Chapter 3 - Alice
My hands are still shaking when Torch pulls up in front of my house.
"You okay?" he asks, cutting the engine. His voice is gentler than I expected from someone covered in that many tattoos.
"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine." I'm not fine. I can feel Biscuit pressing against my legs, sensing my anxiety, feeding off it. "Thank you for… For bringing me home."
"King's orders." Torch glances at the house, then back at me. "You want me to check inside? Make sure everything's good?"
I should say no. I should tell him I'm perfectly capable of checking my own house, that I've lived here my whole life and I don't need a biker with arms like tree trunks to make sure there aren't monsters under my bed.
But the truth is, I'm terrified. Those three men are probably long gone, but my heart is still racing, my breath still coming too fast, and the thought of walking into my empty house alone makes my stomach twist.
"Would you mind?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
"Not at all." Torch follows me up the walkway, waiting while I fumble with my keys. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.
The house is exactly as I left it. Lights on in the living room, coffee mug on the counter from this morning, stack of ungraded papers on the dining room table. Torch does a quick sweep anyway, checking the closets, looking out the back windows, making sure all the locks are secure.
"All clear," he says finally. "You got my number if you need anything?"
I don't, actually. Don't have any of the Savage Riders' numbers because I've never needed them before tonight.
He must see it on my face because he pulls out his phone. "What's your number? I'll text you. That way you've got it."
I give it to him, and a moment later my phone buzzes. *This is Torch. Call if you need anything. King's orders.*
"Thank you," I say again. "Really. Thank you."
He nods, tips an imaginary hat, and then he's gone, the rumble of his motorcycle fading into the distance.
I lock the door behind him. Deadbolt and chain. Check it twice. Then I sink down onto the floor right there in the entryway, and Biscuit immediately climbs into my lap, all seventy pounds of him, because he's never understood that he's not a lapdog.
I bury my face in his fur and finally let myself shake.
Those men. Their hands reaching for me. Their laughter when I told them to stop. The way they surrounded me like I was prey, like I was nothing, like my "no" meant less than nothing.
And then that stranger. Appearing out of nowhere, stepping between me and them without hesitation, fighting all three even though he was clearly exhausted, clearly running on empty.
He could have been killed. For me. For a woman whose name he doesn't even know.
Who does that?
I don't realize I'm crying until Biscuit starts licking my face, concerned and confused because his person is upset and he doesn't know how to fix it. I hug him tighter, let myself cry for a few minutes, and then force myself to stand up.
Routine. I need routine. Routine is safe.
I feed Biscuit, his tail wagging because food is the best thing that's ever happened to him, every single time. I make myself tea that I don't drink. I take a shower so hot it turns my skin pink, scrubbing at myself like I can wash away the feeling of those men's eyes on me.
When I finally climb into bed, Biscuit jumps up beside me. Technically not allowed, but I don't have the heart to make him get down tonight. I let him curl up against my side, his warmth real and safe.
But I can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see those men. Hear their laughter. Feel the spike of fear when I realized no one was close enough to help.
And then I see him. Dark eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. Scarred knuckles and a quiet voice and the kind of stillness that only comes from knowing exactly how dangerous you are.
He saved me. A complete stranger saved me, and I didn't even get to thank him properly. Didn't even ask if he was okay, if he needed help, if he had someone to look after those injuries.
Torch said something about a daughter. A four-year-old inside Murphy's Grill. So, he's a father. A single father, probably, traveling through town with his little girl, and he still stopped to help me.
I roll over, punch my pillow, try to find a comfortable position. Biscuit grumbles in his sleep but doesn't move.
Will I ever see him again?
The thought shouldn't matter. He's clearly just passing through. By tomorrow, he'll be gone. Him and his daughter, back on the road, heading toward whatever nowhere they're aimed at.
And I'll never get to thank him properly. Never get to tell him that what he did mattered, that it meant something, that I'm not so broken by my ex and my self-doubt that I can't recognize genuine heroism when I see it.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the streetlight outside shift and dance across the plaster, and I make a decision that's probably crazy.
Tomorrow. Same time, same place. I'll walk Biscuit past Murphy's Grill, and maybe, just maybe, he'll still be there.
Next Day
I spend the entire day distracted.
My fourth graders notice immediately. Kids always do. They have a sixth sense for when their teacher's mind is somewhere else.
"Ms. Porter, are you okay?" Annie asks during reading time, her little face scrunched up with concern.
"I'm fine, sweetie," I assure her. "Just a little tired."
It's not entirely a lie. I barely slept. Every time I dozed off, I jerked awake, heart pounding, convinced I heard footsteps outside my window. By the time my alarm went off at six, I felt like I'd run a marathon.
The day drags. Minutes feel like hours. I teach fractions and vocabulary words and the water cycle, and the whole time I'm thinking about tonight. About the walk. About whether he'll be there.
*He won't be there. He's probably halfway to the next state by now. This is crazy. You're being crazy.*
But I can't shake the feeling. Can't shake the need to at least try.
