Chapter 2 - Riot
My ribs are screaming at me, this asshole's weight is crushing my chest, and I can taste blood in my mouth. Not the first time, won't be the last, but damn if it doesn't get old.
The punch I throw connects with his jaw.
Not my best work, not even close, but enough to make him grunt and shift his weight.
I use the opening to buck him off, rolling to my knees as he scrambles backward.
Everything hurts. My knuckles are split, my shoulder feels like someone took a hammer to it, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a hell of a bruise across my ribs by morning.
But I'm still standing. Still between this piece of shit and the woman with the dog.
The woman whose name I don't even know.
The engines get louder, closer, and I watch the greasy-haired bastard's eyes go wide. He knows what's coming. Hell, I know what's coming, even if I don't know the specifics. That's the sound of a motorcycle club rolling up, and nobody makes that much noise unless they own the territory.
Which means I've just inserted myself into someone else's business without knowing whose business it is.
Story of my goddamn life.
"This ain't over," greasy-hair spits, backing away from me. His two friends are struggling to their feet, one still wheezing, the other cradling what's probably a broken nose.
"Yeah, it is," I say, but I don't have the energy to put much force behind it.
I'm running on empty, have been for the last fifty miles.
Maya and I should have stopped two towns ago, found a motel, gotten some sleep.
But I kept pushing, kept riding, because stopping means thinking and thinking means remembering and remembering means—
The motorcycles round the corner.
Five of them. Big bikes, clean but well-used, ridden by men who know what they're doing. They pull up in a semicircle, engines cutting one by one until the sudden silence feels almost as loud as the noise was.
I don't run. I don't back down. I stand there over the woman. I still don't know her name, still don't need to, and wait to see how this plays out.
The man who climbs off the lead bike is older than me by maybe a decade, graying at the temples, wearing a cut that says "SAVAGE RIDERS MC" across the back and "PRESIDENT" on the front.
King patch on his chest. He's got the look of someone who's seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time.
His eyes scan the scene. The three men trying to look tough and failing, me standing there bleeding, the woman behind me with her dog pressed against her legs.
"Torch," the President says, not looking away from me. "Get the lady home safe."
A younger guy, maybe early thirties, tattoos covering one arm, nods and moves toward the woman. She doesn't protest, just lets him guide her past me, the dog following close. I catch her eyes for half a second as she passes.
Dark eyes. Scared but not broken. Grateful but confused. Then she's gone, and I'm alone with five Savage Riders and three assholes who picked the wrong woman to mess with.
"You boys passing through?" the President asks the three men, his voice deceptively mild. "Or are you genuinely stupid enough to think you can pull this shit in my town?"
"We didn't know—" greasy-hair starts.
"Don't care." The President's voice doesn't rise, doesn't change tone at all.
Somehow that makes it worse. "You've got thirty seconds to get in whatever piece of shit car you drove here, and then you've got until sunrise to be out of Blackwater Falls.
If I see your faces again, if I hear about you bothering anyone in my town again, we're going to have a very different conversation. "
They run. All three of them, stumbling over each other in their hurry to get away. I watch them go, then turn my attention back to the MC.
Five sets of eyes on me now. Assessing. Calculating. Wondering what my deal is, whether I'm a problem or just passing through myself.
The President stares at me for a brief moment. "You got a name?"
"Carter Blake." I don't offer more. Don't mention the road name I used to go by, the patch I used to wear. That's history, and history is exactly what I'm trying to leave behind.
"King," he says, jerking his chin at himself. Then he points to the others. "That's Tank, my VP. Beast, Steel, Shadow. You already saw Torch."
I nod. Don't offer to shake hands. My knuckles are bleeding and my whole body feels like one giant bruise.
"You always make a habit of jumping into other people's fights?" King asks.
"When it's three on one and the one is a woman walking her dog? Yeah."
Something flickers in King's expression. Not quite approval, but close. "You fight decent for someone who looks like he hasn't slept in a week."
"Thanks, I think."
"Where you headed, Carter Blake?"
It's the question I've been asking myself for the last six months. "Nowhere specific."
"Nowhere specific." King repeats it like he's tasting the words. "You running from something or toward something?"
"Neither. Just running."
That earns me a long look. King's been around long enough to know what that means, what it sounds like when a man is running from his own head.
"You got people?" he asks.
I think of Maya, still inside Murphy's Grill where I left her with the owner, playing with the crayons I always keep in my jacket pocket. My daughter. My whole world. The only good thing I've ever done.
"A four-year-old daughter," I say. "She's inside the grill."
That changes something. All five men react. Not much, just a slight shift in posture, a different look in their eyes. Fathers, I realize. Or at least men who understand what it means to be responsible for something more important than yourself.
"She saw the fight?" King asks, and there's an edge to his voice now.
"No. Told the owner to keep her inside. She's coloring."
"Smart." King glances at his VP—Tank, built like his name suggests, arms crossed over his chest. They seem to have some kind of silent conversation, the kind that happens when people have known each other long enough that words become optional.
Finally, King looks back at me. "You looking for work?"
I blink. Of all the directions I expected this conversation to go, that wasn't one of them. "What kind of work?"
"The kind where you use those hands for something other than beating up trash who can't take a hint." King tilts his head. "We run security for some local businesses. Protection. Making sure people like that woman can walk their dog without getting hassled."
"I'm not looking to patch in anywhere," I say immediately, maybe too quickly. "That's not… I'm not doing that again."
