But I'm still standing. Still between this piece of shit and the woman with the dog.
The woman whose name I don't even know.
The engines get louder, closer, and I watch the greasy-haired bastard's eyes go wide. He knows what's coming. Hell, I know what's coming, even if I don't know the specifics. That's the sound of a motorcycle club rolling up, and nobody makes that much noise unless they own the territory.
Which means I've just inserted myself into someone else's business without knowing whose business it is.
Story of my goddamn life.
"This ain't over," greasy-hair spits, backing away from me. His two friends are struggling to their feet, one still wheezing, the other cradling what's probably a broken nose.
"Yeah, it is," I say, but I don't have the energy to put much force behind it. I'm running on empty, have been for the last fifty miles. Maya and I should have stopped two towns ago, found a motel, gotten some sleep. But I kept pushing, keptriding, because stopping means thinking and thinking means remembering and remembering means—
The motorcycles round the corner.
Five of them. Big bikes, clean but well-used, ridden by men who know what they're doing. They pull up in a semicircle, engines cutting one by one until the sudden silence feels almost as loud as the noise was.
I don't run. I don't back down. I stand there over the woman. I still don't know her name, still don't need to, and wait to see how this plays out.
The man who climbs off the lead bike is older than me by maybe a decade, graying at the temples, wearing a cut that says "SAVAGE RIDERS MC" across the back and "PRESIDENT" on the front. King patch on his chest. He's got the look of someone who's seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time.
His eyes scan the scene. The three men trying to look tough and failing, me standing there bleeding, the woman behind me with her dog pressed against her legs.
"Torch," the President says, not looking away from me. "Get the lady home safe."
A younger guy, maybe early thirties, tattoos covering one arm, nods and moves toward the woman. She doesn't protest, just lets him guide her past me, the dog following close. I catch her eyes for half a second as she passes.
Dark eyes. Scared but not broken. Grateful but confused. Then she's gone, and I'm alone with five Savage Riders and three assholes who picked the wrong woman to mess with.
"You boys passing through?" the President asks the three men, his voice deceptively mild. "Or are you genuinely stupid enough to think you can pull this shit in my town?"
"We didn't know—" greasy-hair starts.
"Don't care." The President's voice doesn't rise, doesn't change tone at all. Somehow that makes it worse. "You've got thirty seconds to get in whatever piece of shit car you drove here, and then you've got until sunrise to be out of Blackwater Falls. If I see your faces again, if I hear about you bothering anyone in my town again, we're going to have a very different conversation."
They run. All three of them, stumbling over each other in their hurry to get away. I watch them go, then turn my attention back to the MC.
Five sets of eyes on me now. Assessing. Calculating. Wondering what my deal is, whether I'm a problem or just passing through myself.
The President stares at me for a brief moment. "You got a name?"
"Carter Blake." I don't offer more. Don't mention the road name I used to go by, the patch I used to wear. That's history, and history is exactly what I'm trying to leave behind.
"King," he says, jerking his chin at himself. Then he points to the others. "That's Tank, my VP. Beast, Steel, Shadow. You already saw Torch."
I nod. Don't offer to shake hands. My knuckles are bleeding and my whole body feels like one giant bruise.
"You always make a habit of jumping into other people's fights?" King asks.
"When it's three on one and the one is a woman walking her dog? Yeah."
Something flickers in King's expression. Not quite approval, but close. "You fight decent for someone who looks like he hasn't slept in a week."
"Thanks, I think."
"Where you headed, Carter Blake?"
It's the question I've been asking myself for the last six months. "Nowhere specific."