Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Dodge
I stop halfway to the rustbucket and turn back.
That woman and her three kids are a headache I don't need.
My instincts as president should be screaming for me to go to them and keep them safe, but I'm too burnt out to care. They’re a magnet for disaster, the kind of mess that invites unwanted heat.
I didn't hit the road for this. I came out here to get away from exactly this kind of trouble.
The pavement burns through my soles as I walk back to my bike.
My skull is throbbing with every step, a brutal reminder of my bad choices from last night.
It’s a wake-up call to the rut Glacier told me I needed to crawl out of.
I’ve just been coasting for two years, ever since everything went to hell.
I came here for a mental reset. I just wanted the steady hum of the highway and some honest labor.
I figured I’d finally fix up Mom’s house.
I need to sweat out the booze and the bitterness, not deal with a mess like that woman and her kids.
That’s not why I left Muscogee. I came to get away from the drama, not to invite it along for the ride.
The metal of the handlebars is freezing, and I’m ready to kick the engine over and get the hell out of here.
I should just walk away. Yet, my eyes refuse to look away from that beat-up sedan one last time.
A suffocating cloud of panic hangs over them, smelling way too much like my own history of broken promises and sudden exits to just ignore.
It’s a bitter echo of the night I lost everything.
Every survival instinct I have screams at me to mount up, burn rubber, and leave their mess in the rest stop dust. I want the highway to swallow me whole.
I want to lose myself in the steady, mindless rhythm of the asphalt.
But the terror clinging to that car is too familiar, and it’s pulling at me harder than the road ever could.
I’m a fool for even hesitating, but I can’t leave them to whatever nightmare is hunting them down.
The mental tug-of-war is tearing me apart.
I'm overthinking this like a rookie. But then, my bladder reminds me I'm still a man with basic needs, and I can't pace this parking lot forever.
I turn away from the bike and walk toward the brick building at the back of the lot.
The heat is a physical weight out here, thick with the oily stench of diesel and the baking of old asphalt. It gets in my lungs and stays there.
I yank the heavy door open, the hinges groaning in protest. The air inside is cooler, but it smells worse.
It's that chemical funk of industrial cleaner trying to hide decades of grime.
I step up to the porcelain, staring at a stain on the wall, trying to ground myself.
I just want one moment of silence. I want to shut everything off for two seconds and exist without the club or those terrified kids weighing on me.
The quiet I'm hunting for gets ripped apart in a heartbeat. It’s not silent anymore.
It’s a thin, jagged sound coming from the stalls behind me.
I freeze, staring straight ahead. It’s a whisper, sharp with panic, and I recognize that tone instantly.
It’s the sound of a kid who has seen things no child should ever witness.
It’s the sound of a brother trying to keep his younger sibling from losing it completely.
“Noah, we need to be quiet,” the older brother whispers.
A profound, bone-deep terror trembles in his brittle voice. It's a heavy burden that no child should ever have to bear, the sound of someone who has stared into the dark and discovered only predators. I stop breathing entirely, listening to the small, broken noises coming from that stall.
“Adalynn warned us not to let anyone overhear. Quiet down before someone realizes we're in here. The killers hunting us won't give up until we're dead just like Mom and Dad.”
I catch the rustle of movement within the stall as the older boy presumably draws his younger brother into a protective embrace. A muted, fragile whimper follows, the heartbreaking sound of a kid whose existence has become nothing but a sequence of frantic escapes.
“I want to go home, Carter. Back to Colorado,” the younger one whines, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that pierces my hardened exterior.
Hearing their desperate words hits my gut like frozen metal and the alcoholic haze of my hangover evaporates.
A fierce protective surge of adrenaline burns through my cynicism.
I've seen the darkest depths of human malice but hunting down innocent kids crosses a line that even the most depraved criminals avoid.
Whatever catastrophic secret those children saw back in Colorado must be incredibly dangerous.
It makes no sense that ruthless killers would track a battered sedan across state lines without an ounce of mercy unless they're terrified of what those kids know.
My mind flashes back to the woman outside.
The one with the haunted eyes and the white knuckled grip.
She isn't running from a bad breakup. She's fleeing an execution.
Her terror wasn't just paranoia about my club insignia.
It was the survival instinct of a woman trying to salvage what's left of her family.
I lean against the cold tile of the wall and feel the shift in my own resolve.
This isn't just some stray drama I can walk away from.
The club is my life but these kids are fighting for theirs and I know exactly what it feels like to have the world turn against you.
If I walk away now, I’m no better than the bastards hunting them. I have to help before they get slaughtered. They can't make it on their own.
“We can’t go home, Noah. Adalynn will keep us safe.
” Carter’s voice is steady, but it’s a lie.
He’s trying to be the man of the house because the world didn’t leave him a choice, but he’s just as terrified as the little kid clinging to his shirt.
