Chapter 2 - Rage
That flinch tells me everything I need to know.
I've seen it a hundred times before, that instinctive raising of arms to protect the face, the way her body curls slightly inward, bracing for impact. The universal language of someone who's been hit before and expects to be hit again.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm. I take a step back, giving her space. "Name's Rage. What's yours?"
She eyes me warily, arm still half-raised. In the moonlight, I can see the yellowing bruise on her cheekbone that makeup couldn't quite hide. There are probably more where that came from.
"Claire," she finally says, her voice barely audible.
"Claire," I repeat. "You got somewhere safe to go tonight, Claire?"
She hesitates, then shakes her head.
"That's what I thought." I glance around the deserted park. With nightfall, Blackwater Falls becomes a ghost town. Everyone knows better than to be out after dark these days. Everyone except this woman.
"You picked a bad time to be homeless in this town," I tell her. "This war's about to get a lot worse."
"I know," she says, surprising me. "The buses aren't running. I tried to leave this morning."
Smart girl. Trying to get out while she still can. Too late, though. Nothing's moving in or out of Blackwater Falls right now. Not with the Eagles promising retaliation for Vincent.
I consider my options. I could leave her here, but that doesn't sit right. Not with the Eagles getting bolder, sending scouts into our territory looking for weaknesses. Not with that haunted look in her eyes and those bruises on her face.
King would tell me to mind my business. To focus on club priorities. But King's not here, and I've got a seven-year-old son who still believes his old man is one of the good guys. Hard to face those innocent eyes in the morning if I leave a beaten woman alone in a park at night.
"Look," I say, running a hand over my short hair, "I can't leave you out here. It's not safe."
She clutches her bag tighter, suspicion clear in her posture. "I don't need your charity."
"It's not charity. It's common sense." I gesture to the empty park. "You stay here, best case scenario is cops pick you up for vagrancy. Worst case..." I don't finish the thought. She doesn't need me to spell it out.
"Why would you help me?" she asks, voice stronger now. "You don't know me."
Fair question. I'm not exactly known for my charitable nature. The guys at the clubhouse would laugh their asses off if they saw me playing Good Samaritan to some random woman.
But this isn't about charity. It's about the bruises on her face. About the way she flinched when I moved. About the piece of shit who put that fear in her eyes.
"I've got a son," I confess. "I'm trying to teach him that men protect people who need it. Hard to do that if I leave you here."
I can practically see the calculation in her eyes. The devil she knows versus the devil she doesn't.
"I'm a Savage Rider," I continue, nodding to my cut. "Which means I can actually keep you safe tonight. Get you somewhere to clean up, get some food. Tomorrow we can figure out next steps."
"Next steps," she repeats slowly, like the concept is foreign.
"Getting you out of town. Finding you somewhere safe to go."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You'd do that? For a stranger?"
I shrug. "I'm not saying the club will arrange witness protection or anything. But we've got connections. Ways to move people."
"And what would you want in return?" she asks, a new edge to her voice.
I understand the implication immediately and fight back a surge of anger. Not at her, but at the man who taught her that help always comes with that kind of price tag.
"Nothing like that," I say firmly. "I'm not that guy. I've got an old lady."
That's a lie. I haven't had an old lady since Mariah left me and Eli four years ago. But she doesn't need to know that. Better she thinks I'm off the market entirely.
Something in her posture relaxes slightly. "I don't have much money," she says.
"Did I ask for money?" I shake my head. "Look, this is a one-time offer. Take it or leave it. But I'm not leaving you out here alone, so if you don't want my help, I'll call the cops to pick you up instead. At least the drunk tank would be safer than this park."
She bites her lip, considering. Finally, she gives a small nod.
"Okay," she says. "Just for tonight."
"Smart choice." I gesture toward my bike, parked at the edge of the playground. "Ever ridden before?"
She shakes her head.
"Arms around my waist. Lean when I lean. Hold on tight." I move toward the motorcycle, conscious of keeping my movements slow and telegraphed. No sudden gestures that might trigger that flinch again.
She follows cautiously, eyeing the bike with her right eyebrow raised.
"Your bag," I say, holding out my hand. "I'll secure it."
