“Thank you. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”
Trish waves me off. “It’s what we do here. Gotta help each other out or else what kind of world would we be living in?”
Nodding, the cashier brings my food. Sam hands her some tip money, squeezing her shoulder with affection. I have a feeling several of those forty-eight years have been stopping in here to share their kindness while enjoying the burgers.
“You take care of yourself, and good luck with finding your friends.”
“Thank you again, and take care.”
Wolfing down the burger like a starved beast, I study the map and continue to check my surroundings. I’m states away, yet still paranoid Tommy and Jack will waltz through the door and drag me back home. No, I refuse to call that place home. It’s time for a change, and as far as anyone else knows, I’m a Texan.
The map is basically made up of a couple of scribble lines all connected and a few dots on each side to indicate the bar and Sadie’s Haven. If it’s so bare out there, then it can’t be too hard for me to find. I have to save as much of my money as possible. I’m not sure how much it’ll cost for them to take me in or if I’ll be able to find a job anytime soon. Looks like the only choice I have is to walk.
Asking for a to-go cup of hot water, I grab my bag and begin my trek. It’s chilly outside, and I need the water to help keep me warm. I didn’t bring my heavy jacket because I thought it’d be too much, but now I’m regretting it. A cloudy morning in December and the temperature is cold enough to have me shivering. I’m sure it’ll warm up as the day goes on, and I know my body will as well once I get walking for a while. Crossing the bridge over the highway with the cars speeding by is pretty damn nerve-wracking, but I make it.
Following the hand-drawn map, I walk, and walk, and walk some more. All day, to the point my entire body aches, and eventually, I don’t remember falling asleep. Especially not while recklessly walking down the middle of the abandoned two-lane road.
Chapter three
Spin
Present...
The woman is finally awake, and I can’t stop staring at her. I have no clue who she is, yet in the same breath, I feel like I know her far too well. The nurse brought me to her room after she told the woman how I’d found her and called an ambulance for help. Apparently, waiting around was enough for her to want to thank me.
“Purple hair and a purple eye... your favorite color or something?” she asks after a moment of taking me in. I know I can be a lot for some people. Toss in the black jeans, biker boots, fitted thermal, and my cut, and I send people in the other direction. Unless they know me—then it’s a different story entirely. I may be intimidating at first impression, but I’d give you the shirt off my back if you asked nicely.
“Or something...” I’ve always worn a colored contact in one eye because it’s blown. My iris is completely black, and it fucks with people more than the purple iris does. They can reason with a fake icy-gray eye but not a black one, for some reason. The less questions I have to deal with, the better. And don’t get me started about Halloween—each year, I get so many damn questions about it being a costume. No, motherfucker, I really have a purple eye and a grayish, almost white, contact in my other eye to save you from your made-up emotional trauma.
“You’re so colorful,” she replies thoughtfully.
Her comment doesn’t surprise me, but it still manages to burn on the inside and solidifies why I generally stay away from people. I’ve been called a freak since I was a little kid. All my ink came after the crazy hair colors and styles when I was thrust into my life’s work. I loved to sketch when I was a teen, which eventually led me to a tattoo shop. The first needle hit my flesh at that same shop, and I knew tattooing was what I was meant to be doing.
Joining the club came along shortly after. The first brother strolled in, looking for an artist to give him some custom club ink. After a few sessions of tattooing him, I knew I needed a motorcycle as well. He had this look of freedom about him, and I desperately craved that peace with everything I had.
“You’re kinda beautiful, you know that?” she continues, taking in my silence and catching me completely off guard.
No one has ever called me beautiful before.
“Yeah? So are you, Little Momma,” I respond more bluntly than usual.
She quietly gasps, eyes growing wide. “Wait... you’re an Oath Keeper?”
A brow raises as my back stiffens. What’s she know about my club? “And if I am?”
Her inquisitive gaze flickers over my frame once more, this time pausing on the many different patches of my cut. Attention thrown our way is typically negative until people get to know us. Her interest has me on edge, ready to beat feet and get the fuck out of here. “I was looking for you guys?” It comes out more like a question than a statement. She’s obviously unsure if it’s the right answer.
She doesn’t strike me as a bike bunny or a club slut, especially not pregnant, but what do I know when it comes to women? I can fuck and tattoo well. Anything past that and I don’t get much feedback from them. “What’s your name, doll?”
“Naomi, and you’re... Spin?” She nods to my breast, where my name is sewn into the leather. The opposite side has an identical patch with my club position. I’m the treasurer and a fully patched officer. Have been for years.
“Yeah. I introduced myself to you on the side of the road.”
She points to her head, cocking it. She flashes a goofy smile and mentions, “Comatose. Remember?”
“Of course. Longest ten minutes of my fucking life.” I automatically cringe with my language around the baby. “My mouth is crap at times. I’m trying to mind it around your kid.”
She glances around the room before her attention lands on her cute belly poking out of the covers. There’s just something about pregnant bellies I find ridiculously sexy on a woman. “You’re attempting not to swear because of my baby?”
Nodding, I can’t help but stare as her teeth sink into her lower lip. She’s looking at me like I’m a popsicle, and she wants a lick. Or some dick. I mean both. Fuck. What is it with this chick? “I was saying I found you and introduced myself while waiting for help. You okay?”
“I am now, thanks to you. You guys really are a safe haven, aren’t you?”
A safe haven?
What’s she talking about? Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.
This woman is in danger.
She wants Sadie’s help—well, essentially the club’s protection—from whatever evil’s hurting her.
“He give you that nasty bruise on your face?” I ask with a chin lift toward her. I don’t know anything about her story, yet I’m ready to fuck the world up on her account.
Suddenly, Naomi can no longer meet my stare as she slowly nods, her fingers plucking at the thin blanket. She has no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed. Quite the opposite. It takes a lot of strength for a woman to get out and ask for help. In her case, she would have had to drop everything, leaving whatever she may have had behind to start fresh here. Her walking down the road doesn’t make sense, though, and we haven’t had a recent vote in church about taking in anyone new.