"Nowhere specific." King repeats it like he's tasting the words. "You running from something or toward something?"
"Neither. Just running."
That earns me a long look. King's been around long enough to know what that means, what it sounds like when a man is running from his own head.
"You got people?" he asks.
I think of Maya, still inside Murphy's Grill where I left her with the owner, playing with the crayons I always keep in my jacket pocket. My daughter. My whole world. The only good thing I've ever done.
"A four-year-old daughter," I say. "She's inside the grill."
That changes something. All five men react. Not much, just a slight shift in posture, a different look in their eyes. Fathers, I realize. Or at least men who understand what it means to be responsible for something more important than yourself.
"She saw the fight?" King asks, and there's an edge to his voice now.
"No. Told the owner to keep her inside. She's coloring."
"Smart." King glances at his VP—Tank, built like his name suggests, arms crossed over his chest. They seem to have some kind of silent conversation, the kind that happens when people have known each other long enough that words become optional.
Finally, King looks back at me. "You looking for work?"
I blink. Of all the directions I expected this conversation to go, that wasn't one of them. "What kind of work?"
"The kind where you use those hands for something other than beating up trash who can't take a hint." King tilts his head. "We run security for some local businesses. Protection. Making sure people like that woman can walk their dog without getting hassled."
"I'm not looking to patch in anywhere," I say immediately, maybe too quickly. "That's not… I'm not doing that again."
"Didn't ask you to patch in. Asked if you wanted work." King's voice is patient, like he's explaining something to a child. "You need money, I'm guessing. Your daughter needs stability. I've got work that needs doing. Simple math."
It should be simple. Maya does need stability. She needs it desperately, needs friends and school and a bed that doesn't fold down from a motel wall. I've been putting it off for months, telling myself we're fine, we're managing, one more town and maybe that'll be the one.
But the truth is I've been running because stopping means risking it all again. Means trusting people again. Means believing that this time, these men, this place might be different from what I left behind.
And I don't know if I have that kind of faith left in me.
"I need to think about it," I say.
King nods like he expected that answer. "Fair enough. You need a place to stay tonight? Town's got a motel, but it's a shithole. Got a spare room at the clubhouse if you need it. Clean sheets, hot water, and your daughter would be safe."
The offer surprises me more than the job did. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why offer? You don't know me. Don't know where I came from or what I've done."
"No," King agrees. "But I know what I just watched. Know you stepped up when you didn't have to, for someone you don't know, when you could barely stand up straight. That tells me something about who you are." He pauses. "Also tells me you're running from something that hurt you bad enough that you don't trust anybody anymore. I get that. Been there."
I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, but the words stick in my throat because he's not wrong. He's seen right through me in five minutes, seen what I've been trying to hide even from myself.
"The offer stands," King says. "Tonight, tomorrow night, however long you need to figure out what you're doing. No strings, no pressure. Just a safe place for you and your girl."
"I appreciate it," I say, and I mean it. "But I should get Maya. She's probably wondering where I am."
"Tank, go with him. Make sure those three didn't circle back." King swings back onto his bike. "You change your mind about that room, come by the clubhouse. Anyone can point you in the right direction."
They leave the same way they came. Three bikes roaring to life, rolling out in formation, leaving me standing on Main Street with split knuckles and a head full of questions I don't have answers to.
Tank, the VP, big enough to bench press a small car jerks his head toward Murphy's Grill. "Come on. Let's get your kid."
