Chapter 6: Bear
The highway never ended. Mile after mile of dark asphalt stretched ahead of us, the wind battering the bike cage like it wanted to rip us off the road. Tech sat behind me, tapping through files on his tablet like he could force answers out of the screen if he moved fast enough.
My eyes burned, but I wasn't tired. I couldn't be. Not with the thought waiting two towns over.
A broken little girl was waiting. My little girl was waitng. A little girl with my blood. Blaze, Ghost, and Tank rode ahead, their headlights cutting white scars through the night. Ash stayed back with Rook to run cleanup while the rest of us pushed forward.
The road felt tight around my chest. Like the air itself was pressing down on me. By the time the sun started bleeding into the sky, the hospital rose out of the morning fog. It was gray and cold.
Walking through those sliding doors felt wrong. Places like this weren't built for men like us. Too sterile. Too quiet. The kind of building that looked at our cuts and leather and tried to lock the doors.
The nurse at the front desk barely glanced up until she saw our cuts. Her spine straightened instantly. Her eyes landed on the patch stitched across my chest.
Dead Line.
The fight drained out of her face. Like she'd just swallowed something bitter.
"I'm here to see Sunny O'Hare," I said.
Her fingers snapped across the keyboard, fast and irritated.
"I don't have anyone under that name," she said sharply.
She was too sharp and too quick. I'd dealt with gatekeepers like her before. A person at a small desk with a big ego. I didn't even blink.
"Blaze," I said calmly, "handle it."
Blaze stepped up to the counter wearing that polite smile he used right before the world caught fire. Tank and Ghost flanked him. The nurse's face went pale. I pulled out my phone and texted Marlowe.
Me:
We're here. Nurse is giving us shit.
Two seconds later:
Marlowe:
Dealing with the social worker. Room 417. Fourth floor. Ignore anyone who tries to stop you.
I slipped the phone away.
"Easy enough."
We turned toward the elevators. The boys closed ranks around me like a storm front. Behind us, the nurse started yelling. We didn't stop. The elevator doors slid shut in her face. Blaze even waved.
Unnecessary.
Still funny.
The moment the doors opened on the fourth floor, we heard shouting. Loud and angry voices were carrying down the hallway. It was Coming from the end of the hallway. We followed the noise. A woman stood outside a hospital room, yelling at Marlowe.
She looked about thirty. Brown hair piled into a messy knot on top of her head. Clothes like she'd thrown them on without looking. But what caught my attention were the tattoos. She was an Old Lady.
The question was, whose?
"I am her case manager," she was shouting. "I have every right to see her! She's in state custody since both of her parents are missing!"
Marlowe's voice cut back like a knife.
"Her father is on his way," he snapped. "And I'm telling you there's evidence of long-term abuse. If you were half as good at your job as your badge says you are, you would've opened an investigation years ago."
The woman crossed her arms like she owned the hallway.
"I'm not letting you into that room," she barked and then she rolled her eyes.
"And as I told the girl, the birth father is supposedly coming. Please. I hear that excuse every day." Her voice dripped with contempt.
"She's accident-prone. And you expect me to believe the man who abandoned a pregnant girlfriend is suddenly going to appear?"
Marlowe leaned closer. He was slow and controlled. He has always been good at controlling himself. That is why we planted him with the police.
"If you call those injuries 'accident-prone,' then you're more corrupt than I thought," he said quietly. "And I already know you're part of this."
A pause.
"I just need proof."
The woman laughed. She actually laughed. My jaw tightened. Blaze cracked his knuckles. Tank shifted his weight and the floor creaked under him. Ghost stayed somewhere behind us, silent as smoke. Tech dropped into a plastic chair like none of this concerned him and started typing rapidly, the sound of his keyboard cutting through the tension.
I stepped forward.
"Well," I said loudly.
The hallway fell silent.
"Looks like today's your lucky damn day."
The woman spun toward me, ready to argue. she was ready to shout. Then she saw my cut.
Dead Line.
All the color drained from her face.
"Because her real father," I finished slowly, "is standing right here."
The hallway froze. A nurse stopped mid-step. A doctor nearly dropped his clipboard. Even Marlowe straightened, relief flickering across his face. The woman hadn't expected us. She didn't know Marlowe had MC ties. And now she understood something very important.
She was outnumbered.
"How do I know you're her father?" she snapped weakly. "We can't just let anyone see her."
Marlowe didn't even blink.
"I have the bloodwork," he said. "DNA databases are pretty damn helpful."
She huffed.
"Fine. But this isn't over."
She spun toward the elevators, already dialing someone before the doors even opened. She was calling for help. Maybe calling for backup.
"Fuck," Marlowe muttered, dragging his hands down his face.
He looked ten years older than the last time I'd seen him.
"Come on," he said quietly. "She's expecting you."
We moved down the hall. Two local uniforms stood outside the room. Marlowe waved them off. Tank and Ghost replaced them without a word. Blaze and I stepped inside. And everything in me stopped. A kid sat propped up in a hospital bed surrounded by thin white pillows. A cartoon flickered on the TV.
Sunny.
My daughter.
Her ash-blonde hair was tied into a crooked bun, a bandage wrapped around her head like a fragile crown. Bruises covered her skin. Blues fading into greens. Purples sinking into black. They were layered like a twisted watercolor across skin that was far too pale. She looked small, too small. I know I am used to boys, but she looked like she was not fed in years. Like she hadn't been given time to grow before someone started breaking her.
Blaze sucked in a breath beside me. The sound made her look up. And then I saw her eyes.
One blue.
One green.
Just like my mother's. She studied each of us carefully: first Blaze, then me, and then Marlowe.
Her face showed no fear, but also showed no hope. She was doing just quiet calculation. Like she'd already learned that expecting anything from the world was dangerous. When she finally she spoke. Her voice was soft, but steady.
"Are you my father?"