My Single Dad Biker (Bloomfield: Motorcycle Club #4)

Chapter 1 — Katherine

The filing system I designed in September lasted exactly six weeks before two hundred students and six grade levels turned it into kindling.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the classroom floor surrounded by sheet music that should be organized by grade and instrument but isn’t organized at all.

A third-grade rhythm unit is mixed in with sixth-grade recorder exercises. Someone has drawn a surprisingly accurate dinosaur on the back of "Hot Cross Buns."

I smooth the pages flat and try to remember why I thought color-coding would solve anything.

The piano bench digs into my spine where I'm leaning against it. Dust coats my leggings at the knees. My hair has escaped its ponytail in that way hair does when you've been vertical since 7am and teaching kindergarteners how to hold a tambourine without hitting themselves in the face.

It's 4:47 on a Wednesday and I'm one of the last teachers in the building.

I know because Jenny from second grade left twenty minutes ago calling goodbye down the hallway, and empty schools have a specific echo that means you're alone.

I should go home.

My brain stopped retaining new information around 2pm, which means I taught three classes on autopilot and probably told the sixth graders something wrong about tempo.

But I started this project and I don't leave things half-finished, even when finishing means sitting here sorting paper while the light outside goes soft and gold.

I pull another stack toward me and I'm smoothing bent pages when something moves in the parking lot.

I look up. The window faces west. Linda's truck is parked three spaces out, ancient and beloved, with half a bumper sticker that used to say TEACHERS CHANGE THE WORLD before most of it peeled off.

Linda teaches fourth grade and has owned that truck longer than I've been alive.

Two men are standing next to it. Not Linda. I know what Linda looks like and these are not her.

One of them has his hand on the driver's side door, testing the handle. The other is scanning the parking lot methodically, checking windows, checking the street. Looking for witnesses.

I stand up and sheet music scatters.

The men don't see me yet but the first one tries Linda's door and when it doesn't open he pulls something from his pocket.

The second man steps closer to the truck, blocking the view from the street.

My brain does the thing it does when students are misbehaving. I move toward the problem before thinking about whether I should.

I grab my keys from my desk and I'm down the hallway before the rational part of my mind catches up.

The back door is closest. I push through it and the air hits me cooler than I expected and the door locks automatically behind me.

I'm three steps into the parking lot when I realize my phone is still on my desk.

The two men hear the door and turn toward me.

I'm halfway across the asphalt. They're not teenagers. Both of them are in their twenties, wearing dark jackets and jeans and expressions that shift from annoyance to something that makes my stomach tighten.

The taller one is holding what looks like a slim jim. The shorter one is built like he lifts heavy things for a living.

The tall one smiles and it's not a friendly smile.

"Hey," I call out, keeping my voice steady. "What are you doing?"

"Just looking." He doesn't put the tool away. Doesn't stop smiling.

"That's Linda's truck. Do you know Linda?"

"Nope."

I stop walking. I'm maybe twenty feet from them now. Close enough to see details I wish I couldn't. The shorter man has a tattoo crawling up his neck. The tall one has eyes that are flat and cold.

The door behind me locked automatically when I came through. The front entrance is around the building, which means walking past these men to get there. I'm holding my keys in my fist but my hands are shaking too badly to think clearly about which key might work.

I take a step backward.

The shorter man says something to the tall one in a voice too low for me to catch.

The tall one nods and takes a step toward me. Then another.

He's not walking away from the truck, he's walking toward me.

"You should probably head back inside, sweetheart." His voice has changed. Softer. Worse.

The word lands wrong and my heart starts beating faster. I take another step back and realize I've made a mistake. A bad one. There's no one here. The building is locked. My phone is inside. These men are between me and any exit.

The tall one takes another step. He's still smiling.

"I said you should head back inside." He's ten feet away now. "Unless you want to stay out here with us."

The shorter man moves too, circling slightly to my left. They're not leaving. They're positioning.

My back hits the brick wall of the school. I didn't realize I'd backed up that far. The tall man is close enough now that I can see the way his eyes move over me. Taking inventory.

My throat goes tight.

"The door's locked," I say, and I hate how my voice shakes. "I can't get back in."

"That's too bad." He's five feet away. "Looks like you're stuck out here with us."

