“I don’t want trouble,” Lucas muttered.
Victor looked at him steadily.
“Kid, the trouble already happened,” he said. “The difference now is that you’re not alone.”
The motorcycle club headquarters was nothing like Lucas imagined. It smelled like gasoline and leather, yes—but also coffee and hot soup. Old photographs covered the walls. A long wooden table sat in the middle of the room where people clearly shared meals.
They laid him gently on a couch while an older biker everyone called Doc examined his ribs.
“Nothing broken,” the man said gruffly. “But it’ll hurt like hell.”
Emily stayed beside Lucas the entire time.
“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked.
Lucas managed a small crooked smile.
“Feels like I lost a fight with a truck.”
She laughed nervously.
Victor stood nearby with his arms crossed, watching everything.
Finally he approached.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
Lucas looked down.
“Wherever I can.”
“I asked where you live,” Victor said. “Not where you survive.”
Lucas hesitated.
“Since my mom died… nowhere.”
Victor’s expression shifted slightly.
“And family?”
Lucas shook his head.
Emily looked at her father with pleading eyes.
Victor remained silent for a moment before sitting down across from the boy.