Torch’s Second Chance (Savage Riders MC #5)

Chapter 1 - Torch

The smell of gasoline and grease clings to my skin as I drag myself from beneath King's Harley.

It's a familiar smell, comforting in its own way.

The kind of smell that means I'm useful, that I belong somewhere.

Even if that somewhere is a motorcycle club garage with a reputation that makes grown men piss themselves.

"You about done down there, Torch?" King's voice booms across the garage, and I push myself to my feet.

"You know I’m not as good as Steel, but I’m learning. I just finished it." I wipe my hands on a rag that's probably making them dirtier. "Carburetor's fixed. Should purr like a kitten now."

King nods, his face serious as always. The man rarely smiles unless Luna's around. "Good. We've got church in twenty."

Club meeting. After a week of quiet following the Iron Eagles' retreat, this could mean anything. Part of me hopes it's just routine business. The other part, the part that misses the adrenaline rush of explosions and precise destruction hopes there's something more exciting on the horizon.

I head to the bathroom to wash up, scrubbing at the grease under my fingernails.

The mirror reflects a face I sometimes barely recognize: green eyes that have seen too much, a perpetual five o'clock shadow because I can't be bothered to shave regularly, and the small scar cutting through my left eyebrow from when a minor detonation went sideways.

Better than Jamie's fate. At least I walked away.

The thought comes unbidden, as it always does. Jamie, whose body was scattered across fifty yards of Afghan desert. Jamie, who had a wife and kid waiting for him back home.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away memories that never quite fade.

"Torch! You coming or what?" Beast's voice echoes through the clubhouse.

"Keep your panties on!" I shout back, forcing a grin I don't feel as I exit the bathroom. "What's the rush? You got a hot date with Jenny?"

Beast flips me off, but there's no heat behind it. We've all mellowed since finding our women. Well, they have. I'm still the same disaster I've always been, just with better friends.

The chapel, our meeting room, is already filled with leather cuts and cigarette smoke when I enter. I take my usual seat, nodding to Tank, who looks as intimidating as ever despite the small smile that crosses his face when Beast mentions something about Anna's latest art project.

King calls the meeting to order, and we get through the usual business—territory reports, finances, updates on our legitimate businesses. The garage and security company are both turning decent profits. We're almost respectable these days.

"One more thing," King says just as I think we're wrapping up. "Rage spotted someone watching the clubhouse earlier today."

The room tenses. A week without Iron Eagles bullshit was too good to last.

"One of Vulture's?" I ask, already mentally cataloging the explosive supplies I have on hand.

King shakes his head. "Don't think so. Woman, early twenties. Red hair. Didn't approach, just watched from across the street for about twenty minutes, then left."

"Could be nothing," Tank offers. "Could be a girlfriend of one of the prospects."

"Or could be someone scoping us out for the Eagles," Rage counters.

"Either way," King says, "keep your eyes open. If she shows up again, we approach."

We adjourn, and I head to the bar, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey. The burn feels good going down, familiar. I've cut back since joining the Riders, but I haven't quit. Some nights, it's the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay.

Steel joins me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Fancy blowing shit up this weekend? Got some old junk cars out back that need disposing of."

I grin, the first genuine smile I've felt all day. "You had me at 'blowing shit up.'"

"Figured that might ignite your interest," he says with a straight face.

"That pun was explosive," I counter.

"Yours was worse."

"I know. I'm not fired up enough yet."

We both laugh, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Just guys hanging out, making terrible jokes. Not ex-military with too many demons. Not bikers with too many enemies.

The moment quickly ends when the clubhouse door swings open.

She stands there like a ghost from my past, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under eyes that I remember being brighter. She's carrying a child—a toddler with familiar green eyes that sweep the room before landing on me.

My glass slips from suddenly numb fingers, shattering on the floor.

I know her. Sidney Parker. A one-night stand from Cedar Falls, back when I was drinking myself to death every night. I told her not to expect anything more. Told her I wasn't relationship material.

I never expected to see her again.

And I definitely never expected to see her holding a kid who looks exactly like me.

"Dean," she says, using my real name. Her voice is exactly how I remember it but tinged with desperation that wasn't there before. "I'm sorry to show up like this, but... we need help."

The room goes silent. Everyone's eyes ping-pong between us.

"Is that..." Steel starts but trails off when I shoot him a look that would melt steel.

"Sidney," I manage to say, my voice sounding like it's coming from somewhere far away. "What are you doing here?"

She shifts the boy to her other hip.

