4. Reyes
Reyes
The ride to The Black Crown is pure fucking torture.
Shannon sits in the passenger seat like she’s made of glass, staring out the window at the Colorado landscape rolling past. Her hands stay folded in her lap, and she hasn’t said a word since we left the safehouse.
The silence stretches between us like a live wire, crackling with everything we didn’t say last night.
I want to apologize. Want to explain that comparing her to Mason was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some monumentally stupid shit in my life. But every time I open my mouth, she turns further toward the window, putting up walls I can’t break through.
Aiden, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped talking since we buckled him in. “Where your bike?” he asks for the third time.
“At my house, buddy.”
“You have house?”
“Yeah.”
“I want see it.”
Shannon’s jaw ticks, but she doesn’t turn around.
“You have dog?” Aiden continues.
“I do.”
“What his name?”
“Diesel.”
“Why Dee-zo?”
“Because he’s loud and he smells bad.”
Aiden giggles. “I like dogs. Mama, we get dog?”
Shannon finally speaks, her voice carefully neutral. “Maybe someday, baby.”
“When we get house?”
The question hangs in the air, loaded with hope and uncertainty. Shannon’s shoulders tense. In her reflection in the window, pain flickers across her features before she schools them back to nothing. “We’ll see,” she says.
When we pull into the daycare parking lot, Aiden bounces in his seat. “School!”
I carry him inside while Shannon handles the paperwork. The place is clean, bright, full of the kind of organized chaos that comes with twenty three-year-olds running around. Aiden takes to it immediately, especially when he spots the toy motorcycles in the corner.
“Like Savior bike!” he says, holding up a plastic Harley.
The teacher, Mrs. Chen, smiles. “You know someone with a motorcycle?”
“Savior has big bike. Goes vroom!”
A faint smile touches Shannon’s lips—the first one I’ve seen all morning. It’s small, but it’s something.
After we drop him off, the drive to The Black Crown is quieter but still tense. When we pull into the parking lot, Shannon’s out of the truck before I can kill the engine. No goodbye, no see-you-later, just gone. The door slams behind her hard enough to rattle the windows.
She disappears through the bar’s front door, those long braids swaying with each determined step.
She’s wearing jeans that hug the curve of her ass and a simple black t-shirt, but on her, it’s a weapon.
The sight of her walking away, all defiant strength and hidden softness, makes something possessive twist in my gut.
I should let her go. Should drive away and give her space.
But my feet are moving before the thought is finished, carrying me out of the truck and after her.
The Black Crown smells like stale beer, motor oil, and decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of cleaning will ever scrub away.
It’s barely noon, but the place already has a handful of customers—truckers grabbing lunch, a couple day-drinkers nursing beers, and Grizz behind the bar looking like he was born there.
Shannon’s at a corner table, taking an order from two guys in work shirts. She moves efficiently, professionally, like she’s been doing this for years instead of days. But her shoulders stay tight, and she scans the room every few minutes like she’s waiting for trouble to walk through the door.
“Savior.” Tank’s voice cuts through the bar noise like a blade. “Need a word.”
Shit. I turn to find my president standing by the back door, arms crossed and expression darker than a storm cloud.
This isn’t a friendly social call. I follow him outside into the blazing Colorado heat.
The back lot is empty except for a few bikes and Tank’s truck, but he walks us far enough from the building that we won’t be overheard.
When he stops and turns to face me, I know I’m in for it.
“Military police were in town yesterday,” he says. “Asking questions about a woman and a kid. Showed pictures around.”
My blood ices. “Pictures of Shannon?”
“That’d be my guess, since you’re the one harboring strays again.” Tank pulls out a silver coin, flipping it over his knuckles in a practiced motion. “Want to tell me why MPs are sniffing around our territory?”
I could lie. Could make up some story. But Tank’s not stupid, and he’s been my president long enough to know when I’m feeding him bullshit.
“She’s running from an abusive ex. Military police captain. Guy put hands on her kid. Broke his arm. The little guy is only three.”
Tank’s jaw tightens, the coin stopping for a second. “Piece of shit who’d hurt a kid deserves to have his throat cut,” he says, his voice hard as granite. “But that doesn’t change the situation.”
