Page 7 of My Older Biker

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his voice is slow. "I can't tell you that."

I nod. My hands feel cold. "Will it be dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Are you part of it?"

"I'm leading it."

I knew this was what the MC meant. Knew it abstractly. But abstract and real are different countries, and real is Dean telling me he's walking into violence in a few hours and there's nothing I can do but wait.

"Okay," I say.

He starts down the hallway again, then stops. Turns back. Crosses the kitchen in three strides and cups my face with both hands, kissing me hard enough that I taste the desperation underneath it. His tongue in my mouth, his fingers tight against my jaw.

When he pulls back I'm breathing hard.

"I'll come back," he says.

"You can't promise that."

"I'm promising it anyway."

Then he's moving again. I hear his bedroom door close, drawers opening, the sound of him getting dressed fast. Three minutes later he walks past the kitchen in black jeans, black t-shirt, his cut on, boots laced. He doesn't slow down but he says, "Lock the door behind me. Don't leave. I'll call when I know more."

The front door opens. Closes. His bike starts. The engine fades.

I stand in his kitchen holding my cold coffee. The house feels enormous and empty without him in it. I could leave right now. Walk back to my apartment, put distance between myself and this before it gets any deeper.

Instead I sit down at his table and wrap both hands around the mug, feeling the ceramic cool under my palms. Outside the window the sky is getting lighter. Birds are starting.

I stay exactly where I am.

The house is too quiet.

I try to work. Open my laptop and stare at the design project I was supposed to finish yesterday. The colors look wrong. The spacing feels arbitrary. I close it after twenty minutes.

I make coffee. Drink half a cup and pour the rest down the sink.

Perry died this morning. Dean is planning how to retaliate right now. In a few hours he's going to walk into violence and there's nothing I can do but wait.

I think about Perry's sister. Whether she knows yet. Whether anyone's told her that her brother isn't coming home. Whether she'll keep making cookies out of habit before she remembers there's no one to give them to anymore.

I think about Dean doing this for years. Walking into danger. Coming back. Repeat. How many times can you walk through fire before your luck runs out?

My phone sits on the coffee table. Silent. He said he'd call when he knew more and it's almost noon now. I pick up the phone and put it down. Pick it up again.

The fear sits in my chest like something solid. I can feel its edges. Its weight.

Eight months ago Marrow took me. I remember the zip ties cutting into my wrists. The chemical smell of the van. The cold metal of the gun pressed against my temple. The voice saying "Your daddy better care enough to come get you."

My therapist says trauma changes your nervous system. Makes your body remember danger even when your mind knows you're safe.

Right now, I'm safe. Dean's at the clubhouse. Marrow doesn't know I'm here.

But Dean isn't safe. He's planning to walk into a warehouse with men who have guns. Men who killed Perry. Men who would kill Dean without hesitation if they got the chance.

I can't eat. Try making toast around one and manage two bites before my stomach revolts.