The riders dismounted.
Men mostly.
A few older than Abigail’s father had been.
Others younger.
Leather vests.
Denim.
Boots.
Tattoos.
Weathered faces.
Abigail recognized the style of the patches even though she knew little about motorcycle clubs.
The specific club in this story, the Hellfire Angels Motorcycle Club, had a reputation large enough that even people outside biker culture had heard stories.
Some probably true.
Some exaggerated.
Abigail had no interest in discovering which.
She pulled Chloe closer.
“Stay beside me.”
The largest rider stopped at the pump next to the Honda.
He was enormous.
At least six-four.
Maybe two hundred seventy pounds.
Gray threaded through his dark braided beard.
A pale scar ran from the corner of his jaw toward one ear.
His vest carried the name:
JACKSON.
Below it:
VICE PRESIDENT.
He removed his gloves.
Checked his pockets.
Then frowned.
“Damn it.”
A scarred rider nearby laughed.
“What?”
“Left my money clip at the diner.”
“Again?”
“First time.”
“Third.”
Jackson glared.
The other biker raised both hands.
“Don’t shoot the historian.”
Jackson looked toward a man called Mike.
“Spot me.”
Mike checked his wallet.
“Twenty.”
“That gets me fumes.”
“Ask Sully.”
Before anyone could move, Chloe stepped away from Abigail.
Abigail noticed one second too late.
“Chloe.”
The girl walked straight toward Jackson.
“Excuse me, mister.”
Every instinct inside Abigail screamed.
“Chloe, no.”
The bikers turned.
Jackson looked down.
Chloe stopped less than two feet from his boots.
She dug both hands into the front pocket of her denim overalls.
Pulled something out.
Carefully unfolded it.
The two-dollar bill.
Abigail’s heart almost broke.
“You can use mine.”
Jackson did not move.
Chloe extended the bill.
“For your gas.”
Someone behind Jackson stopped laughing.
Another biker removed his sunglasses.
Jackson crouched slowly.
At eye level, he somehow looked less frightening.
Still enormous.
But quieter.
“What’s your name, little bird?”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe what?”
“Weston.”
Jackson looked at the bill.
“You sure about this?”
She nodded.
“My grandpa gave it to me.”
Abigail finally reached her.
“Chloe.”
She put both hands on her daughter’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her words came too quickly.
“She doesn’t understand. Please don’t take it. She’s just trying to help.”
Jackson looked at Abigail.
Really looked.
Not casually.
He saw everything she had spent hours trying to hide.
Exhaustion.
Fear.
The yellowing bruises around one upper arm where one of Bowman’s men had grabbed her when she confronted him outside the duplex three days earlier.
The cardboard boxes visible through the Honda windows.
The dried salt of tears near her eyes.
The gas pump displaying zero.
Jackson looked back at Chloe.
“What did your grandpa tell you about this?”
“That it was lucky.”
Jackson smiled faintly.
“Then shouldn’t you keep it?”
Chloe shook her head.
“He said I should use it for something important.”
“And this is important?”
“You need to get home.”
A silence moved through the group.
Jackson’s expression changed.
Later, Abigail would remember that moment more clearly than anything else.
The exact instant the intimidating biker stopped looking like a stranger and started looking like a man remembering something painful.
Jackson reached out.
His hand was large enough to cover Chloe’s entire forearm.
Yet he took the bill delicately between two fingers.
“I’ll borrow your luck.”
Chloe smiled.
“Okay.”
He folded it.
Then placed it inside the inner pocket of his vest.
Directly over his chest.
Abigail swallowed.
“Thank you for being nice to her.”
Jackson stood.
He looked toward the Honda.
“Where you headed?”
“North.”
“Where north?”
“Family.”
“That’s not a place.”
Abigail stiffened.
“We’re fine.”
Jackson glanced toward the gas gauge visible through the open driver’s window.
“Sure.”
“We are.”
“Your tank disagrees.”
Abigail said nothing.
Jackson looked toward her arm.
His voice softened.
“You running from somebody?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Jackson did not challenge it.
Instead, he reached inside another pocket.
Abigail tensed.
He pulled out folded cash.
Five hundred-dollar bills.
He held them toward her.
Abigail stepped backward.
“No.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
“I can’t take that.”
“You can.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Smart.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
He looked toward Chloe.
“Your daughter just gave me the luck her grandfather gave her.”
He extended the money again.
“I don't take something like that without paying respect.”
“This is too much.”
“No.”
“It’s five hundred dollars.”
“I can count.”
Despite herself, Abigail almost laughed.
Jackson continued.
“Fill the car.”
“Buy food.”
“Get somewhere with a lock on the door.”
Abigail’s throat tightened.
“I can’t repay you.”
“Wasn’t a loan.”
“I don’t want charity.”
Jackson’s gaze hardened slightly.
“Then don’t call it charity.”
“What do I call it?”
“An exchange.”
He tapped the pocket containing the two-dollar bill.
“I’m winning by four ninety-eight.”
One of the bikers laughed.
The tension broke.
Abigail accepted the money.
Her hands shook so badly the bills fluttered.
“Thank you.”
Jackson nodded once.
“What's your name?”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail Weston?”
She stiffened.
Chloe had already said their last name.
Jackson noticed the fear.
“Relax.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize every ten seconds.”
That nearly made her cry harder.
Jackson looked down at Chloe.
“Keep your mom hydrated.”
“I will.”
“Bossy kid?”
Abigail managed a smile.
“Extremely.”
Chloe looked offended.
“I’m helpful.”
Jackson grinned.
“Even worse.”
The bikers refueled.
Abigail put forty dollars into the Honda.
Then went inside and bought water, sandwiches, sunscreen, and a cheap phone charger.
When she returned, the riders were preparing to leave.
Jackson sat on his motorcycle.
Chloe waved.
He touched two fingers to his forehead in a small salute.
Then the engines started.
The Hellfire Angels disappeared toward the highway in a rolling wall of sound.
Abigail leaned against the Honda.
The moment they were gone, her strength went with them.
She started crying.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
Chloe hugged her waist.
“Mommy?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sad?”
“No.”
Abigail laughed through the tears.
“I think I’m just tired.”
Chloe looked toward the highway.
“Mr. Jackson was nice.”
“Yes.”
“Did my lucky money work?”
Abigail held her daughter tighter.