In the kitchen, I open cupboards, taking stock of what's there. The groceries Dean bought today are the most food-like items in the house. Otherwise, it's mostly protein bars, coffee, and alcohol. The refrigerator is similarly sparse. Beer, condiments, a few takeout containers.
It's a bachelor's kitchen, through and through.
On impulse, I check the freezer and find several packages of ground beef and chicken. The pantry yields pasta, rice, and canned vegetables. Enough to make a decent meal, at least.
Cooking is something I can do. A small way to repay Dean's unexpected kindness.
By the time Max wakes from his nap, I've started a pot of homemade chicken soup. Easy on his sore mouth and comforting for all of us. He's groggy but in good spirits, asking for juice and settling on the floor with his toys.
I watch him play, his imagination transforming the sparse living room into adventures involving his truck, elephant, and action figures. Children are resilient, adaptable in ways adults struggle to be. In his world, this is just another place, another day. The fear and uncertainty of our situation don't touch him as long as I'm nearby, as long as his immediate needs are met.
I wonder what Dean is doing at his club meeting. Planning something dangerous? Discussing illegal business? Or maybe just the mundane operations of a brotherhood that happens to ride motorcycles and break laws occasionally.
The soup simmers on the stove, filling the house with the smell of home-cooked food. I find myself hoping Dean likes it, that he'll appreciate coming home to a hot meal after whatever his afternoon entails.
Coming home. As if this arrangement is permanent. As if we're playing house instead of navigating a crisis that threw us together.
I need to be realistic about our situation. Dean has been kind, but kindness doesn't equal commitment. He's helping because Max is his son and I was desperate, not because he wants an instant family. The sooner I find work and get back on my feet, the better for everyone.
But for tonight, at least, we have a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and a reprieve from immediate crisis. It's more than we had yesterday, and sometimes, that has to be enough.
Chapter 5 - Torch
I pull into the clubhouse parking lot, my mind still at home with Sidney and Max. Home. The word catches me off guard. That house hasn't felt like a home since I bought it.
It’s just a place to crash between club business and my own demons. But seeing Max and Sidney in my living room... it changes the energy of the place.
King's bike is already here, along with Tank's, Beast's, and several others. I'm not late, but I'm cutting it close. The entire ride over, I kept thinking about Max's face when the dentist was working on him, that brave little frown, his tiny hand gripping mine like I could actually protect him from pain.
I'm still getting used to the idea that I'm responsible for another human being. That someone depends on me for more than explosives expertise or backup in a fight.
The clubhouse is buzzing with activity when I walk in. Most of the brothers are gathered around the bar, Steel telling some elaborate story that has everyone laughing. They all turn when I enter, and I can feel the weight of their collective curiosity.
"There he is!" Steel calls out. "The man of the hour!"
I shake my head, dropping my keys on the bar. "Don't start."
"What?" Steel feigns innocence. "Can't a man be happy for his brother discovering the joys of fatherhood?"
"Fuck off," I say, but there's no heat behind it.
King emerges from the chapel, his expression serious as always. "Torch. Good, you're here. Meeting in five."
I nod, grateful for his businesslike approach. At least someone isn't treating this like the club's latest gossip.
Beast sidles up beside me, lowering his voice.
"Jenny wants to know if you need anything for the kid. Clothes, toys, whatever."
The offer catches me off guard. "I, uh... I don't know, man. Maybe? I haven't really thought about it."
"Well, think about it. She works at the daycare, knows all about kid stuff. Says she's happy to help."
"Thanks," I manage. "I'll let you know."
Chaos, one of our prospects approaches next. "So... you really didn't know you had a kid?"
"No, I didn't," I say flatly. "And I'm not discussing it further."