She hesitates, then passes over the duffel. It's pathetically light. Everything she owns in the world barely weighs more than my son's school backpack. I strap it to the back of the bike, then swing my leg over and start the engine.
"Hop on," I tell her.
She climbs on awkwardly behind me, and I notice the way she moves—always guarding her left side. Probably has rib injuries beneath that oversized shirt.
"Arms around my waist," I remind her.
Her touch is feather-light, barely there.
"Tighter than that," I say. "Unless you want to fall off."
Her arms tighten just a little bit more. I'll take it. I kick the stand up and pull away from the park, keeping my speed moderate. Her grip strengthens as we move, her body gradually relaxing against my back as she realizes I'm not going to drive like a maniac.
I take a circuitous route, partly out of habit.
Never go directly to your destination in case someone's following, and partly to give myself time to think about what the hell I'm doing.
King's going to have questions. So will Tank.
Bringing a random woman to the clubhouse is against protocol, especially with the Eagles looking for any weakness to exploit.
But there's something about her, about those bruises and that flinch, that makes this impossible to ignore.
I've spent four years rebuilding myself from the angry, violent man I used to be into someone my son can be proud of.
I've learned to channel the rage that earned me my road name into protecting what matters instead of destroying everything around me.
And right now, protecting this woman matters.
We reach Pete's Auto Body, our clubhouse front, after about fifteen minutes. I slow as we approach the security gate, pressing the remote on my key fob. The gate slides open silently, closing behind us as we pull into the compound.
I feel her tense as she takes in the reinforced fencing, the security cameras, the unmistakable signs that this is more than just an auto shop. Her arms tighten around my waist, fear returning.
"It's okay," I say over my shoulder. "You're safe here."
I park in the garage area, cutting the engine. For a moment, she doesn't move, her arms still locked around me.
"We're here," I say gently. "You can let go now."
She releases me and slides awkwardly off the bike. I dismount and retrieve her bag, then lead her toward a side door, punching a code into the keypad lock.
"This leads to the living quarters," I explain. "Quieter than going through the main area."
The door opens to a hallway lined with doors. Crash rooms for members who need to stay over. I lead her to the last one on the left, unlocking it with a key from my pocket.
"You can stay here tonight," I say, stepping aside to let her enter first.
The room is basic but clean. Double bed with fresh sheets, small bathroom attached, mini-fridge in the corner. It's where I crash when Eli's spending the night at a friend's house or when club business keeps me too late to go home.
She steps inside, eyeing the exit like she might need to make a quick escape.
"Lock's on the inside," I tell her, pointing to the deadbolt. "No one comes in unless you let them."
She nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
"Bathroom's got towels and basic toiletries if you want to clean up," I continue. "I'll get you some food. Preferences?"
She looks startled by the question, like no one's asked her what she wants to eat in a long time.
"Anything," she says. "I'm not picky."
"Sandwich okay? We keep basics in the kitchen here."
She nods again.
"I'll be back in fifteen," I say. "Lock the door behind me."
I step out, hearing the deadbolt slide into place as soon as the door closes. Good. She's cautious. She'll need to be.
I head to the kitchen area, my mind working through next steps.
The smart move would be to tell King immediately.
No secrets from the president, that's club law.
But something makes me hesitate. King's on edge since Vincent's death, focused entirely on club security.
Claire represents an unknown variable, a potential complication.
And those bruises... if her old man is looking for her, the last thing we need is to bring his drama to our doorstep. Not with the Eagles already breathing down our necks.
I make a simple sandwich—turkey, cheese, lettuce on whole wheat—and grab a bottle of water and an apple from the fridge. Basic, but better than nothing. As I'm arranging everything on a plate, I hear footsteps behind me.
"Midnight snack, Rage? Or feeding a stray?"
I turn to find Tank leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest. The VP misses nothing. It's why he's King's right hand.
"Just hungry," I say casually.
Tank's eyes flick to the plate, then back to my face. "Two waters. Apple sliced just the way Eli likes it. Except Eli's at your place with the sitter, isn't he?"
No point lying to Tank. He knows everything that happens in this club.
"Found a woman in the park," I admit. "Beaten up pretty bad. Nowhere to go."