Torch leads me to a sleek black pickup truck, not the motorcycle I expected. "You can leave your car here for now," he says. "It'll be safe in the clubhouse lot."
I hesitate, clutching my keys. My car represents the last bit of independence I have. "I'd rather keep it with me," I admit.
"Follow me, then. It's about ten minutes."
I strap Max into his car seat, one of the few items I refused to sell or pawn over the last few months. "We're going to Daddy's house," I tell him, testing the words.
Max looks confused. "Daddy?" he repeats.
My heart sinks. We've talked about his daddy before. In vague terms, appropriate for a two-year-old. I've shown him the singlephoto I have, taken that night at the bar before things went further. But it's been weeks since we discussed it, and toddler memories are short.
"The man we were just talking to," I explain. "The big man with the green eyes like yours. That's your daddy."
Max considers this. "Bike man?"
I smile despite everything. "Yes, the bike man."
He nods, accepting this new information with the remarkable adaptability of childhood. "Go bike man house."
"That's right, sweetheart. We're going to stay at his house for a little while."
I follow Torch's truck through the small town, noting how people seem to nod respectfully as he passes. The Savage Riders clearly have some standing here. Not what I expected from an outlaw motorcycle club.
We turn onto a quiet street lined with modest but well-maintained homes. Torch pulls into the driveway of a two-story craftsman style house painted deep blue with white trim. It's charming and completely at odds with the man I remember from three years ago.
I park behind him and get Max from the back seat. He's alert now, looking around with interest as I carry him toward the front door where Torch is waiting.
"It's not much," he says, pushing the door open. "But it's clean."
The living room is sparsely furnished but tidy. A leather sofa faces a TV mounted on the wall. There are no personal photos that I can see, but a bookshelf holds a surprising number of books.
"Kitchen's through there," he points. "Bathroom down the hall. Two bedrooms upstairs."
I follow him up the stairs, Max growing heavy in my arms. The master bedroom has a king-sized bed with dark blue bedding. The other room is set up as an office with a desk and computer.
"You and Max can take my room," he says. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"We can't take your bed," I protest. "The couch is fine for me."
He shakes his head. "The bed's better for both of you. I sleep on the couch half the time anyway."
I want to argue but don't have the energy. "Thank you," I say instead.
We head back downstairs and out to my car. It takes just two trips to bring in everything we own. Clothes in trash bags, Max's favorite toys, a box of essentials like his sippy cups and my toiletries.
The reality of our situation hits me as I look at our meager possessions piled on Torch's living room floor. Three months ago, we had an apartment full of furniture. Six months ago, I had a decent job at the medical billing office. A year ago, life was stable, if not luxurious.
How quickly it all fell apart.
"When did you last eat?" Torch asks, watching as I sort through the bags.
The question catches me off guard. "We had..." I try to remember. "Crackers for breakfast. And there was a McDonald's that let us sit for a while yesterday. We shared a Happy Meal."
His jaw tightens. "I'll order pizza."
"You don't have to—"
"You're both hungry. I'm hungry. Pizza's easy." He pulls out his phone before I can protest further.
