Page 13 of Charging Dodge

My whole body trembles at the mere memory of that afternoon, reliving the sheer terror that gripped us once they scrambled into my vehicle. The haunting look on Carter's face was all it took for me to slam my foot down on the gas pedal and never look back. “There was nothing you could have done, Carter. They were already gone by then,” I counter softly. “Trusting yourself was the right call, and it’s the exact reason all three of you are alive today.” I had driven us straight to the police department to report the horror—how the house was left in shambles, and how the blood staining the floor was what drove Carter to gather our siblings and flee.

At first, the authorities brushed us off, treating us like children with overactive imaginations. Their skepticism completely evaporated the moment a cruiser was dispatched for a welfare check. That grim discovery threw everything into absolute chaos. We were quickly ushered to a hotel to wait while they tried to locate any living relatives—an impossible task, since there was no one left to find.

When night fell, we pried loose the few details the police were willing to share, which amounted to virtually nothing, and immediately fled the scene. Even though they had posted a guard at our door, their sheer incompetence left the rear completely exposed. We managed to slip out through a tiny window right above the shower, and I drained my entire bank account just to buy bus tickets for us. As a part-time worker and a college student, our financial resources were incredibly tight, but I somehow tracked down a slumlord who let us rent his run-down house in Colorado for next to nothing. It was freezing inside, but it gave us a roof over our heads and a brief moment to map out our next move. That was until the very monsters who murdered our parents ambushed us, which is exactly what forced us to flee here.

Carter releases a loud, drawn out sigh which has me jumping out of my memories and entering the present. “I’m going to apologize to Dodge.”

“That’s a solid start,” I tell him, and a wave of relief strikes me. His gaze holds a rare, steady focus that cuts through the lingering tension. He seems ready to own the mess he made. The heavy atmosphere in this cramped room finally thins out just enough for us to breathe. “He’s a difficult man to read, but he respects anyone who owns their mistakes. If you’re really serious, you’ve got a shot at making things right.” He nods, and for the first time in days, his shoulders don’t look like they’re braced for an impact. It’s a small thing, but it feels like everything.

“I know,” he mumbles, turning away from me and staring at the window where the sun is beginning to climb higher into the sky.

Morning light streams into the space, catching the swirling dust in the heavy air and washing over the faded carpet. Real sleep feels like a distant memory. Swinging his legs out of bed, he stands up, pajama pants pooling around his ankles. His movements are rushed as he pulls on his worn jeans, balancing unsteadily on one foot before pulling a shirt over his head. Although the quiet isn’t as intense as before, a tight energy still radiates from him. Ignoring me at first, he focuses solely on his clothes, treating them like a protective barrier for whatever lies ahead.

Stepping over to the door, his hand wraps tightly around the knob, knuckles straining against the doorknob. “I'm going to find him now,” he states, a newfound hardness in his voice. He looks back at me with a cautious but resolved stare. “No more waiting. I have to fix this.”

“You can do this, Carter,” I whisper encouragingly. He gives a simple nod, opening the door and quietly shutting it as he leaves the room.

Behind me, Amelia stirs, her small stature shifting against the sheets. I don’t have much time to pull myself together before the house comes alive. I grab my bag, moving as quiet as a mouse, and slip into the hallway. The floorboards are cold under my feet as I step into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft, final thud. It’s my only refuge. I need to be someone else for a while. Someone who isn’t terrified. I neatly arrange my makeup on the counter. It’s a ritual I’ve perfected out of necessity any time I needed to be somebody else. Liner. Lipstick. Foundation. Each piece finds its place in a precise line. I set my clothes on the toilet lid and turn on the shower, watching the steam rise against the mirror. I need the heat to sink into my bones and chase away the chill embedded into the very core of my body. I’m building a mask today. I’m painting on a face that says I’m not afraid of anything, even if the person looking back at me in the mirror knows it’s a lie.

