My Savage Savior: Biker Saint

What's Your Story?

Kat had left about an hour ago, the buzz of the bar slowly fading with her departure. Now, it was just a handful of people, the usual late-night crowd nursing their drinks as the clock ticked closer to 12:30.

I gave the last call, moving through the bar, serving the last of the drinks, trying to ignore the exhaustion that was pulling at my bones. I finished handing out the last beer from my tray when I spotted him again—the biker at the end of the bar.

He’d been sitting there all night, quiet, minding his own business, but his presence had been there, like a weight in the corner of the room. I thought I felt him looking at me a couple times, but every time I looked up he was staring into his glass, like it was something interesting.

I threw my rag over my shoulder and made my way toward him. He hadn’t been much trouble. Just there. Stoic.

“Any last request?” I asked, trying to make it sound casual.

He looked up at me, his blue eyes sharp, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Yeah, have one with me.”

I paused for a moment, unsure. I didn’t drink at work, but tonight had been a mess. It had been a long week, full of things I didn’t want to think about.

“f**k it,” I muttered to myself, setting my glass down in front of him. “Yeah, I’ll have one.”

I filled up his glass, then grabbed one for myself.

I lifted it to my lips, and the burn of the whiskey hit my throat, harsh but strangely soothing. It was the warmth I needed, something to take the edge off.

“So,” he started, his voice low, as if he was choosing his words carefully, “What’s your story?”

I blinked, taken off guard by the question. My story? What story?

“I don’t have a story,” I replied, swallowing the burn of the whiskey, feeling it spread through me.

He raised an eyebrow, not convinced. “Everyone has a story,” he said, his gaze never leaving me. It felt like he was seeing straight through me, digging deeper than I wanted.

I looked away, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass. He was right, I guess. Everyone did have a story. But mine? Mine was a mess. It wasn’t one I was ready to share with a stranger, no matter how easy the whiskey made it feel to forget for a while.

I took another sip, trying to push the thoughts away.

“What’s your story?” I countered, hoping to shift the attention away from mine.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth curling upward as he leaned back in his seat. “My story?” he repeated, a low chuckle escaping his lips. “I’m easy.”

He took a deep breath, as if he was sorting through the words in his head, before continuing. “My name is Carter, but everyone calls me Saint. I run a bike shop at the edge of town during the day. I’m the president of the Savage Saviors. And when I’m not working, I’m riding. That’s it. That’s me.”

He finished with a small grin, but it was the way he leaned closer that caught me off guard. His presence filled the space between us, and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Goosebumps prickled my skin involuntarily. It was almost like the air around us had thickened, and for a moment, it was just him and me.

"Now you."

I couldn’t help it—I cleared my throat, trying to find my words.

“Umm…” I hesitated, staring down into my glass before lifting my eyes to meet his. “My name is Shay. I was going to school to be a nurse before… before I moved here with my boyfriend. It’s closer to the base hospital he goes to for surgeries.” I trailed off for a second, my fingers curling tighter around my drink. “I didn’t have much work experience and Tony took a chance on me, so… I’ve been working here.”

There. That was my story. Short, but enough to give him an answer without revealing too much. It wasn’t much—just a blur of past decisions and the strange path that led me here, trying to forget and survive.

Saint eyed me for a moment, his gaze sharp, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle. I could see the tension in his face, like he was holding something back. I could feel the weight of it.

He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but then he stopped. There was a shift in the air, and for a second, I wondered if I had said something that made him rethink whatever comment he was about to make.

The bar was quiet now, just the distant hum of the neon sign buzzing above, and the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears. No one else was left, and it felt like time had slowed down, like it was just the two of us in this small, dimly lit space.

I noticed how his gaze flicked around the room, taking in the emptiness. Then, without warning, he leaned over the counter, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me hold my breath. Slowly, he cast his gaze down to my lips, and before I could even think about stopping it, I felt my own lips purse, a slight movement I couldn’t control.

Then, with an almost deliberate slowness, he traced his finger along the edge of my busted lip. I couldn’t help but wince, but the act of him touching me—so close, so intimate—made something twist in my stomach.

He saw the flinch, and his voice dripped with something dark, almost venomous. “He the one that gave you this?”

I stepped back quickly, reaching for the bill on the counter, doing everything I could to keep my distance.

“That’s none of your business,” I snapped, the words harsh but necessary.

His eyes flashed—anger. It was cold. It was sharp. I could feel the icy stare even after I had turned away.

But I didn’t look back at him. I didn’t want to see the storm brewing in his expression. Instead, I grabbed the glasses, placing them in the washer, trying to focus on something—anything—to distract me.

I heard the scrape of his chair as he threw back his drink, the glass clinking sharply against the counter. Then the sound of him standing up, the rustle of cash being pulled from his wallet.

“That should cover it.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. I could almost feel the tension radiating off him as he tossed the bills onto the counter.

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to. Instead, I kept my back turned, trying to swallow the knot in my throat. The door slammed behind him with a heavy thud, breaking the silence, and only then did I allow myself to turn around.

On the counter, where he had been, lay a $100 bill and a business card.

I picked up the card, feeling the weight of it in my hand. The black ink was clean and crisp. The motorcycle club emblem was bold, and beneath it, it read:

Carter 'Saint' Wilde

President of Savage Saviors MC

867-495-8439

I stared at it for a long moment, my fingers tracing the edges of the card, trying to make sense of everything. The anger in his eyes. The weight of the silence between us. And the way my heart had raced when he got too close.

I didn’t know what to make of it, but something told me that card wasn’t just a tip. It was an invitation—one that I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept.