Page 5 of The Biker Bodyguard
The air smells like burnt toast and the honeysuckle candle I lit to pretend everything feels normal. Outside my window the ocean whispers against the shore. Waves slap the rocks in steady rhythm. But tonight that sound feels different. Less soothing. More like something hiding between each crash. I shake my head hard enough to make my brain rattle.
Stop it, Tia. You’re not the main character in a spy movie. You’re the girl who once apologized to a vending machine for taking the last bag of Cheetos.
I giggle at my own ridiculous thought. The sound bounces off the yellow walls I painted myself last summer. Bright and sunny like I could chase away every shadow with color. My feet pad across the cool tile as I move to the window. The glass feels cold against my fingertips. Streetlights cast long orange pools on the empty road below. A car passes slowly. Too slowly. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with the leftover pizza I ate for dinner.
Okay brain. We’re not doing the paranoid thing tonight. Maybe it’s just a lost tourist. Or a tourist driving a stolen golf cart. That could happen in the Keys, right? I mean, tourists do weird things all the time.
I press my forehead to the glass. My breath fogs a small circle. The feeling returns stronger. That heavy watchful pressure between my shoulder blades. Like invisible fingers tracing my spine. I whirl around fast. Nothing there but my sad little couch covered in throw pillows shaped like sea creatures. Mr. Octopus stares back at me with one button eye missing. I hug him anyway because sometimes a girl needs eight arms of emotional support.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Dad. The screen glows soft in the dim light. I swipe to answer with my pinky because my hands feel shaky.
“Hey Dad. Calling to remind me I need more vegetables in my life or is this the weekly check in on whether I’ve been kidnapped by pirates yet?”
His voice comes through rough. Tired in a way that makes my chest squeeze. “Tia. Listen to me. Pack a bag. Now. Something’s wrong.”
The playfulness drains out of me like water down a sink. “What do you mean something’s wrong? Is this about the weird cars I keep seeing or are we finally acknowledging that my apartment building has a suspicious number of men in dark sunglasses?”
He doesn’t laugh. Dad never laughs when it matters. “I’m coming to get you. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Donotopen them for anyone but me.”
The line goes dead before I can ask more questions. I stand there holding the phone to my ear like an idiot. My heart thumps wild against my ribs. The honeysuckle candle suddenly smells too sweet. Almost sickening. I blow it out fast. The smoke curls up in lazy gray ribbons. My hands tremble as I shove clothes into my favorite backpack. The one with the cartoon kraken on it wearing sunglasses. I thought it was funny when I bought it. Now the tentacles feel like a bad omen.
Great job, universe. Send the girl who names her houseplants after 90s boy band members into actual danger. At least let me meet a hot mysterious man before I die. Preferably one who looks like he could bench press a yacht but also appreciates good puns.
I zip the bag and peek out the window again. Another car creeps past. This one has no lights. My pulse spikes. I back away from the glass and trip over my own feet. I twist my ankle, and I scream out in pain.
“Ow. Okay. Note to self. Graceful exits are for romcom heroines. I’m clearly the comic relief who dies first in horror movies.”
Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Dad’s old truck rumbles into view. Relief floods through me so strong my knees almost buckle. I grab my backpack and bolt outside. The nightair hits humid and thick. It carries the smell of mangrove mud and distant rain. My shoes slap against wet pavement as I hobble to him.
Dad looks older under the streetlight. Deep shadows under his eyes. His hands grip the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Get in. Quick.”
I climb into the passenger seat. The truck smells like him. “Dad. You’re scaring me. What’s going on? Is this about the signals I’ve been tracking? Because I thought I was just being my usual paranoid self but now I’m thinking maybe not?”
He pulls out fast. Tires squeal on the damp road. “Someone’s been watching you. For weeks. I thought distance would keep you safe but it didn’t work. I need to take you somewhere they can’t fucking reach you.”
The truck bounces over potholes. Each jolt sends pain shooting through my ankle. I clutch the backpack in my lap. My fingers trace the cartoon kraken’s sunglasses. “Somewhere like... witness protection? Or that underground bunker you used to joke about building?”
“Somewhere with protection that actually works.” His voice sounds gravelly. “The Royal Bastards.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “The motorcycle club? Dad. Those guys are dangerous. I read romance novels about them. The heroes are always ridiculously hot but also emotionally unavailable and covered in scars. Wait. Is this real life? Am I about to meet actual scary bikers who might grunt instead of using full sentences?”
He doesn’t smile. The truck speeds through the night. The ocean glimmers on our right. Moonlight paints silver streaks acrossblack water. My mind races with ridiculous thoughts to keep the fear at bay.
What if the president has a secret soft spot for girls who collect succulents and talk to their houseplants? What if he looks like sin wrapped in leather and I accidentally say something dorky like “nice chrome” instead of running for my life?
We drive for what feels like hours. The road narrows. Bridges stretch over dark water. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat. Dad stays quiet. His jaw stays locked. The silence feels heavier than the humidity pressing against the windows.
By the time we reach the Key West compound my nerves have twisted into excited little knots. The gates loom tall. Razor wire glints under harsh floodlights. Men with guns and hard faces stand watch. My stomach does a somersault that feels suspiciously like butterflies.
Okay heart. We’re not thirsting after dangerous criminals right now. Even if they do have really nice arms.
Dad talks to the man at the gate. Voices rumble low. The gates creak open. We drive inside. Engines idle nearby. Men mill around the lot. Their cuts look worn and dangerous under the lights. Tattoos snake down arms thick with muscle. I sink lower in my seat but peek out anyway. Curiosity always wins with me.
Dad parks near the main building. “Stay close. Don’t talk too much. These men don’t do cute.”
I snort. “Define cute. Because I once introduced myself to a stranger by telling him my goldfish’s entire backstory. I can’t promise anything.”
He gives me a look that says he regrets every life choice that led to this moment. We climb out. My injured ankle protests with sharp pain. I limp after him trying to look dignified. The air feels charged. Heavy with testosterone and the metallic tang of guns. Music thumps low from inside the clubhouse. Bass I feel in my chest. We push through the doors.