The shorter man laughs. It's not a good sound.

I'm fumbling with my keys, trying to find anything that might help, when I hear it. A motorcycle engine, loud and getting louder. Coming fast.

All three of us turn toward the sound.

The bike appears around the corner of the building going way too fast for a school parking lot, engine roaring. Black chrome and ridden by someone who moves with the machine like it's an extension of his body.

The rider sees us.

The bike changes direction mid-approach, angling straight toward where we're standing, and it doesn't slow down. Doesn't slow down at all.

For a second I think he's going to hit us.

He stops six feet from the two men. The precision is terrifying, he probably could have hit them and chose not to.

The engine cuts and silence crashes back in.

The rider swings off in one smooth motion. He's tall, over six feet, wearing jeans and boots and a black leather vest over a dark t-shirt.

The vest has patches the two men clearly recognize because the tall one steps back immediately and the shorter one's hand drops from wherever it was moving.

The rider doesn't look at me. He's watching the two men and his whole body is utterly still. Coiled. Dangerous.

"Wrong parking lot." His voice is low and even and carries no inflection at all.

The tall one who was smiling at me thirty seconds ago is not smiling anymore. "We were just leaving."

"Good."

They leave. Not running but close.

They head for a car at the far end of the lot and within seconds they're gone and I'm alone in the parking lot with a stranger who just saved me from something I don't want to name.

He turns to look at me.

Late thirties. Hard angles to his face, dark hair cut military-short, strong jaw, eyes that are light brown with flecks of gold.

There's a scar through his left eyebrow that's old enough to have faded to white. He's maybe six-one, broad-shouldered, built solid like someone who works with his hands. Not bulky. Controlled. Strong.

He's looking at me the way someone looks when they're checking for injuries.

"Are you okay?"

I nod. My voice isn't working yet.

He steps closer, not fast but careful. "Did they touch you?"

"No."

"Did they say anything else?"

I think about the way the tall one was looking at me. The way they were positioning. "Just that I should go back inside."

He's quiet for a second and I watch something shift in his expression. Like he's reading what I'm not saying.

"You're a teacher here?"

"Yes. Music."

"Do you have your phone?"

"It's inside. I left it when I—" I stop. When I came out here alone without thinking.

He looks at the building, then back at me. "Keys?"

I hold them up. My hand is shaking badly enough that the keys are clinking together.

He holds out his hand. "I'll unlock the door."

I should say I can do it myself. I put the keys in his palm instead and his fingers close around them. I notice his hands for the first time. Scarred across the knuckles. Broad and capable and currently holding my keys like they matter.

He walks to the back door and I follow. He tries the first key, then the second. The lock turns. He pushes the door open and holds it, waiting.

The hallway feels safe in a way it didn't ten minutes ago. Too bright after the parking lot but safe.

My classroom is at the end with the door still open, sheet music scattered across the floor where I left it.

He follows me in and closes the door behind us. Locks it. Then he hands me my keys.

"Those men," I say. "What did they want?"

He looks at me for a long moment before answering. "Not the truck."

My stomach drops. "Oh."

"You're safe now."

"Because of you."

"Yeah."

I sink into my desk chair because my legs don't feel steady anymore. He doesn't move from where he's standing near the door. Giving me space but not leaving.

"Why did they leave when they saw you?" I ask.

"I ride with Vigil MC. They don't."

Everyone in Bloomfield knows Vigil exists the same way everyone knows the Johnsons own the hardware store and Route 9 floods every spring.

Vigil is part of the landscape here. I've never thought about them directly because my world is children and lesson plans and whether the music budget will survive another round of cuts.

"Are they from another club?"

"Marrow. Next county over. They've been pushing into Bloomfield the last few months."

"Pushing how?"

"Testing boundaries. Seeing what they can take."

I'm processing this, trying to fit it together with the way he's standing and the scars on his hands and the fact that two men who were about to do something to me left the second they saw his vest. "And you stop them."

"Yes."

"Why were you here?"

"Driving past."

"At exactly the right time."

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile but close. "Lucky timing."

I look at him standing in my classroom. "What's your name?"

"Holt."

"I'm Katherine."

"I know. You teach my son. Louis Fischer. Third grade."