"Didn't ask you to patch in. Asked if you wanted work." King's voice is patient, like he's explaining something to a child. "You need money, I'm guessing. Your daughter needs stability. I've got work that needs doing. Simple math."
It should be simple. Maya does need stability. She needs it desperately, needs friends and school and a bed that doesn't fold down from a motel wall. I've been putting it off for months, telling myself we're fine, we're managing, one more town and maybe that'll be the one.
But the truth is I've been running because stopping means risking it all again. Means trusting people again. Means believing that this time, these men, this place might be different from what I left behind.
And I don't know if I have that kind of faith left in me.
"I need to think about it," I say.
King nods like he expected that answer. "Fair enough. You need a place to stay tonight? Town's got a motel, but it's a shithole. Got a spare room at the clubhouse if you need it. Clean sheets, hot water, and your daughter would be safe."
The offer surprises me more than the job did. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why offer? You don't know me. Don't know where I came from or what I've done."
"No," King agrees. "But I know what I just watched.
Know you stepped up when you didn't have to, for someone you don't know, when you could barely stand up straight.
That tells me something about who you are.
" He pauses. "Also tells me you're running from something that hurt you bad enough that you don't trust anybody anymore. I get that. Been there."
I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, but the words stick in my throat because he's not wrong. He's seen right through me in five minutes, seen what I've been trying to hide even from myself.
"The offer stands," King says. "Tonight, tomorrow night, however long you need to figure out what you're doing. No strings, no pressure. Just a safe place for you and your girl."
"I appreciate it," I say, and I mean it. "But I should get Maya. She's probably wondering where I am."
"Tank, go with him. Make sure those three didn't circle back." King swings back onto his bike. "You change your mind about that room, come by the clubhouse. Anyone can point you in the right direction."
They leave the same way they came. Three bikes roaring to life, rolling out in formation, leaving me standing on Main Street with split knuckles and a head full of questions I don't have answers to.
Tank, the VP, big enough to bench press a small car jerks his head toward Murphy's Grill. "Come on. Let's get your kid."
We walk in silence. Tank doesn't try to make conversation, doesn't press me for information I'm not offering. Just walks beside me like a mountain with legs, his presence itself a deterrent to anyone stupid enough to start round two.
Murphy's is mostly empty now, just a few stragglers finishing late dinners.
I spot Maya immediately, sitting in a corner booth with the owner, an old man with kind eyes and weathered hands who's smiling at whatever my daughter is saying.
Maya's got crayons spread out across the table, working on what looks like a picture of a horse.
Always horses with her. Don't know where she got that from. Neither her mother nor I ever had anything to do with horses.
Murphy sees me first, his expression shifting from warm to concerned when he takes in my face. "Christ, son, you okay?"
"Been better," I admit. "Thanks for watching her."
"Course." He stands, wiping his hands on his apron. "She's a sweetheart. Told me all about the states you've been through."
"That's pretty much all of them at this point," I say, moving to the booth. "Hey. Ready to go?"
Maya looks up, and her whole face lights up with a smile that makes every bruise, every cut, every mile worth it. "Daddy! Look, I drew a horse! Mr. Murphy said it's really good!"
"It's beautiful, baby." I slide into the booth across from her, ignoring the way my ribs protest. "Did you finish your dinner?"
"All of it! Even the vegetables!" She's so proud of herself that I can't help but smile despite everything. "Are we staying here tonight? Can we? Please?"
The question hits me right in the chest. She's four years old and she's already tired of motels, already hungry for something stable. I've been telling myself she's fine, that kids are resilient, that she doesn't need more than I'm giving her.
But the hope in her voice says otherwise.
"Maybe," I tell her, and I see Tank glance at me from where he's standing by the door. "Let me figure some things out first, okay?"
"Okay." She goes back to her coloring, adding more details to her horse. "I like it here. It's pretty. And Mr. Murphy said there's a school with a really nice teacher who loves kids."
Of course he did. Because Maya has never met a stranger, has never encountered a person she couldn't charm within five minutes. She gets that from her mother. The ease with people, the natural warmth. From me she got the dark eyes and the stubborn streak and probably a lifetime of therapy bills.
I gather up her crayons, tuck them back into my pocket, and help her into her jacket. Murphy refuses payment for the meal—"After what you did out there? Your money's no good here"—and then we're back outside in the cool October air.
Tank is still there, patient as stone.
"You know where the clubhouse is?" he asks.
"No."
"Head east on Main, take a left on Copper Street. Big building, can't miss it. Gate's usually open, but if it's not, just hit the buzzer." He looks down at Maya, his expression softening in a way I wouldn't have expected from a man his size. "You like pancakes, kid?"
Maya nods enthusiastically. "With chocolate chips!"
"Steel makes the best pancakes in town. Chocolate chips and everything." Tank looks back at me. "Offer stands. Your choice."
Then he's gone, climbing onto his bike and riding off into the night.
I stand there on the sidewalk with my daughter's hand in mine, watching the taillights disappear, and I think about King's words. About work, stability, a safe place for Maya to grow up.
About whether I have enough faith left to take that chance.
"Daddy?" Maya tugs on my hand. "Are we going to stay?"
I look down at her, at those docile eyes so much like mine, at the hope written across her face, at the crayon stains on her fingers and the way she's trying so hard to be patient while I figure out my life.
"Yeah," I say, making the decision even as the words leave my mouth. "Yeah, I think maybe we are."