"This is Max," she says simply. "He's two. And he's yours."

Time seems to stop. The noise in the clubhouse fades to nothing as I stare at the child, at those eyes. My eyes. My mother's eyes.

A son. I have a son.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. My legs go weak, and I grip the bar to steady myself.

"Mine?" The word comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Sidney nods, "Yes. Yours."

I can't tear my gaze away from the boy. He has my nose. The same stubborn set to his jaw that I see every time I look in the mirror. There's no denying it, even if I wanted to.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, running a shaking hand through my hair. "How... why didn't you tell me? Two years—" My voice breaks.

Two years of his life. Gone. First steps. First words. Everything I missed without even knowing I was missing it.

"I tried," Sidney says quietly. "I called the number you gave me when I found out I was pregnant. It was disconnected. I went to the address. You'd moved out. Nobody knew where you'd gone."

The shame hits me then. I remember those months. Drinking myself into oblivion, switching phones, getting evicted, crashing on couches. Running from everything, including myself.

I take a step forward, my eyes never leaving Max's face. He watches me curiously, no fear in his eyes despite the stranger staring at him.

"Why now?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended. The shock is wearing off, anger and grief taking its place. "Why show up now?"

Her chin trembles slightly, but she squares her shoulders.

"Because I have nowhere else to go. I lost my job.

I'm being evicted. I've been sleeping in my car for three days, and I.

.." She swallows hard. "I found an article about the Savage Riders helping people in Blackwater Falls and you were in the picture.

I didn't know if you'd want anything to do with us, but I'm desperate. "

Every eye in the room is on me, waiting for my reaction. King's face is unreadable. Tank looks sympathetic. Beast is frowning. And I have no idea what to say.

I've dreamed of being a father someday. Of doing better than my own parents did. But not like this. Not with a kid I didn't know existed. Not with a woman I spent one drunken night with three years ago.

"He's really mine?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Sidney nods. "I can get a paternity test if you want, but... yes. He's yours. I haven't been with anyone else who could be his father."

My brain is spinning, trying to process too much at once. I have a son. A son who's been living without me for two years. A son whose mother is so desperate she's shown up at an MC clubhouse looking for help.

What kind of father am I already? What kind of man?

"You need a place to stay," I finally say, not a question.

"Yes." The simple admission seems to cost her something. "Just until I can find work and get back on my feet. I wouldn't ask if—"

"You can stay at my place," I interrupt. The words come out before I've fully thought them through, but once spoken, I know they're right. Whatever happens next, I can't let my son sleep in a car.

Relief washes over her face, quickly followed by wariness. "Are you sure?"

Am I? No. I'm not sure of anything right now except that I'm looking at a miniature version of myself, and something primal and protective just woke up inside me.

"Yeah," I say, more firmly this time. "I'm sure. I've got plenty of room."

King steps forward, his expression serious. "Torch," he says, using my road name, "you good with this?"

It's a loaded question. He's asking if I'm sure she's telling the truth. If I'm sure I want to get involved. If I'm sure I can handle the responsibility.

I'm not sure of any of that.

"Yeah," I lie, meeting his gaze steadily. "I'm good."

King nods once, accepting my decision. "We'll talk later," he says, which means he'll be checking to make sure I don't spiral.

Sidney shifts uncomfortably, clearly aware she's the center of attention in a room full of intimidating bikers. "I can't pay you," she says quietly. "Not yet anyway."

"I'm not asking for money," I tell her, surprised by the edge in my voice. "He's my son, right? That makes him my responsibility too."

The word 'son' feels strange on my tongue. Foreign yet somehow right.

Max chooses that moment to speak up.

"Down," he demands, squirming in Sidney's arms. "Want down."

She hesitates, looking around at the rough men and the less-than-childproof surroundings.

"It's okay," I hear myself say. "Let him down."

She sets him on his feet, keeping a hand on his shoulder. "Stay close to Mommy, okay?"

But Max has other ideas. He toddles straight toward me, stopping a foot away to look up with those mirror-image eyes.

"Hi," he says simply.

Something cracks in my chest. Something I didn't know was there to break.

"Hi," I manage to reply.

"You big," he observes, tilting his head back to see my face.

A surprised laugh escapes me. "Yeah, buddy. I guess I am."

He considers this, then nods as if I've confirmed an important theory. "I big too," he declares.

"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "You're getting there."

I'm meeting my son for the first time, twenty-four months too late, and I want to pick him up. I want to cherish him.

I want to be the kind of man who deserves to be called "dad."