Broken Wings and Burning Roads

CHAPTER 9

Across the street. Just under the overhang of the liquor store next door. A shadow, shifting, lingering. Watching.

I couldn’t see a face. Just the faint red ember of a cigarette and the silhouette of someone leaning against the brick, too still to be casual.

My blood went ice cold.

Before I could think, a bang rocked the door.

"Sadie!" Lincoln’s voice. Loud. Urgent. Too loud.

I jumped, nearly tripped over the motel chair.

"Open up!"

"Go away!" I shouted, heart in my throat.

"Sadie, I’m not here to hurt you!"

I grabbed the lamp, the only real weapon I had. My voice cracked. "You banged on my door like you were about to bust it in!"

"I'm just trying to talk," he said through gritted teeth. "Look, I know you ran outta the diner after what Bob did. I just… I needed to know if he touched you."

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I laid the bastard out. Broke his face for what he said. You kicked him in the balls, didn’t you?”

“…Yeah.”

A pause.

“Good,” Lincoln muttered. “Asshole deserved worse.”

Silence.

“You came here because of that?” I asked slowly.

“What—did you think I came to finish the job?” he scoffed. “For f**k-sakes Sadie. No. I wanted to make sure you were okay. You left like your past was chasing you with a chainsaw.”

I swallowed. “It might be.”

That shadow was still out there.

But Lincoln’s voice cut through the static in my head again.

“You weren’t planning to stay here long, were you?”

I sighed. “I quit the job. I got no money. No reason to stay in this town. Doesn’t take a genius.”

He hesitated. Then knocked again—softer this time.

“Can you cook?”

I blinked at the door. “What?”

“I said—can you cook?”

“…Yeah. I love it. It’s the only thing I actually missed from my old life.”

Lincoln’s voice shifted—quieter now. Warmer. “I’ve got a clubhouse full of guys with the appetite of wolves and the cooking skills of raccoons. I need someone who can keep them fed and alive.”

I frowned. “You’re offering me a job? Just like that?”

“I’ll pay you more than fair. Cash. No questions.”

"And where would I even live? I’m not staying in this rat motel for long."

There was a short pause. Then he said:

“There’s a small cottage near the clubhouse. Cozy. Quiet. Private. It’s got a full kitchen. Safe as hell. It's yours if you want it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “…Is that your house?”

Silence.

“…Maybe.”

I laughed—actually laughed. A short, startled bark of disbelief.

“You’re a terrible liar, Lincoln.”

“Yeah, well. I’m better at punching people and offering second chances.”

I rested my hand on the doorknob. Still not sure. Still afraid of shadows.

But then I heard another long inhale from that cigarette outside.

And I realized I wasn’t just afraid.

I was being hunted.

My fingers turned the lock.

“Get your s**t,” I told her, nodding toward the door.

She blinked at me, like she was expecting me to change my mind. Or vanish. Or maybe like she was still waiting for the catch.

“I don’t have much,” she murmured.

She wasn’t kidding. Ten minutes later, she came out with a worn duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a hoodie knotted around her waist. That was it. No suitcase. No makeup bag. No second trip.

My stomach twisted.

Something about seeing a woman carry her entire life in a single bag punched harder than any bar fight.

But I didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Because I was already helping her.

I couldn’t give her everything—not when I didn’t even know what she was running from. But I could give her safety. Space. A clean slate.

And a goddamn job.

“Get on,” I said, tossing her a helmet.

She climbed on behind me, her arms hesitating for half a second before wrapping around my middle.

And f**k—I was not prepared for the way her body molded against mine.

Soft. Warm. Pressed tight with that hesitant desperation like she didn’t want to fall again—not off the bike, not in life.

I gritted my teeth, jaw tight.

Her hands gripped my waist and every bump in the road just made things worse. Or better. Depending how you looked at it.

She had no idea what she was doing to me.

The cottage sat back behind the clubhouse, flanked by thick woods and a fence line tall enough to keep wolves—or worse—out. It was cozy. Modest. Clean.