The Biker’s Obsession

Ryder The first thing I learned about love was that it came with conditions. The second was that the people who claimed to love you knew exactly where to hurt you. I learned both before I turned ten. Twenty-four years later, I still hadn’t found a reason to change my mind. “You’re going to burn a hole through that window.” I stared into my whiskey. “Then stop talking.” Bella laughed behind me. I knew that laugh. I’d recognize it in a crowded room, in the middle of a riot, probably on my deathbed. Unfortunately, recognizing it didn’t make me like hearing it. “You’re concentrating on an empty garden, Ryder.” “I’m appreciating the silence.” “You’re doing a terrible job.” I turned. She stood at the kitchen island in an oversized cream sweater, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. A mug rested between her hands. There was flour on her cheek. I glanced at the mess covering the counter. “What happened?” “I made cookies.” “Looks like you lost a fight with the kitchen.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re for you.” My fingers tightened around the glass. Chocolate chip. Slightly underbaked. Exactly how I liked them. She remembered everything. Even the things I wished she would forget. “Keep them.” Her smile slipped. Only for a second, but I caught it. “Right.” She picked up her mug. “I forgot affection was one of your allergies.” “Now you know.” She studied me before letting out a humourless laugh. “You’re such an asshole.” “Yet here you are.” Her expression changed. “Yes, Ryder. Here I am.” I looked away. She walked past me, carrying the cookies. The smell of vanilla followed her. “Mrs. Reinfort called earlier,” she said from the doorway. “She wanted to know if we’ve settled in.” “We’re fine.” “She asked if you’re happy.” A laugh escaped me. “Tell her I’m alive. That’s enough.” “Why do you do that?” “Do what?” “Make everything sound like a punishment?” I put down my glass. “Not tonight, Bella.” “Of course. Never tonight.” She turned away, but I saw her fingers tighten around the mug. Something in my chest shifted. I remembered a little girl in a yellow dress, crying in the orphanage doorway. I had been seven. She was four. I’d given her the biscuit I’d been saving for myself. She’d followed me around after that, as though one biscuit had made me responsible for her entire world. I’d promised her nobody would make her feel alone again. I hadn’t known promises could become so difficult to keep. “Forget it,” she muttered. “Close the door behind you.” She stopped. When she faced me again, her eyes were bright. “You know what your problem is?” I leaned against the counter. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.” “You hurt people before they get the chance to hurt you. And you act like that makes you strong.” My jaw tightened. “You don’t know everything about me.” “No. But I know the boy I loved would’ve hated the man standing in front of me.” The words landed harder than they should have. Loved. Past tense. She blinked, then looked away. “Forget I said that.” She left. I listened until her bedroom door clicked shut. The cookies remained on the counter. I picked one up, took a bite and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was soft in the middle, still warm. Exactly how I liked them. I threw the rest into the bin. My phone vibrated before I could leave the kitchen. MATRON BRIDGET. I stared at the screen before answering. “Yes?” “Is that how you greet the woman who raised you?” Her voice was gentle. It always was. “Why are you calling?” “Must I have a reason to check on my difficult boy?” I gripped the phone. “Don’t call me that.” A small pause. “Have you and Bella settled into your new home?” “Fine.” “Are you getting along?” “We’re not children anymore.” “I know. I watched you grow up.” I looked toward the hallway. Bridget had been there when I arrived at the orphanage. She’d held my hand when I woke screaming, sat beside my bed when I couldn’t sleep and taught me that tears changed nothing. I used to think that made her kind. “Do you remember what I taught you?” she asked. I said nothing. “People will always want something from you. The moment you let them into your heart, they discover where to hurt you.” My jaw flexed. “Goodnight, Bridget.” “Ryder?” I closed my eyes. “Don’t let that girl confuse you. You’ve worked too hard to become the man you are.” I ended the call. For several seconds, I stood there with the phone pressed against my palm. Then I grabbed my keys. The garage door rolled open, revealing the black motorcycle Mr. Reinfort had given me after we moved in. I’d thanked him. Smiled, even. Then I’d ridden until the house disappeared behind me. I needed that feeling again. The engine roared beneath me as I pulled onto the road. I left the quiet neighbourhood behind, riding through streets lined with bars, mechanic shops and buildings that had seen better days. Music spilled onto the pavements. Men smoked outside storefronts. Nobody looked twice at me. Good. I didn’t want to be known. I wanted somewhere I could exist without somebody asking what was wrong with me. A sign caught my attention. IRON VULTURES MC — MEMBERS ONLY. I slowed. Motorcycles lined the front of a warehouse-like building. Music thumped behind its doors, accompanied by laughter and raised voices. A broad-shouldered man in a leather vest stood outside. He watched me pull up. “You’re lost?” I removed my helmet. “Do I look lost?” His mouth twitched. “You look like somebody who’s never been told to mind his own business.” “Then you should try it first.” 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. “Come inside. Let’s see if you’ve got anything besides that mouth.” I looked through the doorway. Men crowded around a pool table. Someone argued with the television. Two bikers were bent over an engine, while a woman behind the bar laughed at something I couldn’t hear. It was rough, noisy and unapologetically alive. I liked it already. I parked my helmet beneath my arm and followed him inside. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the liquor or the men watching me. It was the photograph behind the bar. A younger Bridget stood beside several bikers, her hand resting on the shoulder of a man wearing a familiar club patch. I stopped. The man beside me followed my gaze. “You know her?” My eyes remained on the photograph. “Unfortunately.” He studied me for a moment, then looked back at the picture. “That’s a woman with a long history around here.” My stomach tightened. Beneath the photograph, three words had been painted in silver. FAMILY NEVER FORGETS. I looked away. “Something wrong, Ryder?” “No.” He clapped a heavy hand against my shoulder. “Welcome to the Iron Vultures.” I had come looking for somewhere to bury my anger. I hadn’t expected to find a piece of my past waiting behind the bar.