The Biker’s Obsession

Ryder: The first thing I learned about love was that it always came with conditions. The second was that people who claimed to love you were usually the ones who knew exactly where to put the knife. I learned both lessons before I turned ten. Twenty-four years of living hadn't convinced me otherwise. "You're going to burn a hole through that window if you keep staring at it." I didn't look up from the glass of whiskey in my hand. "Then stop talking. I'm trying to concentrate." Bella laughed from somewhere behind me. That laugh. God, I hated that laugh. Not because it was ugly. It wasn't. It was the kind of laugh that slipped into a room before its owner did, warm and effortless, like the world had never given her a reason to be afraid of it. I hated that I could recognize it anywhere. I hated that even now, with my back turned, I could picture the exact way her nose scrunched when something genuinely amused her. And I hated myself most for noticing. "You're concentrating on an empty garden, Ryder." "I'm appreciating the silence." "Then you're doing a terrible job. You're the one making it unbearable." I turned. Bella stood at the kitchen island wearing an oversized cream sweater, tiny gold earrings, and the expression of someone who had been waiting all day for an opportunity to annoy me. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder. She had a mug between her hands, and there was a little smudge of flour on her cheek. Flour. I glanced at the counter. "What did you do?" Her eyebrows lifted. "Good evening to you too." "Why does the kitchen look like a bakery exploded?" "I made cookies." "Congratulations." "They're for you." My fingers tightened around the glass. Of course they were. Bella had this infuriating habit of remembering things I wished she'd forgotten. She remembered how I took my coffee, which foods I avoided, and the fact that I preferred chocolate chip cookies slightly underbaked. She remembered the boy I had been before I learned how to make sure nobody got close enough to hurt him. Sometimes I wondered if she was deliberately trying to make my life difficult. Other times, I wondered what would happen if I stopped fighting her long enough to find out what she actually wanted from me. I never allowed myself to explore the second thought. "Keep them," I said. Her smile faltered. It was tiny. A barely noticeable thing. But I saw it. I always saw it. "Right." She set her mug down. "I forgot you don't eat things made with affection. Terrible ingredient, apparently." "Now you're learning." She stared at me for a second. Then she laughed again, except this time there was nothing warm about it. "You're such an asshole." "Yet here you are." The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Something changed in her face. Not much. Just enough to make the air between us feel suddenly different. "Yes, Ryder," she said quietly. "Here I am." I looked away first. Coward. The word came from somewhere deep inside me, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like my own. I took another drink. Bella picked up her mug and walked past me. The faint scent of vanilla followed her, and I found myself tracking her movement without meaning to. She stopped at the doorway. "Mrs. Reinfort called earlier." I said nothing. "She wanted to know if we've settled in properly. She said we should call if we need anything." "We have phones. We can call." "I know that." "Then why are you telling me?" "Because she asked about you." I looked at her. Bella's fingers tightened around the mug. "She wanted to know if you're happy here." A laugh escaped me. It wasn't a nice sound. "Happy?" "Yes. It's a word people use sometimes." "Tell her I'm alive. That should be enough." "Why do you do that?" "Do what?" "Make everything sound like a punishment?" I set my glass down. "Because I'm not interested in having this conversation." "Of course you aren't." "Then stop starting them." "Maybe stop giving me reasons to!" Her voice cracked on the last word. For one terrible second, neither of us moved. I stared at her, and all I could think about was how young she'd looked the first time I'd seen her at the orphanage. Four years old. Two uneven pigtails. A yellow dress that was too big for her. Tears running down her cheeks because she'd been left in a room full of strange children and didn't understand why nobody was coming back for her. I'd been seven. I remembered standing beside the doorway, watching her cry. I remembered how she'd looked at me when I offered her the only biscuit I'd managed to save from lunch. I remembered promising her that nobody would ever make her feel alone again. Children made stupid promises. They had no idea what the world would eventually turn them into. "Forget it," Bella muttered. She turned away. Something in me wanted to call her back. I wanted to ask why she'd been crying earlier when she thought I wasn't looking. I wanted to know whether she'd eaten properly today. I wanted to tell her the cookies probably smelled good and that I hadn't meant— Stop. I swallowed the words. "Close the door behind you," I said instead. She stopped. Her shoulders rose with a breath. When she turned around, her eyes were shining. "You know what your problem is, Ryder?" I leaned against the counter, forcing my expression into something indifferent. "Enlighten me." "You think if you hurt people before they can hurt you, you'll never have to feel anything." My stomach tightened. "And you think you know everything about me because we grew up together." "No." She shook her head. "I think I know enough to understand that the boy I loved would've hated the man standing in front of me." The room went silent. I couldn't move. She'd said it so naturally. The boy I loved. Not love. Loved. Past tense. It should have been a relief. Instead, something sharp twisted beneath my ribs. Bella blinked quickly, as though she regretted letting the words escape. "Forget I said that." She left before I could answer. I listened to her footsteps retreat down the hallway, followed by the soft click of her bedroom door. Then I stood in the kitchen for another minute, staring at nothing. The boy I loved. I poured the rest of my whiskey into the sink. It tasted like poison anyway. I was halfway down the stairs when my phone started vibrating. I didn't need to check the screen to know who it was. Some people had a talent for ruining your evening without even being in the same room. MATRON BRIDGET. I stared at her name until the call nearly ended. Then I answered. "Yes?" "Is that how you greet the woman who raised you?" Her voice was soft. It always was. Bridget never needed to shout. She'd learned a long time ago that a quiet voice could