Page 8 of Her Savior Biker
“Shannon?”
She turns, hands still dripping from the sink.
“You did the right thing. Leaving. Protecting him. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Her smile is small and sad and beautiful. “Thank you.”
She heads back to the bedroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of her shampoo. This is going to get messy. But watching Shannon tuck her kid in safe and warm, seeing that brief moment when her walls came down—I know I’m already in too deep to walk away.
Some battles are worth fighting, even when the odds are stacked against you.
Especially then.
Three days in, and Shannon’s driving me out of my goddamn mind.
Not because she’s trouble—though she is. Not because she’s demanding—she’s the opposite of that, barely asking for anything, jumping every time I walk into a room like she expects me to change my mind about helping her.
No, she’s driving me crazy because I can’t stop watching her. I check in on her at every meal. Lying to myself, that I’m just making sure she’s eating. After dinner, I drag myself home with the same enthusiasm as a man going to the electric chair.
I hate the way she moves around the safehouse like she’s trying to make herself invisible. The way she touches everything—straightening cushions, wiping down counters that are already clean, washing dishes that don’t need washing. Right now,she’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a pot that was spotless ten minutes ago.
Her hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my old t-shirts because her clothes needed washing. The shirt swallows her whole, falling halfway down her thighs, and every time she reaches for something, I catch a glimpse of smooth brown skin that makes my mouth go dry.
Aiden’s on the floor with a coloring book I picked up in town, finally starting to act like a normal kid instead of a ghost. Yesterday he actually laughed when I showed him how to make paper airplanes. Today he asked if he could help me fix the motorcycle chain.
Small victories.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, nodding toward the sink.
Shannon doesn’t look up. “I know.”
“Then why are you scrubbing that pot like it owes you money?”
Now she does look at me, and there’s something defiant in her dark eyes. “You’re letting us stay here, haven’t asked for any money.” Her voice drops. “Not that I have any money to pay you.”
I’ve got news about that. News she’s not going to want to hear.
“About your car,” I start, and her whole body tenses. “I had it towed to Murphy’s shop, got it looked at properly.”
“And?”
“It’s not just a busted hose. Whole radiator’s trash. Murphy says a good used one plus labor would run about four hundred.”
Her expression freezes. “Four hundred?”
“Good news is the tow was free. Bad news is…” I don’t need to finish. We both know she doesn’t have four hundred dollars.
Shannon sets the pot down with shaking hands. “The longer I stay here, the more likely he is to find me.”
“Shannon—”
“I need that job.” Her voice is fierce now, desperate. “The one at the bar you mentioned.”
“There’s a place in town. The Black Crown. They might be looking for help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Waitressing. Bar work. Owner’s a friend of mine. He’d pay cash.”
