My Savage Savior: Biker Saint

Shay The engine of my old car sputters as I pull into the parking lot of our run-down apartment complex. The glow of the streetlamp flickers above, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. I grip the plastic bag in the passenger seat—Shawn’s cigarettes. He’d called me earlier, slurring his words, demanding I stop on my way home. I didn’t argue. It’s easier that way. I step out and sling my purse over my shoulder, fumbling in the dark to dig out my keys. The metal staircase groans beneath my weight as I make my way up to our second-floor unit. I pause for a moment outside the door, inhaling deeply, bracing myself. I never know what to expect. Then, I finally push it open. The stench of stale beer and sweat hits me first. Shawn is sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling off the side, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. An empty bottle teeters on the coffee table next to an overflowing ashtray. His once clean-cut jawline is now hidden beneath an overgrown beard, and his muscular frame has softened, the start of a beer gut pressing against his old military-issued t-shirt. I set the cigarettes on the counter without a word. He doesn’t stir. Good. I slip into our bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me. The bare lightbulb dangles from the ceiling. I tug the wobbly chain, and the harsh yellow light flickers to life. The cover is missing—shattered in Shawn’s last fit of rage. My stomach twists at the memory, the way his voice had turned venomous, his hands gripping too tight. I peel off my work clothes, wincing as my sleeve brushes against my arm. The bruise is already darkening—a sick shade of purple blooming beneath my skin. I swallow down the lump in my throat and grab a long, thin black sweater from the closet. The sleeves are just enough to hide the evidence. Paired with my flare-leg jeans, it’s enough to make me feel normal, at least for tonight. I slip on my clothes while my mind drifts somewhere else. Somewhere I try not to go too often. Back to when things were good. Shawn was my high school sweetheart. The boy with the easy smile and the confident stride. The one who made me feel safe, like we had the whole world ahead of us. We got engaged right after graduation, young and in love, convinced that nothing could break us. That summer, he enlisted, and I stood by him, proud and terrified all at once. His first deployment changed everything, though. He was on his very first mission. He had called me the night before to tell me. I was so scared, but he said everything would be okay. That day, they were fighting some rogue enemies. One threw a grenade and it went off near him. He survived, but his leg was shattered, and his body was riddled with shrapnel. Months of surgeries, painkillers, and physical therapy followed. But the worst damage wasn’t the kind that could be seen on an X-ray. When he finally came home, he wasn’t him anymore. The light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something sharp and distant. The man who used to pull me into his arms and swear we’d take on the world together barely looked at me now. He drank to numb the pain, to silence whatever demons followed him home. And when the alcohol wasn’t enough, the anger took over. I shake my head, trying to push the memories away. I smooth back my bleach blonde hair into a high pony, swipe some concealer under my tired blue eyes, blend out the exhaustion, and fix my smudged eyeliner. The mirror reflects a girl I barely recognize—someone who has learned to move in silence, to avoid waking the beast that now sleeps on our couch. I slip out the door, quiet as a whisper, before Shawn even realizes I was here. I pull into the nearly empty lot of the bar, the neon sign buzzing faintly above the entrance. At least it looks like it’ll be a slow night. I kill the engine and lean back for a moment, rubbing my temples. My body already aches from the long shift at the diner, my feet sore from hours of running plates and refilling coffee cups. But there’s no time to rest. No with the bills piling up daily on the side table. The words "LATE" boldly printing in bright red seeming to mock her. Pushing open the car door, I step into the cool night air and head inside, the familiar scent of whiskey and stale smoke wrapping around me. Tony, the owner, stands behind the bar, a rag in one hand and a glass in the other, his usual routine. He glances up as I tie my apron around my waist. “I thought you were coming in at five?” he asks, his thick brows pulling together. I wince. “I know, I’m sorry. The diner needed me for another thirty minutes.” Tony exhales through his nose, but there’s no real anger in his expression. Just something softer—understanding. “It’s fine, kid. Don’t worry about it.” He tosses the rag onto the counter and grabs his keys. “You got it from here?” “Yeah,” I nod. “Have a good night.” He pats the counter twice before heading out, the front door creaking shut behind him. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. The silence of the bar stretches around me. No rowdy crowds yet, no booming laughter or clinking glasses. Just the low hum of a country song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. I take a moment to just be, leaning against the counter, letting the exhaustion settle before the night picks up. Then, with a deep breath, I push off the bar and get to work.