make a person lean closer, listen harder, and forget that they were allowed to walk away. "I'm busy." "Doing what?" "Living." A pause. Then she chuckled. "My difficult boy." I hated when she called me that. I hated it because part of me still wanted to hear something kind in it. "Have you been eating properly?" she asked. "You always forget when you're upset." "I'm not upset." "Of course not." The words were gentle. Almost affectionate. I gripped the railing. "Why are you calling, Bridget?" "Must I have a reason to check on you?" "No. But you usually do." Another pause. I could almost see her sitting in her office at the orphanage, her hands folded neatly on the desk, her expression arranged into that familiar picture of concern. Bridget had been there when I arrived at four, too young to understand why the adults who brought me in didn't stay. She'd been the one who held my hand when I woke screaming during the night. The one who taught me to stop crying because crying changed nothing. For years, I'd believed she was the only person who truly understood me. It took me much longer to realize how carefully she'd taught me to need her. "Have you and Bella adjusted to your new home?" she asked. I glanced toward the staircase leading to Bella's room. "Fine." "You're getting along?" "We're not children anymore." "I know, Ryder. I watched you grow up." There it was. That familiar weight settling over my shoulders. "I remember when you couldn't sleep without someone sitting beside your bed," she continued. "You were such a frightened little boy." "I'm not that boy anymore." "No." Her voice softened further. "You've become strong. I've always been proud of that." For a stupid, humiliating moment, I felt something loosen inside my chest. Then she spoke again. "Just remember what I taught you. People will always want something from you. The moment you let them into your heart, they discover where to hurt you." My jaw clenched. "Goodnight, Bridget." "Ryder?" I closed my eyes. "What?" "Don't let that girl confuse you. You've worked too hard to become the man you are." I ended the call. My hand was shaking. I hated that too. I hated the fact that a few sentences from a woman hundreds of miles away could still turn me into that little boy sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, waiting for someone to tell him what to feel. I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed outside. The evening air hit my face. Good. I needed something cold enough to drown out the noise in my head. My motorcycle stood beneath the garage lights, black paint gleaming under the fluorescent bulbs. The Reinforts had surprised me with it shortly after we arrived. A customized machine, powerful engine, everything I'd ever wanted in a bike. Mr. Reinfort had grinned when he handed me the keys. "Something tells me you'll appreciate this more than a fancy car." I'd thanked him. I'd even smiled. Then I'd taken the bike out alone and ridden until I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that free. I climbed on now, pulled on my gloves, and started the engine. The rumble vibrated through my chest. For the first time that evening, I could breathe. I rode without a destination, cutting through streets I hadn't explored and leaving the comfortable neighborhood behind. The buildings grew older. The roads rougher. Music spilled from bars, and groups of men gathered outside shops with their cigarettes and bottles. Nobody knew me here. Nobody knew about Bridget. Nobody knew about the promises I'd made as a child or the girl upstairs who had just admitted she'd loved me. I could be nobody. I could be anyone. A sign flashed past on my left, half-hidden behind a row of parked cars. IRON VULTURES MC — MEMBERS ONLY. I slowed. The building behind the sign looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a clubhouse. Motorcycles lined the front, their chrome catching the streetlights. Music thumped behind the closed doors, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional shout. A man stood outside with his arms crossed over his chest. Broad shoulders. Shaved head. Leather vest. He watched me approach. I stopped a few feet away and killed the engine. His gaze travelled from my bike to my face. "You're lost?" I pulled off my helmet. "Do I look lost?" He smiled without humor. "You look like somebody who's never been told to mind his own business." "Then maybe you should be the first." He stared at me. I stared back. For a moment, I thought he might tell me to get lost. Instead, he laughed. "What's your name, pretty boy?" "Ryder." "Just Ryder?" "Do you need my birth certificate?" His grin widened. "You're going to be a pain in the ass." "People keep telling me that." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. "Come inside, then. Let's see if you've got anything besides that mouth." I looked through the open doorway. Men crowded around a battered pool table. Someone was arguing over a football match on the television. A woman laughed near the bar. Two bikers stood beside a motorcycle, debating something beneath the harsh overhead lights. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't polished. It was loud, rough, and alive. And for reasons I couldn't explain, I wanted to stay. I put my helmet beneath my arm and walked toward the door. I had no idea that the moment I stepped inside, I was entering a world that would give me brothers, teach me how to fight, and make me question everything I believed about loyalty. I had no idea that somewhere in the city, a woman who had spent twenty years shaping my fears would eventually hear about this place. All I knew was that I needed somewhere to put my anger. Somewhere to silence my thoughts. Somewhere I didn't have to feel anything. I thought I'd found it. I was wrong. Because the first thing I noticed when I stepped into the clubhouse wasn't the music, the liquor, or the men watching me. It was the enormous black-and-white photograph hanging behind the bar. A younger Bridget stood beside a group of bikers, one hand resting on the shoulder of a man wearing the same patch as the president who had just invited me inside. And beneath the photograph, someone had written three words in silver paint. FAMILY NEVER FORGETS. My stomach turned. I stared at the photograph, suddenly aware of the stranger standing beside me. "Something wrong, Ryder?" I forced my eyes away. "No." The man clapped a heavy hand against my shoulder. "Good. Welcome to the Iron Vultures." And somewhere deep inside me, the little boy Bridget had raised began to feel afraid. Not because I'd found a dangerous place. But because, for the first time in years, I had the horrible feeling that she'd known exactly where I'd end up.