FOUR LEATHER, BLOOD, AND GENTLE THINGS
1133 Words
Chapter Four: Leather, Blood, and Gentle Things
Dominic – Then Amara
---
The clubhouse was quiet for once. A rare thing.
Dominic “Blaze” Carter leaned against the bar counter inside the Iron Vultures’ private HQ, sipping black coffee from a chipped mug that still bore his late mother’s cursive initials—D.C. Not for Dominic Carter, but Delilah Carter—the woman who had raised him to believe that no matter how hard the world tried to twist you, you could always choose who you became.
“Penny for your thoughts?” came a low voice.
He looked up to see Jace, his half-brother, lounging in one of the booths, a toothpick dancing between his teeth. Jace had the same dark eyes but none of the patience. Or peace.
Dominic grunted. “Thought I told you not to interrupt when I’m meditating.”
“You’re drinking burnt coffee in silence.”
“Same thing.”
Jace smirked, but something about it didn’t reach his eyes. “Heard you were at the school thing.”
Dominic didn’t answer.
“The festival. You rode in like a bat outta hell. Thought you hated all that ‘wholesome townie’ crap.”
He sipped his coffee. “Maddy’s in third grade. She asked me to come.”
Jace raised a brow. “And that the only reason?”
Dominic didn’t flinch. He never did. But images flickered in his head—of warm brown skin and soft curls, of wide, guarded eyes and a voice that wrapped around him like silk.
Amara.
She was unlike anyone he’d met in a long time.
No fake smiles.
No pretenses.
No fear.
Just quiet fire. Controlled. Powerful. Waiting for the right match.
“She’s pretty,” Jace added casually. “That new girl. The one with the little girl and the don’t-you-dare-talk-to-me face.”
Dominic shot him a look. “Don’t even think about it.”
Jace lifted his hands in surrender. “Hey, I value my life.”
---
Later that night, Dominic visited his father.
Douglas Carter had once been a giant of a man—Marine, biker, and the founder of the Iron Vultures before age and grief clipped his wings. Now he sat in a wheelchair, leg gone from a failed job turned betrayal.
The old man was staring out the window of the nursing home, watching the world forget about him.
“You came,” Douglas muttered.
“Like every Wednesday.”
A grunt. “You bring whiskey?”
Dominic held up a hidden flask. “Like every Wednesday.”
They shared it in silence for a while, the kind that only family can sit in without needing to fill.
“You still running the Vultures?”
“Someone’s got to.”
“You turn ‘em soft yet? Tell me you’re not doing bake sales.”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “I went to my niece’s school festival.”
His father’s eyes twitched. “Hmph. Bet you wore pastels.”
But underneath the gruff sarcasm, there was pride.
Douglas never said it aloud, but Dominic knew. He was the only one who had kept the club from rotting. Kept the brothers in line. Balanced the chaos with a steady hand.
“You’re doing good, Dom,” Douglas finally said. “Don’t let my old ways ruin your new ones.”
It was the closest to “I love you” his father would ever say. He took it.
---
Back at the compound, Dominic retreated to his private garage—a hidden sanctuary of polished chrome, vintage bikes, and memories he didn’t share. On the far wall was a photo of his mother, holding baby Jace and a much-younger him.
Delilah had died of cancer when he was twenty. She never got to see the man he became. But he tried, every day, to be someone she could’ve been proud of. Even while leading a motorcycle club.
He wasn't perfect. Far from it. He had blood on his hands, secrets buried so deep they’d never breathe again. But when he knelt to talk to a scared little girl at the Fall Festival, calling her Little Star, he remembered what it felt like to be gentle. To matter.
And he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Amara since.
---
Amara’s house – A week later
The note was simple: “Parent-Teacher Art Night. Come see what your child has created!”
Amara folded it and smiled.
Eliana had been buzzing about it for days, hinting in not-so-subtle ways.
“You are coming, right?”
“Even if there’s a lot of parents?”
“Even if… HE might be there?”
She had blushed when she said “he.” Eliana had a bit of a hero complex ever since Blaze told her she was a star.
Amara had laughed it off.
But part of her hoped he would be there.
---
She wore a navy dress—nothing fancy, but it hugged her figure nicely and felt like something that said “I’m rebuilding, but still worthy.”
The school gym had been transformed with string lights, poster boards of crayon artwork, and small folding tables where kids pointed proudly to their work.
Eliana’s section had a large paper tree with fingerprints as leaves, each labeled with “What Makes Me Strong.”
Hers said: “My mommy. She’s strong like a superhero. And she makes the best pancakes.”
Amara teared up, quietly.
“Looks like she gets her strength honestly.”
She turned—and there he was.
Dominic. In a button-up black shirt (shockingly clean), jeans, and boots. No leather today. No club patch. Just a man with a smirk and eyes that made her forget where she was.
“You came,” she said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I figured… art night isn’t exactly biker territory.”
He chuckled. “My niece begged. And threatened to withhold hugs.”
Amara smiled, then pointed at Eliana’s paper.
“She called me a superhero.”
“Sounds accurate.”
Their eyes held for a second.
Then—
“Dom!” a small girl called from across the gym.
“That’s my cue,” he said. “But… hey—can I buy you a coffee sometime?”
Amara blinked.
“Just coffee,” he added. “No pressure. Just two people. Talking. With caffeine.”
She paused.
Then smiled.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
---
As the night ended, Amara watched him walk away, helping his niece pack up her artwork with careful hands.
Something stirred in her chest again.
Not panic.
Not danger.
Just warmth.
And maybe the beginning of something she wasn’t ready for—but might be brave enough to try.
- Writer
