Claimed By My Biker Stalker

Chapter 2 — On Thursdays We Wear Concealer

Jonnie Jo

I woke before my alarm with my jaw throbbing.

For a few seconds I stayed still beneath the blankets, listening to the quiet house around me. No slammed cabinets. No muttered swearing from the kitchen.

Not in a mood yet.

The thought slid through my head automatically, the same way people checked the weather before leaving the house.

Today was Thursday. Thursday meant Millie.

Twenty minutes once a week in a diner off the north highway, supervised by Havoc and his club brothers like I was some kind of criminal earning visitation privileges instead of a mother trying to see her child.

Twenty minutes to memorize her face all over again before they took her away.

I pushed myself upright slowly and crossed the bedroom toward the mirror hanging beside the dresser.

The bruise along my jaw had darkened overnight into deep purple and blue, stretching faintly toward my cheek beneath the skin.

I pulled on a black long-sleeved shirt before heading into the bathroom and flipping on the vanity light.

The woman staring back at me looked like someone people mistook for strong.

Long black hair. Tattoos disappearing beneath my sleeves. Pale blue eyes sharpened darker by exhaustion and leftover eyeliner. Piercings. Ink. Resting b***h face perfected by years of trying not to look afraid.

Clients called me intimidating.

Women complimented my confidence constantly. Confidence was just another costume if you wore it long enough.

I opened the makeup drawer and reached for the heavy concealer palette I kept specifically for days like this.

The bruise looked worse beneath the bright bathroom light.

I worked slowly, blending color correction over the darker marks until they faded enough to pass from a distance. Up close, anybody would still know. But maybe Millie wouldn’t study my face too hard today.

Maybe she’d get to be a little girl for twenty minutes instead of a witness.

My hand stilled briefly around the makeup sponge.

There had been a time when Thursdays were just Thursdays.

Before Havoc started measuring my life in permissions, Millie used to wake me up by climbing into bed with cold feet and tangled curls demanding pancakes before school. She used to sit at the tattoo shop after school with giant headphones on while coloring crooked little flash designs across printer paper.

Purple snakes.

Winged cats.

Glitter-covered roses.

Kinsley used to sneak her candy from the front counter when she thought I wasn’t looking.

The memory hit sharply enough that I had to look away from the mirror.

Kinsley had known.

She’d held ice against bruises before. She’d watched me shake apart after fights with Havoc. She knew exactly what kind of man he was.

And she still let him touch her anyway.

I shoved the thought away before it could root too deeply. Thinking too much was dangerous.

Desperation was what got me hurt the first time.

The thin scar above my eyebrow caught the bathroom light as I leaned closer to fix my mascara.

That scar had once split open badly enough to pour blood into my eye while Millie screamed somewhere behind me.

I had planned the escape for months.

Every extra dollar from the tattoo shop went into the envelope hidden beneath the bathroom floorboard. Burner phones. Spare clothes. A tiny apartment rented under a fake name forty minutes outside North Town.

The morning I finally ran, I waited until Havoc left for a club ride before I started packing. Millie thought we were going on an adventure.

We were ten minutes from leaving when Havoc came home early.

Some memories softened with time.

That one never did.

I still remembered the front door opening. Millie’s frightened little gasp. Havoc staring at the packed bags before looking at me with a silence so complete it felt like the whole house stopped breathing.

After that, everything became impact.

The kitchen floor against my cheek.

Millie screaming.

Blood slick beneath my hands while I tried to crawl toward her.

The worst part wasn’t even the pain.

It was realizing I couldn’t get to my daughter.

She was only a few feet away, crying so hard she could barely breathe, and I still couldn’t reach her.

I woke up four days later in the hospital.

My ribs were wrapped. My head throbbed so badly I could barely open my eyes. Havoc sat beside the bed eating vending machine pretzels like he was waiting for a movie to start.

The first thing I asked for was Millie.

Havoc smiled.

“She’s safe.”

Safe.

That was all.

It took me almost an hour to realize safe didn’t mean with me.

I didn’t see Millie again for three weeks.

By the time Havoc finally allowed me twenty minutes with her, I would have crawled across broken glass for it.

Maybe I had.

A knock sounded against the bathroom doorframe.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

Havoc stood there in jeans and his Hell’s Fire cut, one shoulder braced against the frame while his eyes moved slowly over my face.

“Should’ve used more yellow under that,” he said.

I steadied my breathing before answering. “It’s covered.”

He stepped into the bathroom and turned my chin slightly with two fingers, narrowing his eyes as he inspected the makeup.

“Mostly,” he said. “Wear your hair down.”

“I was going to.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Don’t get an attitude today.”

I looked at his chest instead of his face. The Hell’s Fire patch sat over his heart, black and red thread stitched into leather. Once, that patch had made me feel protected. I’d been fifteen, pregnant, and sleeping in the back of a broken-down car when Havoc found me. He was older, handsome, and kind in ways that felt miraculous back then. He bought me food. He gave me a place to sleep. He sat through doctor appointments when my own parents disowned me.

I mistook rescue for love. That mistake had cost me everything.

“I don’t have an attitude,” I said quietly.

“You had plenty last night, you’re lucky I’m letting you see her today.”

He leaned closer, filling the bathroom with cologne and heat. “You see Millie because I let you see Millie.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” His thumb brushed over the hidden bruise in a mockery of gentleness. “Because sometimes I think you forget how generous I am.”

Generous.

The word sat between us like something rotten.

He had taken my child, rationed her back to me twenty minutes at a time, and called it mercy.

I swallowed hard. “I know.”

“Then let’s go.”

Havoc drove.

The entire ride across town, I sat rigid in the passenger seat while two of his club brothers followed behind us on their bikes. Old rock music played softly through the speakers while Havoc drove one-handed like this was any normal Thursday instead of a scheduled reminder that my daughter only existed in my life through his permission.

I stared out the window because looking at him felt impossible after last night.

After Kinsley.

“You keep glaring like that,” Havoc said mildly, “people are gonna start thinking I hurt your feelings.”

I didn’t answer.

His hand settled heavily on my thigh.

Possessive.

Casual.

A warning.

“Fix your face before we go inside,” he murmured. “Don’t upset Millie with attitude.”

I swallowed hard enough to hurt.

“Yes, Havoc.”

He smiled faintly.

“Good girl.”

The diner came into view a few minutes later.

Faded red sign. Chipped white siding. Windows smudged with fingerprints and grease.

To anybody else, it probably looked forgettable.

To me, it looked like oxygen.

One of Havoc’s men was already waiting outside smoking a cigarette when we pulled into the parking lot.

Mack.

Tall. Bald. Gray beard. Built like a refrigerator.

He checked his watch as we got out of the car, then nodded once toward the entrance.

Right on time.

Like this was some kind of custody exchange instead of psychological torture.

Havoc’s hand settled against my lower back, steering me toward the door.

The diner smelled like coffee, grease, and old frying oil. Country music crackled softly through overhead speakers while red vinyl booths lined the windows.

Then I saw her.

Millie sat in the corner booth swinging her legs beneath the table while coloring on a kids menu with a broken green crayon.

The second she looked up and saw me, her entire face lit up.

“Mommy!”

The sound nearly broke me.

She launched herself out of the booth so fast the crayons scattered everywhere, and I barely caught her before she slammed into me hard enough to stumble backward.

Her little arms wrapped around my waist while she buried her face against my stomach.

And just like that, nothing else mattered anymore.