Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SORAYA
"So, Kane is treating you well?" I ask, cradling my phone between my ear and shoulder.
I carefully mist a row of delicate orchids. Marlowe’s bright laugh fills the receiver. It’s a beautiful sound, a sound I rarely heard when we were growing up in our rough Denver trailer park.
"He’s amazing, Soraya. The best. Things have been crazy since he took over Forge Creek Municipal Contractors, but we are so happy."
The name of their business sounds so official and established.
I smile, swooning a little at my best friend’s happy ending.
I remember when loan sharks were coming after Marlowe, breaking into her apartment.
They even got my personal number to threaten me with warnings.
Now she is safe and deeply loved by her mountain man, Kane Langston.
I want that. I harbor a quiet, persistent ache of loneliness in my chest. Moving fifteen hundred miles away from Denver to Washington State was necessary, but the isolation is heavy.
"Enough about me," Marlowe says softly. "How is the shop?"
My heart flutters with immediate excitement. "It’s absolutely perfect. My vision of hanging plants, bright flowers out front, and a big display window has come to life.”
“What name did you decide on? I remember you were debating between two or three different ones.”
I smile as I tell her, “Oopsie Daisies.”
My friend giggles, and I join her. I knew I wanted something whimsical or punny, because why not?
I love when I catch someone walking past the shop and smiling when they see the sign.
If I can inject just a little joy into someone’s day, then I’ve done a good job.
Of course, selling plants and flowers helps, too.
“That’s perfect for you, Soraya. Will you send me a picture of the display window with your shop name and hanging plants? I want to see your hard work. Plus, I want to envision you in your shop, living your best life. It would make it easier to accept the fact that you moved so damn far away.”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel abandoned–”
“Don’t even go there,” she warns. “I don’t blame you for getting the hell out of there when you had the chance. Your parents were going to either kill each other, themselves, or you.”
My nose scrunches up at her accurate description of my mom and dad. She’s right, I had no choice. Their volatility and drug abuse would have been the death of me, and them.
“All that’s in the past now, right? Anyway, Oopsie Daisies has seen a flood of new customers since the rebrand and facelift. I might be in debt, but I’m making it work.”
It still feels like a wonderful dream. I reached out to the previous owner through a simple job listing without any high expectations. After a few months as the store manager, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly proposed that I take over officially, letting them retire and live out their golden years.
I pay off the owner in monthly increments, along with the loan I took out from the bank to pay for the remodel.
Profits are incredibly slim for now, but I’m getting new customers every month and growing bit by bit.
The tiny upstairs apartment covers my basic needs, even if I’m currently sleeping on a partially deflated air mattress to save money.
I don’t mind. It’s still my happy place.
Marlowe and I wrap up the call with promises to check in soon. I turn my attention to the front windows, smiling as the ferns and trailing philodendrons catch the fading afternoon light. I hum softly, singing a gentle lullaby to coax their growth.
My thoughts drift without my permission.
They land squarely on the massive biker who walked in last week.
He was covered in dark ink, wore heavy boots, and brought an intense energy into my peaceful shop.
He didn’t buy anything, not even the snake plant I offered.
He simply stomped in, grunted his way through a short conversation, and then left abruptly to answer a call.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about him.
Night falls over Port Royal as I continue the daily tasks of cleaning the shop and double-checking my orders for tomorrow.
The air turns dark, damp, and thick with fog.
Typical Pacific Northwest weather. I step outside onto the sidewalk to lock the front door, taking two steps toward my apartment entrance.
The sudden, deafening roar of motorcycle engines slice through otherwise quiet evening.
I turn around to see a group of bikers tearing down the road, indiscriminately vandalizing the storefronts on Main Street. Bricks and heavy rocks are thrown haphazardly, damaging windows, siding, and doors. When I see what appears to be a Molotov cocktail, pure panic takes over.
The motorcycles get closer, the sound echoing in time with my frantic heartbeat.
As they drive past, I drop to the cold ground and cover my head with my arms, seconds before glass shatters in every direction.
My heart breaks right along with it. My custom front display window just imploded.
I wish I had taken a picture for Marlowe.
A gunshot cracks through the foggy air. Harsh shouts echo off the brick buildings. The sickening sound of fists meeting flesh follows.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push back the darkness threatening to swallow me, but it’s no use.
I’m no longer on the cold sidewalk. I’m back in a dilapidated Denver trailer.
I’m hiding in my small closet while my parents fight.
They fought worse when they were high or drunk.
It was utterly terrifying when they fought the local dealers out to collect their debt.
One specific memory claws its way to the front of my mind.
I called the police because I thought my father had finally killed my mother after a particularly loud and violent fight.
The cops took a full hour to arrive, which wasn’t unusual.
No one wanted to be in the Alpine Grove trailer park, especially law enforcement.
