels good against my skin. Blackwater Falls is quiet this time of day, the streets mostly empty except for a few early risers heading to work. I walk toward the garage where my bike sits, my boots heavy against the pavement.

My Harley gleams in the morning light. I spent hours yesterday making sure every inch of chrome shines perfectly.

The bike is mine, paid for with money I earned breaking my back at that goddamn lumber mill.

Every time I look at it, I remember the day I bought it, remember how my hands shook as I signed the papers.

Freedom. That's what this bike means to me.

I run my hand along the seat, checking the leather for any wear. Everything looks good, but I need to change the oil soon. The routine maintenance keeps me busy, gives me something to focus on besides the restless energy constantly buzzing under my skin.

"Looking good, Chaos."

I turn to find Steel walking toward me, his hands already stained with oil even though it's barely eight in the morning. The guy lives in this garage.

"Just checking her over," I say. "You're here early."

He shrugs. "Couldn't sleep. Holly was having nightmares again."

My jaw tightens. Holly's been through hell, and even though the Iron Eagles are gone, the trauma lingers. "She doing okay?"

"Better each day." Steel's expression softens when he talks about her. "She's strong as hell. Stronger than she knows."

I nod, not sure what else to say. Relationships confuse me, always have. My parents' marriage was a war zone where I was the collateral damage, and I swore I'd never put myself in that position. But watching my brothers with their women, seeing how they've changed...

Maybe some people can make it work.

Just not me.

"Need help with anything?" I ask, changing the subject.

Steel considers for a moment. "Actually, yeah. Tank's bike needs a new chain. You up for it?"

"Definitely."

We work in silence for the next hour. This is what I'm good at. The physical work, the tangible problems with clear solutions. Not business plans or emotional conversations, but grease and metal and engines that either run or don't.

By the time we finish, sweat drips down my back despite the morning chill. I wipe my hands on a rag, studying our work with satisfaction.

"Good job," Steel says, clapping me on the shoulder. "You've got good instincts with bikes."

"Learned from the best," I say, meaning it.

My stomach growls loud enough that Steel laughs. "Get some food in you before you pass out."

"Yeah, yeah." I head back toward the clubhouse, but the thought of sitting still again makes my skin crawl. "Actually, think I'll head home. Been a while since I cooked."

"Suit yourself." Steel's already moving toward another bike, completely absorbed.

I wash my hands quickly in the clubhouse bathroom, scrubbing the grease from under my nails.

My reflection stares back at me. Dark hair that needs a trim, brown eyes that my mother used to say looked too old for my face, and the shadow of stubble along my jaw.

At twenty-four, I look older. Feel older too, most days.

The ride into town takes fifteen minutes, and I use every second of it to clear my head.

Wind in my face, the rumble of my bike between my legs.

This is when I feel most alive. Not like when I was a kid, trapped in bed while fever burned through me, and my parents' voices drifted up through the cheap floorboards.

*"I told you we should've taken him to the hospital again."*

*"We can't afford another hospital bill, Michael. You know that."*

*"So what, we just let him die?"*

*"Don't be dramatic. He's not dying. He's just sick. Kids get sick."*

*"He's always sick. Something's wrong with him."*

I shake off the memory, focusing on the present. That kid doesn't exist anymore. I made sure of it.

My house sits at the edge of town, a small rental that's nothing special but it's mine. No one telling me what to do or when to do it. No one looking at me like I'm a burden they're stuck with.

As I pull into my driveway, I notice the house next door looks different. The "For Rent" sign is gone, replaced by curtains in the windows. Someone moved in recently. Probably in the last couple days while I was spending nights at the clubhouse.

I kill my engine and swing off the bike, my boots crunching on the gravel. The neighbor's house stays quiet, no signs of life. Good. I'm not exactly looking to make friends.

Inside my house, I head straight for the kitchen. My stomach is seriously complaining now, demanding food after this morning's work. I pull out eggs, bacon, and bread, setting everything on the counter.

I crack the eggs into the pan, watch them sizzle, flip the bacon. Simple. Straightforward. No hidden meanings or complicated emotions. I'm halfway through eating when shouting cuts through the quiet.

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The voices are coming from next door, loud enough that I can hear them clearly through my kitchen window.

"Ruby, stop being ridiculous! Open this goddamn door!"

"You can't hide from us forever!"

"We're family! We deserve to see him!"

A woman's voice, thin with fear but firm, responds. "I told you to leave! You're not taking him!"

I set down my fork and stand, moving toward the window. Through the glass, I can see three people on my neighbor's porch. Two older adults and a younger guy, maybe my age. They're all facing the door, their body language aggressive.