They step out of the stall, shaking, trying to hold it together.
I splash cold water over my hands, but the burning rage in my chest doesn't fade. I track them in the mirror, desperately trying to piece together a plan. Every instinct I have screams that they’re heading straight toward a disaster.
I lack the facts I need to move safely. The woman outside looks ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
To her, I’m the embodiment of danger. While my patch commands respect among my brothers, to her, it probably spells lawlessness.
If I use the blunt authority I usually rely on, she’ll vanish, and the guilt of that blunder would be a heavy cross to bear.
I have to play this smart. I’ll step back into the heat, find a way to intervene without scaring her off, even if it means tailing that worn sedan until the perfect opening appears.
I shove the heavy door open and nearly run into the person waiting on the other side.
It’s the sister, pacing right outside the bathroom.
She stumbles back, shoes scraping against the concrete as she fights for balance.
My hands jerk forward to catch her, but I pull back, freezing in place.
I know what a guy my size looks like to someone scared out of their mind, especially when I’m wearing this cut.
Our eyes lock and the air between us gets suffocating.
It feels like the whole lot stopped breathing.
All the color drains from her face. I see the panic hit her, and it kicks me in the chest because I know exactly why.
Her stare darts straight to my cut. She’s tracking the patches and rockers, reading them like a warning sign.
She grips the bag in her hands so hard her knuckles turn chalk-white.
She’s coiled tight, ready to bolt. Behind her, the little sister stands rigid.
She’s staring at me with wide, pale eyes, looking like she’s trying to melt right into the brick wall to escape.
I’m just a guy in a cut, but to her, I’m the monster she’s been running from.
"Listen," I say, pulling off my cap. I try to soften my look. "I’m not here to hurt you. I heard your brothers in the restroom. I know about Colorado and the people chasing you. I can hide you, but you have to trust me."
"Trust you?" she spits, her voice full of fear.
She steps back, shielding her sister. "I don't even know you.
Why should I trust an outlaw who traps us like this?
For all I know, you're the danger we're running from.
" Her voice cracks, but her eyes are fierce.
She clutches her bag, chest heaving while she waits for Carter and Noah to come out.
I point to the patch on my cut. “This is why you should. To most people, this means trouble. To the men wearing it, it’s an oath. The Saint’s Outaws don’t let people get hunted on our turf. I can get you to a safe house, but you have to stop fighting me and let the bitch go.”
Her shoulders square, a spark of defiance cutting through her panic. She tilts her chin up—a stubborn display of pride that seems reckless for someone in her position. “Don’t call me a bitch,” she snaps. “That’s… that’s rude!”
My jaw locks tight. The sun beats down on the lot, baking the pavement until the air shimmers, but it’s the frustration chewing at my gut that’s really burning me.
It doesn’t matter that the weather isn’t even that bad today.
Under this relentless light, I feel like I’m going to snap.
Two kids are hiding in a bathroom stall, scared out of their minds, and she’s treating this like some polite conversation.
I don’t have room for games. I’ve run out of patience for soft talk and careful manners.
My protective instincts are screaming, and I’m done playing nice.
I step into her space, looming over her until she has to look up at me.
I need her to get the message. “I'm not trying to be your friend, I'm trying to keep you alive,” I growl. I point back toward the restroom where her brothers are huddled. “Why are you worried about my tone when those boys are shaking in there? They’re scared that the same people who killed your parents in Colorado are going to track down this piece-of-shit car.”
The truth hits her hard. She flinches, visibly shaken by how much I know about the mess they’re in.
“I won't trust someone acting this hostile and aggressive,” she scoffs, stepping back. She plants herself between me and her sister, ready to bolt into the heat. She isn't about to bet their lives on a biker whose look is just as dangerous as what they’re trying to outrun.
“Then you’ll die,” I grit out.
My words land like ice, matching the cold dread pooling in my gut.
I grit my teeth until my mouth throbs, my patience finally gone.
I glare down at her, watching the blood drain from her face as that protective fire sparks in her eyes.
She stands rigid, a human wall between me and her sister, ready to flee rather than trust a stranger.
To this woman, I am nothing but a dangerous threat cornering them in a desolate lot, no different from the bastards who murdered her parents back in Colorado.
She treats her stubborn pride like a crutch, clutching it to keep from seeing the reality of her situation.
It won’t save her, though. Out here on the open road, that kind of arrogance is a death sentence.
I’ve spent two years locking down my heart, building high walls against anyone looking to cross me, but watching this broken family running for their lives lights a fuse inside me that I can’t put out.
If she wants to see me as the villain of her story, then let her.
I won’t lose sleep over her opinion. What I won’t do is sit back and watch them drive that straight into a pre-dug grave because they’re too stubborn to accept help.