Humbug has a point.
The clubhouse looms like a storm shelter at the edge of town, old barn, barbed wire, and the faint glow of Christmas lights someone half-assed across the roofline.
When we walk in, conversation drops.Biker I’ve not met before stands near the pool table, arms crossed.“Didn’t expect company,” he says, nodding at me.
“She’s family,” Humbug says.
“That a fact or a vote?”
Humbug meets his gaze.“We’ll make it official.”
Official?They call a quick church.The brothers file in, curiosity and whiskey already sparking.I take a seat against the wall, heart in my throat.
Their Prez, a big man named Lil’ Nick who resembles Santa Claus with his white beard and bowl full of jelly belly raps the table once.“Humbug says she’s family.Says she’s in the family way.Anyone got objections?”
Murmurs rise.One of the newer guys snorts.“Ain’t she the one who got us that heat with the fuzz?”
Humbug’s voice drops low, dangerous.“Yeah.And she’s the one who Blizzard threatened.The one who one of our Ol’ ladies just tried to burn up.”
“Trina’s your problem,” some jerk murmurs.
Another biker slaps the back of his head.“Prospect’s opinions don’t count.”
“Trina is my problem, but not for long… Anybody wanna keep punishin’ Carol for survivin’, speak up now.”
Silence.Then the president nods.“No objections.Motion passed.The girl stays here.Executioners’ protection.”
The relief that hits me feels foreign, like breathing underwater and realizing you’re still alive.
Humbug grins.“Welcome home, Peppermint.”
They give me a room, small, clean, a space heater humming in the corner.Not the one from before.This one is bigger.On the dresser sits a miniature Christmas tree, crooked star and all.
“You did this?”I ask Humbug when he brings my bag.
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable.“Frost’s idea.I just plugged it in.”
I smile despite myself.“You hate Christmas.”
“Used to,” he says.“Then I met you.”
The words land softer than I expect.I don’t trust them yet, but I want to.
He steps closer, hand hovering near my arm.“You okay if I…”
I nod.He touches my wrist first.His fingers are callused, warm.The contact is small, but it feels like forgiveness testing its legs.Then his hand roams over the swell of my waist.I swear I see a tear glisten in the corner of his eye.Then he’s out of my hair, like he said.
Days pass.I help Honey in the kitchen, pretending I belong.The brothers thaw slow, like frost off steel.Speaking of Frost, he treats me like a sister now, loud, protective, always feeding me.The baby kicks hard enough to startle me one afternoon, and Honey laughs till she cries.Even Lil’ Nick, old scary biker lurks, watching me when he thinks I don’t notice.
Evenings, Humbug’s outside by the bikes, smoking, fixing, thinking.Sometimes he brings me tea instead of beer.Sometimes he asks how I’m doing.Sometimes we don’t speak at all.
One night, I find him on the porch staring at the horizon.Snow drifts sideways, glowing under the floodlights.
“You still mad at me?”he asks.
“Depends on the hour.”
He smirks.“Fair.”