My breath hitches the second I step into the bedroom and don't see the kids. Panic claws at my throat before reality settles in. It isn’t a kidnapping. They're gone because they’re safe. I exhale, the sound shuddering out of me. My pulse thunders against my ribs, though it starts to level off when a low murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen. Putting my dirty laundry in the corner, I shift on my feet and head down the hallway, following the voices.

The aroma of coffee and bacon fills the kitchen. It feels almost surreal, a stark contrast to the icy fear that’s haunted us for days. Noah and Amelia perch on the vinyl chairs as sunlight pools on the linoleum in golden rays of sunlight. Miranda moves from the stove to the table, piling their plates high with eggs and toast. Dodge stands by the coffee pot. He remains silent and imposing, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over that leather cut. He tracks my movements, eyes steady, but says nothing. He lets his mother take charge. A quiet cough draws my attention to the corner. Carter sits in the window seat. I shoot him a questioning look and he gives me a firm nod. Relief washes over me. He talked to Dodge, and the strain from last night finally disappears as he confirms that everything is good between them.

“Morning, Adalynn. How did you sleep?” Miranda asks, turning from the stove with a fresh plate.

“Good,” I lie, and force a weak smile. Dodge watches me over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip. The dark brew looks hot, but he doesn't even flinch. His gaze meets mine, and I feel heat creeping up my throat. That slight curve of his lips signals he sees right through my act. He knows I’m wearing a disguise. He remains quiet, just observing from his spot against the counter. Being in this kitchen feels strange. It seems too ordinary. I’m just pretending to be fine, but I know better. We’re stuck here with him because he’s the only thing standing between us and the people who want us dead.

Silverware scrapes against ceramic, the only sound in the room. It’s an ordinary noise, yet it feels unsettling, a reminder of the life we’re borrowing. Noah eats his toast without looking up, his fingers coated in egg, while Amelia cuts her pancakes into tiny, precise shapes. In the morning light, they look like regular kids, which is a cruel shift from the shell-shocked people we were last night. Miranda flits between them like a hen, refilling juice and brushing hair from Amelia’s face. The tenderness hurts to watch. I stare at my bacon, pushing it around the plate just to avoid looking at the man leaning against the counter. Dodge doesn't move. Every time he breathes, his leather cut creaks, a rhythmic sound that keeps me on edge. He’s a wall of muscle and unspoken threats, a barrier that reeks of old oil and tobacco. His focus feels like a physical weight against my temples, unraveling the composure I worked so hard to fake in the bathroom. He knows I’m terrified. He can see through the mask. We’re at his mercy, tied to a motorcycle club because the outside world is hunting us down. The weight of that reality is hard to stomach.

“After breakfast, we need to talk,” he says, breaking the quiet.

“Alright,” I manage to say, though my voice shakes. A small smirk touches his lips—he’s enjoying my discomfort.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dodge

She acts like a nervous bird trapped in a room full of cats. I watch her take a seat, her hands unsteady as she reaches for the salt and pepper to season her eggs. Every twitch of her body screams fear, even though she tries to bury it under the mask she’s built. Her fingers shake so badly that the shakers clatter against her dish. It’s an abrasive sound that echoes throughout the dining room.

I lean against the counter, watching how she holds herself. She stays focused on her meal, staring down like the plate’s the only thing keeping her sane. The kids are moving in slow motion, shells of themselves after the long escape. Carter’s still stiff by the window, but that frantic energy from last night’s died down into something hollow. They’re under my wing now, tethered to the Saint’s Outaws because the world out there’s become a butcher shop.

The leather of my cut creaks against my chest with every breath I take. It’s a constant reminder of the burden I carry as the president. I watch the color creep back into her cheeks in the morning light but the terror stays stuck in her throat. She knows a reckoning is coming where she lays out the rest of the secrets she’s hiding. I’m not made for gentleness and I didn’t leave Muscogee to babysit a family running for their lives but watching her fall apart right in front of me sparks a protective fire in my gut.

