Page 108 of Dream Weaver

The other guys were all grins.

Outside the open rear bays of the shop, a man gave his custom Harley a few last revs before cutting the engine. He dismounted in one easy motion and made a beeline for Abby.

A growl built in my throat, but Abby lit up. “Mike!”

I frowned.

“Her stepfather,” Matt whispered. “Or something like that anyway.”

Mr. Hells Angel was tall, solid, and supremely confident. He moved with the grace of a panther, though not as quietly, due to the way his leather chaps and jacket creaked. His hair and horseshoe mustache might have been gray, but the guy was incredibly fit. He wrapped his arms around Abby and rocked from side to side protectively.

My inner bear growled. Jealousy was a bitch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I came as fast as I could,” he murmured.

She’d practically disappeared in his embrace — all but her hands, patting his back. I barely heard her muffled reply.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I already stopped by the school,” he told her.

Aha. So, stepdad was here to protect Claire.

I told myself not to be jealous. That the more people Claire and Abby had covering their backs, the better.

But, damn. It hurt not to be one of them.

“Thanks. I’m sure it will be okay,” Abby told him.

“It will be,” he growled while thunder rolled in the distance.

I glanced at the perfectly blue sky, then froze in realization. Slowly, I peeked back at the biker. And, yes, there it was — the slight shimmer of air around his shoulders.

Warlock. A powerful one, judging by the angry crackle in the air.

When he turned to glare at me, clouds blotted out the sun, and another drum roll of thunder rumbled over the landscape.

Bob peered out the open rear doors. “Are we getting a storm? It looked so clear a minute ago…”

Abby stuck an elbow in the warlock’s ribs, then waved to me. “That’s Cooper. You know Pablo and Bob…”

She skipped from me to the others, like I was just another colleague.

I let out a long, wounded breath, then went back to work. I had three last ax handles to finish.

An hour passed, then another. The stepfather — Mike — leaned against his bike out back, coolly contemplating life, the universe, and the mechanics of cam chain tensioners. I half expected him to whip out a copy ofZen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenanceand start reciting.

But behind that calm, casual demeanor lay the restless soul of a predator. His eyes roved the area continuously, and every time a car approached the shop, he held his hands at his sides like a gunslinger prepared to spray an entire town with bullets for his cause.

Abby. Claire. They were his causes.

They could have been mine, too.

I hacked and sanded the hickory handle.

At eleven thirty, Hells Angel mounted his Harley, revved as loud and long as an Indy500 car on the starting line, then peeledaway. An hour later, he returned, revving several more times before killing the engine.

I made a face. Okay, okay. He was a rough, tough motorcycle guy. We got the message.

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