“Tank, I should have asked—”
“You should have.” He cuts me off, the coin resuming its path across his knuckles. “You broke club rules stashing her in the safehouse without clearing it first. You know better.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. I get why you did it. Hell, I probably would’ve done the same thing if I’d found them.” Tank catches the coin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Any man who’d break a child’s arm needs to be put down like a rabid dog. But we’re not a social service agency, Savior.”
The admission that he understands makes this somehow worse. If Tank sees the need and still says no, then I’m really fucked.
“This is a noble cause,” he continues, pocketing the coin. “But we can’t take the heat right now. Not with the Torrino deal on the table.”
“She’s got nowhere else to go.”
“And that’s a damn shame. But I can’t risk all the other families, all the other brothers, for one family and one brother.” Tank steps closer, conflict warring in his eyes—the man who wants to help versus the president who must protect the club. “Especially when she’s not your woman.”
The words gut me. Not your woman . As if that somehow makes her worth less. Makes her pain less real.
“Military police start poking around, asking questions, showing badges—that’s the kind of attention we don’t need,” Tank says. “You know what happens when federal heat comes down on us. Raids, seizures, brothers doing time.”
The Torrino deal. Three months of careful negotiations. Tank’s right—we can’t afford complications. But knowing he’s right doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
“Look,” Tank continues, his voice gentler now. “I wish we could help every woman running from some bastard. But the club comes first. Always. You know that.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“I’m asking you to remember your priorities.” He pulls the coin back out, flipping it slowly. “Her car’s busted, right? Tell Murphy to speed up the repair. Get her down the road before this gets worse.”
There’s regret in his voice that makes my chest tighten.
“What if it is my problem?” The words are out before I can stop them, hanging in the hot air between us like a challenge.
Tank’s coin stops mid-flip. He freezes, his sharp eyes studying my face like he’s seeing something new. “What’d you just say?”
“I said, what if it’s my problem? Not the club’s. Mine.”
Tank pockets the coin slowly, deliberately.
When he speaks, his voice carries the authority of a man who’s led men through hell.
“As long as you’re wearing that Savage Kings patch, you don’t get to have individual problems. We’re brothers, Savior.
Everything that touches you touches all of us.
” He steps closer, the years of leadership weighing on him.
“So I’m going to ask you straight—would you risk all that for a woman who’s not yours? ”
The question hangs between us like a gauntlet thrown down.
The choice between the club that’s been my family for eight years and a woman I’ve known for less than a week.
The smart answer is obvious. It's the safe answer. The one that keeps my patch, my brotherhood. But when I think about Shannon’s bruises, about the way Aiden flinches at loud noises, about the terror in her eyes—the smart answer feels like cowardice.
“I need time to think,” I say finally.
Tank nods like he expected it, but there’s disappointment in his eyes. “You have it. Don’t take too long. This needs to get resolved.”
He heads back inside, leaving me standing in the parking lot with the weight of an impossible choice on my shoulders. Through the window, Shannon moves between tables. Something in my chest clenches tight.
Eight years of brotherhood. Eight years of loyalty, sacrifice, and blood.
But as Shannon laughs at something a customer says, as she pushes a braid behind her ear with hands that still shake sometimes—I know Tank’s question is already answered.
Some things are worth the risk.
Even if it costs me everything.
The drive to pick up Aiden gives me time to think, but thinking’s the last thing I want to do. Tank’s words keep echoing in my head— not your woman, not our problem, would you risk all that —and every mile makes the choice feel heavier.
I stop at the gas station, needing something to do with my hands that isn’t punching walls.
The magazine rack catches my eye, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m flipping through a kids’ book about motorcycles.
Bright pictures, simple words. The kind of thing a man buys when he’s thinking about forever instead of temporary. I pay for it anyway.
Mrs. Chen has Aiden ready when I walk into the daycare; his backpack is slung over his good shoulder, and a crayon masterpiece is clutched in his hand. When he sees me, his face lights up like Christmas morning.
“Savior!” He runs toward me, the cast making him lean to one side. “Look! I drew your bike!”
The paper’s covered in black scribbles with two circles that might be wheels. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“That’s perfect, buddy.” I crouch down to his level. “You even got the handlebars right.”