By the time the police showed up, my parents were perfectly calm.
My mom was drinking a beer on the couch, watching some reality TV show.
Granted, she was wearing a heavy sweater and a baseball cap to cover the bruises and cuts littered across her body, but no one wanted to ask further questions.
After the police left, my mother turned on me and threw her mostly full beer can straight at my head.
It left a throbbing knot and soaked one of my only three outfits in sticky alcohol.
I blink my eyes open, dragging myself out of the sad, pathetic memory of my childhood. The immediate chaos outside begins to move down the street. I push myself up with trembling arms to assess my ruined shop, only to see a massive shadow lunge toward me.
I let out a sharp yelp as terror spikes my veins. Then I recognize him. It’s the towering biker from last week. Is he part of the gang that ruined my store and all the others lining the street?
One look in his eyes lets me know he’s not here to harm me.
The man might be tall, muscled, and gruff, but he wouldn’t hurt me.
I don’t know how I know that, but the certainty washes over me, calming my nerves ever so slightly.
He holds me by the shoulders to steady me, his assessment fierce and intense.
I’m frozen in place when his calloused thumb grazes my cheek.
He pulls his hand back, his thumb stained bright red.
A low growl bubbles up from deep in his chest. He grabs my hand and begins dragging me toward his motorcycle parked at the curb.
"Stop!" I protest, stumbling behind him. "I need to clean up! I need to board the window! My shop was just vandalized!”
He doesn’t slow down. Instead, the giant biker tightens his grip.
I plant my feet firmly on the asphalt, refusing to be bossed around by a man I barely know. Not anymore. The sudden resistance causes him to jerk backward.
"I’m going back inside," I insist, my voice calm but stern.
He turns to me, his dark brown eyes simmering with tension and a wildness I can’t quite comprehend. "I can’t protect you in there."
I should be suspicious of his motives. I know that. But hearing someone express a desperate desire to protect me touches something incredibly deep inside my battered heart.
I pivot slightly, playing into his obvious hero complex. "I at least need the first aid kit inside to clean myself up."
He relents, though he keeps a firm grip on my hand as we step carefully through the broken glass into the back room. He takes the small white kit from my hands, nodding for me to sit on the stool.
I watch in stunned silence. This brutal, possibly dangerous man kneels before me, gently dabbing away the blood from my superficial glass scratches with focused care.
His frown grows deeper every time he finds a new cut, as if each one is a personal offense.
Is he this thorough and surprisingly caring with everyone?
My heart does a stupid little flip at the thought of being the only one who has seen this side of him.
My mysterious biker finishes tending to my wounds, then takes both of my hands in his large, rough palms. His dark brown eyes search mine, a heavy desperate look piercing right through me.
"Some bad people have infiltrated this town," he warns, his voice a low rumble. "They’re targeting my club's business, and their temper tantrums finally spilled into the streets. Your shop was just in the crossfire. That’s why I need you to come with me. I don’t know when they’ll be back."
His words are brief, his sentences short and to the point. Still, I feel completely overwhelmed.
“What the f… freaking fudge is going on here?!” Dang, I really thought I was going to swear. I’d have every right to.
The man furrows his brow, probably making fun of me in his head.
I don’t blame him. He looks like he eats a dozen raw eggs for breakfast and steel beams for lunch.
I bet he knows and uses every kind of filthy word out there, and here he is, stuck with a full-grown woman who can’t even cuss when her livelihood is on the line.
“My inventory is ruined,” I continue, as a million other thoughts crash through my brain.
“I have client orders to fill in the morning, my plants are left exposed to the cold night air, and… and my window. My beautiful window…” It’s hitting me all at once.
I’ve exhausted myself with building my dream floral shop, putting myself in debt while working tirelessly to make sure everything is perfect. And now…
My breath comes out in choppy gasps, my lungs never fully filling with air. Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to fall apart in front of this man.
He caresses my forearms, his rough hands trying to soothe my trembling.
Then he pulls out his phone and barks sharp orders to someone.
I don’t know much about the MC life, but I’m guessing he’s talking to someone from his club.
He tells them to bring a truck, plywood, and tools to board up the shop and clean up the mess.
He hangs up and looks back at me. "That’s taken care of. What is your next excuse?"
I blink at him. "I don’t even know your name."
"Stryker."
"I’m Soraya."
A sudden shift alters his entire demeanor. His gaze darkens considerably. His jaw tightens into granite. I wonder for a second if I am imagining the intense, possessive flash in his eyes.
Stryker stands up to his full towering height, extending a large hand toward me.
I stare at his palm, feeling the immense, crushing weight of this exact moment. Taking his hand isn’t just about escaping tonight's danger. It’s a threshold. If I take it, the course of my entire life will change forever.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Soraya. I only want to be your shield.”
Swallowing hard, I stare into his deep, dark gaze and place my hand in his.