"Ruby, please!" The older woman's voice cracks. "We're your parents! We just want to help!"

"You kicked me out!" The response comes from inside the house, barely audible. "You called me a whore and threw me away!"

"We were upset," the older man says. "We made mistakes. But this isn't about us. It's about that baby. He needs a proper family."

I've heard enough bullshit manipulation tactics from my own parents to recognize them when I hear them.

"He has a family! Me!" The woman—Ruby—sounds on the verge of tears. "I'm his mother!"

"You're a child yourself," the younger guy says, and there's something cruel in his tone. "You can't raise a kid alone. Be reasonable."

"Fuck you, Marcus! You ran the second I told you I was pregnant!"

So that's the ex-boyfriend. The piece of shit who abandoned her. I should stay out of it. This isn't my business. These people aren't my problem.

But my feet are already carrying me toward the door.

The memory of fighting my own father at eighteen flashes through my mind. The way he grabbed my arm when I tried to leave, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You'll never make it without us. You're too weak. You'll be dead within a year."

I proved him wrong. And I've made it my mission to help people who are trapped like I was.

Outside, the late morning sun is warmer now. I cross my yard in long strides, my boots heavy on the ground. The three people on the porch are so focused on the door they don't notice me approaching until I'm right behind them.

"Problem here?" I ask, my voice low and steady.

They all spin around. The older couple look exactly like what I expected. Middle-class, probably mid-fifties, dressed nice enough to show they've got money but not enough to be rich. The kind of people who care a lot about what the neighbors think.

The younger guy, Marcus, looks like every douchebag I've ever wanted to punch. Clean-cut, polo shirt, khakis. The kind of guy who's never had to fight for anything in his life.

"This is a private matter," the older man says, puffing up his chest. "We're dealing with family business."

"Didn't sound private when I could hear you shouting from inside my house." I gesture to my place next door. "Sounded like harassment."

"We're her parents," the older woman says, her voice taking on that reasonable tone that grates on my nerves. "We're trying to help our daughter see sense."

"By screaming at her door? Yeah, that sounds real helpful."

Marcus steps forward, his jaw tight. "Look, man, you don't know the situation. Just mind your own business."

I smile, but there's nothing friendly in it. This is the smile I learned in bar fights, the one that says I'm done talking. "Here's the thing… She told you to leave. Multiple times. That makes it my business because I don't like bullies."

"Bullies?" The older man's face flushes red. "How dare you! We're trying to save our grandson from a girl who can't take care of him!"

"Ruby!" Marcus pounds on the door again. "Come on, baby. You know I still care about you. We can work this out. I'll help you raise him. Just open the door."

The manipulation is so thick I can taste it. This asshole abandoned her when she needed him most, and now he's pretending to be the hero?

"She doesn't want you here," I say, my voice dropping lower. "Any of you. Time to leave."

"Or what?" Marcus turns to face me fully now, trying to size me up. I'm taller than him by a few inches, and broader through the shoulders. But he's got that confidence that comes from never really getting hit before.

"Or I make you leave." I crack my knuckles slowly. "Your choice."

The older woman gasps. "Are you threatening us?"

"I'm telling you to get off her property before this gets ugly."

"We have rights!" the older man says. "That's our grandson in there!"

"And she's an adult who told you to fuck off. So, fuck off."

Marcus's hands curl into fists. "You think you're tough? I played football in college, asshole."

I laugh, the sound harsh. "I worked at a lumber mill and ride with an MC. Your college football career doesn't mean shit to me."

The door opens a crack, making all of us look over. A woman peers out. Young, maybe twenty, with short ginger hair and pale skin covered in freckles. Her beautiful hazel eyes are wide with fear. She's holding a baby on her hip, a little boy with the same ginger hair.

"Please," she says, her voice shaking. "Please just leave. I'm begging you."

She looks exhausted, like she hasn't slept in days. Like she's been running and hiding and barely surviving. I know that look. I wore it myself once.

"Ruby, sweetheart." The older woman's voice turns sugary sweet. "We just want to talk. Let us inside. We can discuss this like adults."

"There's nothing to discuss." Ruby's arms tighten around her son. "You made your choice when you kicked me out. When you called me those names. When you told me I was dead to you."

"We were upset!" the older man says. "We said things we didn't mean!"

"You meant every word." Ruby's voice breaks. "And now you want to take my son? Over my dead body."

Marcus reaches for the door. "Ruby, stop being dramatic—"

I move without thinking, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back. Hard. He stumbles, nearly falling off the porch.

"She said no," I tell him. "Hands off."