The teenagers’ words repeated in his mind. But their mockery was not what hurt most.
What hurt was the piece of truth he believed might be buried inside it. Back in his sparse apartment, Ryder paced like a caged animal.
The walls seemed to close around him. His club vest hung from a hook in the corner, covered with patches and pins that told a history of brotherhood, loyalty, and violence.
Photographs showed Ryder at rallies and runs, grinning beside motorcycles and men he had once trusted more than anyone else in the world. He caught his reflection in the darkened window.
Tattoos climbed his neck. Scars marked his knuckles.
Hard years had carved lines around his eyes. What right did he have to stand in Clare’s apartment and let her children trust him?
What right did he have to let Clare imagine he might be something safer than his history suggested? The sun disappeared.
Still Ryder paced. He remembered Clare’s hand on his arm at the park and how quickly that simple touch had quieted the storm inside him.
He remembered Maggie’s complete faith in him. Max’s sleepy weight against his chest.
Those peaceful moments felt stolen tonight, as if he had entered a life he had never earned the right to touch. Night settled over the city.
Ryder sat in the dark with his phone on the table beside him. Usually, Clare sent a picture before bedtime. Maggie making a ridiculous face. Max covered in sauce. Something small and ordinary.
Tonight the screen remained dark. She was respecting the distance Ryder had created.
Hours passed. His past was not just leather, tattoos, and a frightening reputation.
There had been broken laws. Violence.
Loyalties that ran deeper than reason. Debts that never completely disappeared.
Clare deserved the truth. But the thought of seeing fear replace the warmth in her eyes made Ryder’s stomach twist.
Neon from the bar across the street painted the apartment walls in shifting red and blue. Ryder sat trapped between the man he had been and the man Clare made him want to become.
He had no idea whether there was a bridge between the two. The answer arrived the next morning in the sound of motorcycle engines.
Ryder was crossing the small parking lot behind his apartment building when three Harleys rolled in and blocked his path. He recognized the engines before he recognized the riders.
Snake killed his bike first. He was the club’s sergeant-at-arms, a hard man with a weathered face and a graying beard.
Diesel and Crow stopped on either side of him. None of them looked happy.
“Been looking for you, Red,” Snake said, using Ryder’s old road name. “You’ve been scarce lately.” Ryder planted his feet.
“Been busy.” “Yeah, we heard.”
Diesel’s mouth curled. “Playing house with some single mom and her brats. That what you’re doing these days?”
The mention of Clare and the children made Ryder’s fists tighten. He kept his voice level.
“What I do with my time ain’t club business.” Snake dismounted.
His leather vest creaked as he came closer, the same patches visible on his chest that Ryder still had hanging upstairs. “Everything’s club business, brother. You know that.”