Page 14 of Her Savior Biker
Shannon finally speaks, her voice carefully neutral. “Maybe someday, baby.”
“When we get house?”
The question hangs in the air, loaded with hope and uncertainty. Shannon’s shoulders tense. In her reflection in the window, pain flickers across her features before she schools them back to nothing. “We’ll see,” she says.
When we pull into the daycare parking lot, Aiden bounces in his seat. “School!”
I carry him inside while Shannon handles the paperwork. The place is clean, bright, full of the kind of organized chaos that comes with twenty three-year-olds running around. Aiden takes to it immediately, especially when he spots the toy motorcycles in the corner.
“Like Savior bike!” he says, holding up a plastic Harley.
The teacher, Mrs. Chen, smiles. “You know someone with a motorcycle?”
“Savior has big bike. Goes vroom!”
A faint smile touches Shannon’s lips—the first one I’ve seen all morning. It’s small, but it’s something.
After we drop him off, the drive to The Black Crown is quieter but still tense. When we pull into the parking lot, Shannon’s out of the truck before I can kill the engine. No goodbye, no see-you-later, just gone. The door slams behind her hard enough to rattle the windows.
She disappears through the bar’s front door, those long braids swaying with each determined step. She’s wearing jeans that hug the curve of her ass and a simple black t-shirt, but on her, it’s a weapon. The sight of her walking away, all defiant strength and hidden softness, makes something possessive twist in my gut. I should let her go. Should drive away and give her space. But my feet are moving before the thought is finished, carrying me out of the truck and after her.
The Black Crown smells like stale beer, motor oil, and decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of cleaning will ever scrub away. It’s barely noon, but the place already has a handful of customers—truckers grabbing lunch, a couple day-drinkers nursing beers, and Grizz behind the bar looking like he was born there.
Shannon’s at a corner table, taking an order from two guys in work shirts. She moves efficiently, professionally, like she’s been doing this for years instead of days. But her shoulders stay tight, and she scans the room every few minutes like she’s waiting for trouble to walk through the door.
“Savior.” Tank’s voice cuts through the bar noise like a blade. “Need a word.”
Shit. I turn to find my president standing by the back door, arms crossed and expression darker than a storm cloud. This isn’t a friendly social call. I follow him outside into the blazing Colorado heat. The back lot is empty except for a few bikes and Tank’s truck, but he walks us far enough from the building that we won’t be overheard. When he stops and turns to face me, I know I’m in for it.
“Military police were in town yesterday,” he says. “Asking questions about a woman and a kid. Showed pictures around.”
My blood ices. “Pictures of Shannon?”
“That’d be my guess, since you’re the one harboring strays again.” Tank pulls out a silver coin, flipping it over his knucklesin a practiced motion. “Want to tell me why MPs are sniffing around our territory?”
I could lie. Could make up some story. But Tank’s not stupid, and he’s been my president long enough to know when I’m feeding him bullshit.
“She’s running from an abusive ex. Military police captain. Guy put hands on her kid. Broke his arm. The little guy is only three.”
Tank’s jaw tightens, the coin stopping for a second. “Piece of shit who’d hurt a kid deserves to have his throat cut,” he says, his voice hard as granite. “But that doesn’t change the situation.”
“Tank, I should have asked—”
“You should have.” He cuts me off, the coin resuming its path across his knuckles. “You broke club rules stashing her in the safehouse without clearing it first. You know better.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. I get why you did it. Hell, I probably would’ve done the same thing if I’d found them.” Tank catches the coin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Any man who’d break a child’s arm needs to be put down like a rabid dog. But we’re not a social service agency, Savior.”
The admission that he understands makes this somehow worse. If Tank sees the need and still says no, then I’m really fucked.
“This is a noble cause,” he continues, pocketing the coin. “But we can’t take the heat right now. Not with the Torrino deal on the table.”
“She’s got nowhere else to go.”
“And that’s a damn shame. But I can’t risk all the other families, all the other brothers, for one family and one brother.” Tank steps closer, conflict warring in his eyes—the man who wants to help versus the president who must protect the club. “Especially when she’s not your woman.”
The words gut me.Not your woman. As if that somehow makes her worth less. Makes her pain less real.
