Page 6 of The Biker and the Baker
The badass black-haired biker girl is buried elbow-deep in paperwork at her desk.
“Yo.”
She looks up, her silver eyes widening slightly, surprised to see me. Generally unannounced, I stop in twice every two to three months at most. It’s just too hard for me to be here.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
Kendra has been running this place since she was a teenager. What was just an average auto repair shop with sub-par service, is now one of the most illustrious auto repair shops in Denver—all thanks to her. My dad trusted her with the future of his business and made little to no interference.
After he died and left the business to me, I chose to leave things as they were—with Kendra at the helm doing what she does best. If it ain’t broken, leave it the hell alone. She runs it, pays herself what she thinks she deserves and deposits the monthly profits in my account.
Kendra grew up with me around the Motorcycle Club. My father trusted her with his life and so do I.
“Yeah, yeah…” I rub my hand down my beard. “Just a quick drop in. How’s business?”
“Always better than the month before,” she says with a proud grin. “The extension of the service station is done, so now we get to work on more vehicles faster. Four new hires to facilitate.” She jerks her head. “You wanna come check it out?”
“Nah. Just…keep up the good work.”
She laughs. “You’re a weird boss.”
I snort. “No one’s ever the boss of you, Kendra. Not Judge, nor me, nor that rich nerd you married. You’re the boss of all bosses.”
Her grin stretches from ear to ear. “Damn straight.”
“You got any painkillers?”
“Are you kidding me?” She scoffs as she pulls out a desk drawer. “With this job, I’ve got a drawer chock full of ‘em.” She picks up a bottle and throws it at me. “That one’s not even open yet. You can have it.”
“Thanks.”
I start to leave when she says, “Onyx?”
Halting, I glance over my shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
“Some days, it’s hard for me to be here, too. He’s the closest thing I ever had to a father. Don’t know where I would’ve been if he hadn’t given me a shot. I miss him. A lot. And he’s all over this place. So, y’know, it gets hard for me, too.”
I don’t respond. I can’t respond. So I just grunt and keep moving.
Judge was like a father to her, but hewasmy father. Before he even knew she existed, I used to play with toy cars on the floor of that office while he worked. Out in the service station that she just had extended is where he taught me how to patch my bike’s tire, where he gave me my first motorcycle, and later my first sports car. Where he taught me how to fix said car. There are memories of us all over this place.
No matter how hard she thinks it is for her, it doesn’t come close to how it is for me.
By the time I get out to the parking lot, I’m damn near hyperventilating with a nasty tightening in my chest that I’ve grown to expect whenever I dare come here. Doubling over, I press my hands to my knees and take in large gulps of air, chasing normal.
Once I’m leveled, I shake out two pills from the bottle Kendra gave me and stuff them under my tongue to dissolve, then jump on my motorcycle and rev the hell out of the parking lot. But, unluckily traffic keeps me stalled at the exit, so there’s no ignoring the big, rusting metal gates directly across the street with the now defaced Den of Heathens emblem.
Behind those gates is where I spent almost all my years. Where I had all of my firsts. Where I had friendships and fistfights. Threesomes and orgies. Laughter and pain. Lots of good and bad memories. But the one memory that overshadows them all is of my father’s severed head in front of those gates.
It was the beginning of the end—the end of the Den of Heathens motorcycle club.
Betrayal.
Retaliation.
A fight for the gavel.
A bloody war.