I’m not much of a breakfast eater, but I join everyone at the table and take a few bites. Settling into the wooden chair opposite Adalynn, I grab a fork and drag it through the eggs on my plate, though I’ve got no real appetite. The domestic routine feels entirely alien, a stark contrast to the rough environment of the clubhouse where breakfast usually means stale black coffee and leftover adrenaline. Watching the three kids and their older sister chew, I realize the sheer magnitude of the responsibility I’ve shouldered. Adalynn keeps her eyes firmly trained on her own plate, her posture stiff as a board, still waiting for the interrogation she knows is coming. I take a slow bite of the bacon, letting the salt sharpen my focus as I study the fine lines of exhaustion etched into her face. My mother moves around the table with a bright, maternal energy, refilling juice glasses and offering warm smiles, oblivious to the heavy undercurrent of trauma that fills these siblings' psyche. Every scrape of my fork sounds too loud in the tense atmosphere, a countdown to the moment the kids finish eating and the real work of keeping them alive finally begins.

I clear my throat, the sound rough against the heavy quiet of the room. “Mom,” I say, calling her name to gain her full attention. She stops in her tracks on her way back to the kitchen, a stack of empty plates balanced in her hands, and looks over her shoulder at me. When her eyes meet mine, I continue, gesturing subtly toward the kids. “Would you mind entertaining the young ones for a bit while their sister and I have a chat?”

“Not at all,” Mom answers, a warm smile instantly crinkling the corners of her eyes as she sets the dishes down on the counter. She turns to face the table, smiling. “I need to go collect the fresh eggs from the coop anyway, and the animals out back still need to be fed. I bet they’d really enjoy helping out with that.”

Amelia blinks away her exhaustion, her eyes shifting toward Adalynn to check if it’s safe. Noah looks up from his toast, a sudden spark of childhood curiosity breaking through his haunted expression. Adalynn offers them a small, tired nod of approval, her shoulders dropping slightly as she releases her protective hold.

Mom holds out her hands, her gentle presence acting like a magnet for the children. Noah slides out of his chair first, trailing close behind Amelia as she cautiously steps toward the back door. Carter lingers for a tense second, his grip tight against his knees as he glares at me, but he eventually relents, pushing out of his seat to follow the brood outside, leaving Adalynn and me alone in the suffocating silence of the dining room.

“Want to talk in here, or do you prefer the patio?” I ask, offering a choice so she doesn't feel cornered. Her gaze snaps to the screen door, tracking the light filtering through the mesh with a desperation that shows just how confining this room feels to her. She shifts in her chair, the wood creaking under her, but she doesn't speak. I watch her mind work, balancing the danger of the open yard against the four walls closing in around us. I keep my stance relaxed, my arms crossed over my chest. I let the silence stretch. She needs to know I’m not the enemy, but more than that, she needs to feel like she has some control over how this talk unfolds.

“I think this talk requires some fresh air,” she mumbles. Her voice is barely a whisper, a raspy sound that seems to drain the last of her energy. She pushes back from the table. The chair legs scrape against the linoleum with a creak that breaks the silence. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen door, tracking the golden morning light as if it’s the key to her escape. Her posture remains stiff, every muscle in her body wound tight, still waiting for a figure to form from the shadows. She rises slowly, smoothing down her jeans with trembling fingers, trying to compose herself before stepping out. I watch her over the rim of my coffee mug, keeping my gaze steady while I let her set the pace. I tip my head toward the door, signaling for her to lead the way, and push myself away from the table.

The screen door shuts with a loud bang, vibrating through the yard and slicing into the stillness. I cross to my favorite seat out here and flop down, boots scuffing the boards, and sink into the seat. The wood moans in protest as I rock. I track her movements as she paces the deck, her outline etched against the brutal Oklahoma sun. She twists her hands, fingers digging into the denim of her jeans as if grabbing for balance against the dread coursing through her. She moves like a caged creature for a long minute before sinking onto the top step. She pulls her feet up and curls her arms around her knees, fighting to hide the tremors she believes I don’t notice. We sit right where we were earlier, locked in a silent stalemate.