Page 1 of Protected By the Bikers Next Door
Chapter 1
Harper
The run-down house is past its prime. The paint’s peeling, there’s a hole in the front porch, and the porch swing hangs crooked. My concerns about the neighborhood are eased slightly as I spot some kids roaming the streets and signs that families live here—bicycles discarded on front lawns, swings in yards, and well-tended flowerbeds. Perhaps this won’t be such a bad place for Jenny to grow up after all.
Although our new home is in dire need of some TLC, and it’s not the nicest neighborhood, I couldn’t be happier to move in. It’s ours, our fresh start. Hopefully, the last one we’ll ever need. I’m tired of starting over.
As we pull into the driveway, I notice three gleaming, impressively large motorbikes parked outside our new neighbor’s house. No kids in that household, I’ll bet.
“Jenny, we’re here, honey,” I say, gently waking my five-year-old.
She blinks awake, adorably rubbing her eyes as she comes to before taking in the scene. No doubt, she’ll kick up a fuss when I try to remove the ivy that’s taking over the side of the house.
“We’re going to live here?” she says gleefully.
I wish I could see the world through her eyes, where everything is magical. How she can look at this place and see anything other than a house that has remained unoccupied foryears and feel wonder is beyond me. I suppose it is a step up from the small apartment we lived in before. To Jenny, the overgrown yard, knotted with weeds, is reminiscent of a fairytale, where the enchanted house slumbers, awaiting the prince. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it doesn’t work like that in real life; Prince Charming isn’t going to come and save the day. It’s just me and Jenny.
I hope I can be enough for her.
“We sure are, kiddo. Now, come help Mommy with the boxes,” I say, climbing out of the truck and heading to the back to unload.
I’m grateful for my old, faithful truck. It managed to make it here without breaking down, and I was able to cram all of our belongings into it, so I didn’t need to spend what little money I have left on renting a van.
I hand Jenny one of the lighter boxes filled with her toys and pick up a couple of heavier ones marked ‘kitchen,’ grunting slightly under the weight. Jenny rushes up the driveway, and I call out for her to be careful as she climbs the porch steps. I unlock the door, and we step inside our new home.
The house has an unlived-in, musty smell, and I start by opening the windows. It is almost dark; the journey took longer than expected, as Jenny had to stop frequently for the toilet. Soon, critters will make their way in, but I can air the place for a short while. Thankfully, the house is already furnished with the essentials, so I hope it won’t take too long to unpack the rest of our stuff.
I head into the kitchen, placing the boxes on the countertop. Jenny follows behind me, clutching her box to her chest. “Where does this box go, Mommy?”
“Your room. Shall we go pick which one you want?”
Her eyes light up with glee at the prospect, and she vigorously nods, too excited to speak. I take her box from her, and she sprints up the stairs, which creak in protest, and waits for me at the top. I’ve only seen photos of the place; it was too far to come to view it, but Jenny picks the room I anticipated would be hers. I take the main bedroom at the front of the house, and Jenny takes the one next to it. Then, there’s the bathroom, and at the back is a small box room that overlooks the overgrown backyard. I plan to turn it into a home office.
I leave Jenny in her room, happily unpacking her things—which no doubt involves more playing than actual sorting—and continue to unload the truck. I ruefully notice that the bikes next door have gone. Presumably, the owner must have moved them into the garage. I’m annoyed that I missed the opportunity to catch a glimpse of my new neighbor. I wonder what kind of person owns three expensive motorcycles but still lives in this neighborhood. I envision an older gentleman who barely rides them but enjoys washing them in the yard every Sunday after church—a hobby, much like those who collect classic cars.
Hours later, having unloaded the truck, many of the boxes are still unpacked, as I’ve realized that, despite the rental agent’s promise that the house would be cleaned, the kitchen still needs a thorough scrub. Rubber gloves on, I’m elbow-deep in a cupboard, standing on a chair, scrubbing away years of grime, when Jenny appears. “Mommy, I’m hungry,” she whines.
Startled, I bash my head on the cupboard. Rubbing my head, I climb down from the chair. I realize then how dark it is outside. I lost track of time; it’s almost nine o’clock, past Jenny’s bedtime, and well past dinner. Guilt and shame flood me for forgetting such a simple task as a mother.
“Sorry, sweetie, of course you are. Let’s order pizza, shall we? A special treat,” I offer, trying to ease my guilt.
“Yay!” Jenny cries, unbothered by my terrible parenting. At five, being allowed to stay up late and eat pizza is a rare occurrence, and she’s thrilled by it. “Can we get barbeque chicken?” she pleads.
At this point, I’d say yes to anything she asked, even though I’m already mentally calculating how much cash I have in my purse.
“Okay,” I concede. “But it’s straight to bed after; it’s well past your bedtime.”
I order the pizza, and while we wait, I rush around, closing all of the windows before getting Jenny ready for bed. I notice that there are several motorbikes parked outside, and the sounds of music and laughter drift over from the neighbor. It seems they’re having a party.
An hour later, having eaten and put Jenny to bed, I collapse onto the couch, exhausted. I don’t have the energy to unpack any more boxes. I mindlessly scroll through the TV channels, not settling on anything in particular. The party next door seems to be getting rowdier, and I glance at the stairs, concerned that they might wake Jenny. I’m so tired that I soon fall asleep on the couch. However, my peace is broken only a short while later by Jenny crying out for me. I notice that the party has only gotten louder.
With a frown, I head upstairs to comfort my child. The pungent smell of vomit hits me as I enter the room, and I notice she’s thrown up on the floor. I rush over, panicked.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay, Mommy’s here.”
“I have a tummy ache,” she moans.
I touch her forehead, relieved to find that she hasn’t got a fever. It must be food poisoning from the pizza. I didn’t eat much, and I mostly picked the chicken off. Jenny has always had a sensitive stomach, unlike me, who can eat almost anything without getting sick.
