"Getting you out of town. Finding you somewhere safe to go."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You'd do that? For a stranger?"
I shrug. "I'm not saying the club will arrange witness protection or anything. But we've got connections. Ways to move people."
"And what would you want in return?" she asks, a new edge to her voice.
I understand the implication immediately and fight back a surge of anger. Not at her, but at the man who taught her that help always comes with that kind of price tag.
"Nothing like that," I say firmly. "I'm not that guy. I've got an old lady."
That's a lie. I haven't had an old lady since Mariah left me and Eli four years ago. But she doesn't need to know that. Better she thinks I'm off the market entirely.
Something in her posture relaxes slightly. "I don't have much money," she says.
"Did I ask for money?" I shake my head. "Look, this is a one-time offer. Take it or leave it. But I'm not leaving you out here alone, so if you don't want my help, I'll call the cops to pick you up instead. At least the drunk tank would be safer than this park."
She bites her lip, considering. Finally, she gives a small nod.
"Okay," she says. "Just for tonight."
"Smart choice." I gesture toward my bike, parked at the edge of the playground. "Ever ridden before?"
She shakes her head.
"Arms around my waist. Lean when I lean. Hold on tight." I move toward the motorcycle, conscious of keeping my movements slow and telegraphed. No sudden gestures that might trigger that flinch again.
She follows cautiously, eyeing the bike with her right eyebrow raised.
"Your bag," I say, holding out my hand. "I'll secure it."
She hesitates, then passes over the duffel. It's pathetically light. Everything she owns in the world barely weighs more than my son's school backpack. I strap it to the back of the bike, then swing my leg over and start the engine.
"Hop on," I tell her.
She climbs on awkwardly behind me, and I notice the way she moves—always guarding her left side. Probably has rib injuries beneath that oversized shirt.
"Arms around my waist," I remind her.
Her touch is feather-light, barely there.
"Tighter than that," I say. "Unless you want to fall off."
Her arms tighten just a little bit more. I'll take it. I kick the stand up and pull away from the park, keeping my speed moderate. Her grip strengthens as we move, her body gradually relaxing against my back as she realizes I'm not going to drive like a maniac.
I take a circuitous route, partly out of habit. Never go directly to your destination in case someone's following, and partly to give myself time to think about what the hell I'm doing. King's going to have questions. So will Tank. Bringing a random womanto the clubhouse is against protocol, especially with the Eagles looking for any weakness to exploit.
But there's something about her, about those bruises and that flinch, that makes this impossible to ignore. I've spent four years rebuilding myself from the angry, violent man I used to be into someone my son can be proud of. I've learned to channel the rage that earned me my road name into protecting what matters instead of destroying everything around me.
And right now, protecting this woman matters.
We reach Pete's Auto Body, our clubhouse front, after about fifteen minutes. I slow as we approach the security gate, pressing the remote on my key fob. The gate slides open silently, closing behind us as we pull into the compound.
I feel her tense as she takes in the reinforced fencing, the security cameras, the unmistakable signs that this is more than just an auto shop. Her arms tighten around my waist, fear returning.
"It's okay," I say over my shoulder. "You're safe here."
I park in the garage area, cutting the engine. For a moment, she doesn't move, her arms still locked around me.
