The door shut behind him, and suddenly the kitchen didn’t feel nearly as safe as it had five minutes ago.
Eleven
Emma
Afew days had passed since the night everything changed. Since Hawk had barged into my kitchen like he owned the place, laid down the law about locking my doors, and then vanished like some kind of leather-wearing storm cloud.
Not that I had been thinking about him. Much.
Okay, maybe a little.
The weird part wasn’t that he’d shown up in the first place. The weird part was that he hadn’t come back. For someone who acted like my safety was suddenly his personal responsibility, the man had vanished pretty quickly.
Still, something had definitely shifted. I started noticing bikers everywhere. Not in a dramatic way—no one was following me around like a creepy movie villain. But every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of leather cuts somewhere nearby.
Outside a bar. Across the street from the grocery store. Parked two cars down in a parking lot.
Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe Hawk had just gotten into my head. Either way, I was determined not to care.
By Friday evening, I was exhausted. The cast itched like crazy, my wrist throbbed constantly, and my fridge was completely empty. So, I found myself at the grocery store.
The place buzzed with the usual Friday night chaos. Families grabbed dinner ingredients, couples argued over snacks, and teenagers wandered the aisles like they had nowhere better to be. I grabbed a few basics—pasta, chicken, frozen vegetables—nothing fancy. Just food. Future Emma would hate me if I went home empty-handed.
As I walked out of the store, the cool evening air felt refreshing against my skin. That’s when I noticed them. A group of bikers stood near a row of motorcycles in the far corner of the parking lot. I couldn’t see their faces clearly from where I stood, but the feeling of their attention was unmistakable.
My jaw tightened.
I kept my eyes forward and walked straight to my car. I had never noticed Hawk’s club before that night. Not once. Now it felt like they were everywhere.
I tossed my groceries into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I had successfully convinced myself they probably weren’t paying attention to me. Probably. Hopefully.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into my garage and groaned. “Seriously?” No Diet Coke—the most important item. I looked down at the gas gauge and sighed. Low. Fantastic.
“Fine.” I backed out of the driveway and headed to the gas station a few blocks away. If I was going to survive a Friday night alone in my house, caffeine was required. Priorities.
I parked at pump fifteen and headed inside first. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I grabbed a medium Styrofoam cup and filled it with ice and Diet Coke. Perfect ratio.
I walked to the counter and set the cup down. “Can I get twenty-five on pump fifteen?”
The clerk frowned at his screen. “Uh… looks like someone’s already pumping gas on that one.”
I blinked. “What?”
He turned the monitor slightly so I could see it. Sure enough, pump fifteen was active. “That’s weird,” I muttered.
“Maybe I looked at the wrong number.”
I grabbed my cup and walked toward the door. “Hang on.”
I stepped outside and looked toward my car. My jaw clenched instantly. A biker stood beside my car—tall, dark beard, leather cut. He was calmly pumping gas into my tank like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I had never seen him before, but I didn’t need to. He was definitely one of Hawk’s guys.
Of course.
I marched back inside. “Never mind on the gas.”
The clerk shrugged and rang up my drink. I paid and walked back outside just as the biker finished pumping. He screwed the gas cap back on and swung onto his motorcycle. Before pulling away, he glanced at me and gave a small nod. Not smug. Not mocking. Just… acknowledging. Like a job had been completed.