Claire texts me during lunch. *Heard about what happened last night. You okay?*
Small towns. Everyone knows everything within twelve hours.
*I'm fine,* I text back. *Scary but I'm okay.*
*Want me to come over tonight?*
*No, I'm good. Going to take Biscuit for his walk.*
There's a long pause, then: *Are you SURE that's a good idea???*
*I'll be fine. Those guys are long gone.*
Another pause. *Okay but text me when you get home. If I don't hear from you in an hour I'm calling the cavalry.*
*Deal.*
The afternoon is somehow even longer than the morning. My last class of the day is doing an art project: drawing their families, and I spend the time walking between desks, offering encouragement, trying not to think about dark eyes and scarred knuckles and a voice saying "she said no."
Finally, the bell rings. The kids pack up their things, file out in their usual chaotic rush, and then I'm alone in my classroom with twenty-five drawings of families and a decision to make.
I could go home. Make dinner. Stay inside where it's safe. Forget about the stranger who saved me and move on with my life.
Or I could be brave. Just this once. Just for an hour. I grade papers until five-thirty, my usual time. Then I pack up my bag, lock my classroom, and drive home with my heart already racing.
Biscuit is ecstatic to see me, like always. I change into jeans and a sweater, grab his leash, and stand in my entryway staring at the door.
*This is insane. He's not going to be there. And even if he is, what are you going to say? "Hi, thanks for saving me, also I'm not a crazy stalker even though I deliberately came looking for you"?*
But my hand is already on the doorknob. Already turning it.
The evening air is cool against my face as we step outside. Biscuit immediately starts pulling toward our usual route, tail wagging, completely oblivious to my internal crisis.
"Okay, buddy," I murmur. "Let's go see if I'm completely out of my mind."
We walk the same path as last night. Past the hardware store, past the flower shop, approaching Murphy's Grill from the same direction. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
*He's not going to be there. He's not going to be there. He's—*
There's a motorcycle parked outside Murphy's.
Not the Savage Riders' bikes. I know those by sight now. This one is different. Older, more worn, but meticulously maintained. The kind of bike someone rides because they love it, not because it's flashy.
Through the window, I can see him. Sitting in the same corner booth where he must have left his daughter last night. And beside him, coloring with intense concentration, is a little girl with dark curly hair.
His daughter.
They look so normal. So ordinary. Just a father and daughter having dinner together, like any of the other families in the grill. Except he has bruises on his face. And his knuckles are bandaged. And he fought three men for me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I stand there on the sidewalk, frozen, Biscuit pulling at the leash because he wants to keep walking and I've inexplicably stopped.
*Go in. Just go in. Thank him and leave. That's all you have to do.*
But what if he thinks I'm crazy? What if he thinks I'm one of those women who gets rescued and then develops some kind of weird obsession with her rescuer? What if his daughter asks questions and I make things awkward and—
The little girl looks up. Sees me through the window. Sees Biscuit.
Her whole face lights up.
She says something to her father, pointing at Biscuit with obvious excitement. He turns, follows her pointing finger, and his eyes meet mine through the glass.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he smiles. Just a small one, barely there, but real.
And just like that, the decision is made.
I push open the door to Murphy's Grill, Biscuit pulling me inside, and walk toward the corner booth where a stranger with dark eyes and scarred knuckles is already standing up to greet me.
"Hi," I say, and my voice only shakes a little. "I'm Alice. I, um. I wanted to thank you. Properly. For last night."
His daughter is already out of the booth, dropping to her knees in front of Biscuit with a squeal of delight. "Daddy, look! A dog! Can I pet him? Please please please?"
"I’m Carter.” He says and turns to his daughter, “If the lady says it's okay,"
"He's very gentle," I manage. "His name is Biscuit."
"Biscuit!" The little girl is in heaven, running her hands through his fur while Biscuit's tail wags hard enough to knock over a small building. "That's the best name ever! I'm Maya!"
"It's nice to meet you, Maya." I look back at Carter. "And you. It's nice to meet you too. Officially."
"Alice," he says, like he's testing the name. "You didn't have to thank me."
"Yes, I did. You could have been killed. For me. For someone you don't even know. That's not nothing. That's—" My voice cracks. "That's everything."
"I had to," he says simply. "Couldn't not."
"I know." And somehow, I do. Can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. This is a man who steps in because that's who he is, not because he wants credit or recognition. "But still. Thank you."
Maya is still completely absorbed in Biscuit, telling him all about the states she's been to, apparently convinced the dog understands every word. Carter watches her for a moment, then looks back at me. "You want to sit? Have some coffee? You look like you didn't sleep much last night."
"I look that bad?"
"You look tired," he corrects. "There's a difference."
And that's how I end up sliding into a booth at Murphy's Grill, sitting across from a man I met twelve hours ago, watching my dog fall in love with his daughter while we drink terrible diner coffee and I finally start to breathe again.