"The Blue Pine Motel on the edge of town," I say, knowing it's far enough from her house. "I've got a friend who owes me a favor. You'll be safe there."
She looks at my motorcycle with apprehension. "I've never been on one of those before."
"You'll be fine. I have an extra helmet." I secure her bag and hand her the spare helmet I brought along. "Just hold onto me."
She puts on the helmet, and I help her adjust the strap. Her hands are trembling slightly, whether from fear or adrenaline, I can't tell. I swing my leg over the bike, ignoring the twinge in my bad knee, and feel her climb on behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, tightening as I start the engine.
"Ready?" I ask over my shoulder.
Instead of answering, she presses her cheek against my back and holds on tighter. I can feel her heart beating against me, fast but steady.
I pull away from the curb, heading toward the motel. My mind is already racing with next steps, contingencies, plans. This is Hope Peak. Small town, limited places to hide, everyone knows everyone. Keeping her safe here won't be easy. But I've fought in worse conditions with less motivation.
And this time, I'm fighting for the only thing that's ever really mattered to me.
Devin? He's a dead man walking. He just doesn't know it yet.
Chapter 2 - Olivia
I press my cheek against Tyler's back, feeling the leather of his vest—cut, he called it—against my skin as the motorcycle rumbles beneath us. The vibration travels up through my body, making my teeth chatter until I clench them tight. Wind whips around the helmet, surprisingly loud, drowning out everything but my thoughts.
Tyler. A motorcycle club. A gun tucked in his waistband.
None of this makes sense. The Tyler I knew, the one I’ve always loved but never confessed, the one who left two years ago, was a quiet, intense ex-soldier trying to figure out civilian life. He'd been my rock after Dad died. My best friend.
Now he's something else entirely. Someone else.
We weave through the familiar streets of Hope Peak, passing the elementary school where I teach. Monday morning, my third-graders will wonder where I am. Mrs. Keller in the next classroom will have to cover my class, adding twenty-four energetic eight-year-olds to her already full plate.
Guilt pinches at me, but it's quickly overshadowed by fear as we pass Devin's auto shop. His red pickup isn't in the lot, but just seeing the building makes my heart race. My grip around Tyler's waist tightens reflexively.
He feels it, reaches down to squeeze my hand briefly. That small gesture of reassurance grounds me somehow. Whatever Tyler has become, he still knows me. Still cares.
We pull into the Blue Pine Motel lot ten minutes later. It's a single-story horseshoe of rooms, painted with a faded teal that hasn't been refreshed in at least a decade and with a Christmas tree in the corner that has seen better days. I've driven pastthis place my entire life but never had reason to stop. It's where truckers and the occasional tourist stay, not locals.
Tyler kills the engine and helps me dismount on unsteady legs. My thighs ache from clenching the bike, and I stumble slightly as blood rushes back into my lower body.
"You okay?" Tyler's hand is at my elbow, steadying me.
"Fine," I say, the same response I give when students or colleagues notice a new bruise or my wincing when I move too quickly. "Just stiff."
He studies my face for a moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he sees right through the lie. The Tyler I knew could always tell when I wasn't being honest, and apparently that hasn't changed.
He grabs my bag from the bike and gestures toward the office. "Wait here. I'll get the room."
I stand awkwardly beside the motorcycle, watching as Tyler walks to the office with that purposeful stride I remember, albeit with a slight limp now.
Everything is happening so fast. Last night I was curled in a ball on my bathroom floor, crying silently after Devin stormed out following another explosive fight. The bruise around my eye throbbing, I'd finally reached my breaking point and called the one person I swore I wouldn't burden with my problems.
Now here I am, running away to a motel with a man wearing motorcycle club patches.
Tyler returns with a key, nodding toward the far end of the building. "Room 18. End unit. Better visibility, more privacy."
Of course he'd think of that. Military training. Or maybe it's his new lifestyle that makes him consider tactical positions.
We walk to the room in silence. I'm aware of how we must look—me with my bruised face and nervous energy, him with his intimidating presence and leather cut. Mrs. Abernathy from the PTA would have a field day if she saw us.
The room is basic but clean. Two beds with faded floral comforters, a small table with two chairs, TV mounted on the wall, bathroom to the right. Tyler does a quick sweep, checking the closet, bathroom, and windows before seeming to relax.
