Dakota
“Logan, come downstairs! You need to see this!” I call out from the family room. The apartment was nice, but the new house is a million times better, even if Logan misses seeing all the motorcycle men outside his window. But now we have five bedrooms, including a master one with a massive bed that is big enough for four, plus a four-year-old if he comes to visit on a lazy morning, an office, a dining room and a family room, four bathrooms—one of them with a massive walk-in shower with enough shower heads that no one gets cold, and it’s all heavenly, really.
There’s a pounding of feet upstairs. Anyone who’s ever mentioned the pitter-patter of tiny feet, obviously never actually raised a kid, because if I didn’t know better, I’d think Logan was busy tearing down the whole upstairs in his eagerness to get down.
“Should I be ready to catch at the bottom of the stairs?” Stiff asks, coming out of the kitchen with a large coffee mug.
“On it.” Lash has just put his mug down on the coffee table along with one for me, so he’s got his hands free. He moves quickly in case Logan ends up coming down a lot faster than intended.
Jackal slips a last thing into Logan’s Christmas stocking that hangs from the bookshelf by the window, just as Logan comes thundering down the stairs, then steps aside to stand next to the Christmas tree, reaching up to adjust the figure on top of it so it sits straight. I have no idea where they found it, but it’s a figure of a guy on a big motorcycle, holding up a giant star in his hands that the light bulb is inside. It’s the kitchiest thing I’ve seen in my life and I almost died of laughter when Lash showed up with it to put on the tree.
Of course, Logan loves it, so that’s our Christmas star from now on.
It’s a good thing Lash got in position, because with three steps left, his legs get tangled in his excitement, and he cries out. Lash snatches him out of the air like he does this every day, and pulls Logan into a tight hug. “Watch it, little man. I wanna see you grow up to ride a motorcycle of your own.”
The thought of that has my heart doing nervous skips, but luckily it’s still many years until I have to wrangle with the idea of my son getting on a motorcycle and riding it all on his own. Somehow it’s completely different when I’m hanging on to one of my guys while we go cruising.
“Good morning,” Jackal says with a big smile, grabbing the mug that he put on the shelf to have his hands free while topping off Logan’s stocking. “You slept so long that I was wondering if I should let Lash have the gifts in your stocking instead.
Logan’s eyes go wide in shock and he wriggles to get down. “No! That’s not fair.”
I give Jackal a sidelong look, and he has the grace to look a little ashamed. “I’m joking, Logan, just joking. Sorry, buddy, that was mean. No one’s touching your gifts. Promise.” He crouches in front of Logan with his arms out. “Will a hug be enough of an apology?”
“Okay.” It would take a lot for Logan to stay mad at his idols for long, and a poorly timed joke isn’t it.
After he gets his squeeze, he’s eyeing the stocking hanging just out of reach curiously. “That one says Logan,” he says and points at his. His reading is improving, though he’s known his own name for a while. And luckily for all of us, his numbers. I shiver a little, thinking back at being Dillard’s captive. I know it’s over, I know he’s gone, but that’s the thing about scary things—they have a tendency to live on in your head. It’s getting better though, and my therapist has been helping me process it. And it’s hard to get stuck in a rut, when I’ve got three big, attentive and always horny men to keep me busy, and more importantly, keep me happy.
And Logan has never been so loved, with all four of us wrapped around his little finger, the spoiled little brat. I smile at him. At least he’s my spoiled little brat.
“Mommy? Can I… can I open?” He’s never had such a full stocking. Not that he’s got that many years of it, but last year it was a few things from me, and one thing that Georgia had dropped off, and now? With three dads, me, and being the only kid in the club old enough to walk, other than Anne, who’s moving full speed into the “fewer and more expensive gifts” category, almost everyone has come by with at least a little thing for him. Even Hellfire, who dropped off a pair of fingerless biker gloves that he won’t be big enough to wear for at least a couple of more years. It’s the thought that counts, and Logan is going to love them anyway. They come directly from the king of the motorcycle men, after all.
I look at the guys. My first instinct is to joke that we should have breakfast first, and maybe get some chores done, but then I realize I’d be doing the same thing Jackal did and Logan isn’t quite old enough where he catches the joking tone right away. Adults aren’t supposed to lie. So instead, I smile. “If I can get a good Christmas hug first.” I have to be allowed that much, right?
Logan scrambles up on the couch, laughing as he crawls up into my lap and throws himself into my arms, where I get to squeeze him and kiss the top of his head and tell him what a good boy he is. It’s not long before he’s wiggling trying to get out of my snuggle onslaught again, probably believing that I’m never going to let him go to get his presents. But he’s laughing and that’s the most wonderful sound in the world.
When he squirms off the couch, I point to Stiff. “Maybe he can take your stocking down.”
“Can you? Can you?” Logan looks ready to climb his leg like a kitten looking for a tuna treat
With a laugh, Stiff unhooks the stocking and holds it out. It’s so big Logan can barely get his arms around it. He takes down the rest of our stockings too, but they’re a little more modest. Christmas is all about the kids, after all.
Logan pours it all out on the family room carpet, ready to shred his way through all the packaging. “Should I tell him to take it easy and make it last?” I ask the guys, already suspecting what the answer is going to be.
“Fuck no,” Lash says, which makes Logan giggle like we’re all in on the same conspiracy. “It’s only Christmas morning one day a year, and life is unpredictable. Take all the happiness you can.”
You know what? That’s fair.
Not that I think I could’ve stopped Logan if I wanted to. He’s at the core of an unwrapping tornado and he keeps making happy noises as he sees what comes out of it. Candy, play motorcycles, temporary tattoos, the gloves from Hellfire, all sorts of little things.
My stocking has chocolates, a pretty pair of earrings, bags of my favorite tea, and a World’s Best MILF mug. I give Lash a long look when I unwrap it, then put it away out of sight. He grins and toasts me with his coffee mug.
Logan’s haul is impressive. He’s going to be on a sugar high for the next three weeks. He’s gotten so many motorcycle toys and he’s already arranged them in order from smallest to biggest. Now he’s trying on the gloves Hellfire gave him, looking very confused as to why his fingertips are poking out.
“They’re meant to be like that, Lo. They protect your hands when it’s warmer out.”
He flexes his hand curiously a couple of more times before putting the gloves down. Then he beams up at me. “Did you see how much I got, Mommy? So many motorcycles!” He says it like they’re all made out of gold.
“You know,” Lash starts, looking at nothing in particular while speaking like he’s thinking out loud, “I heard there was going to be an even bigger motorcycle, but I don’t see it. I wonder where it is.”
Logan pops up like a jack-in-the-box, looking frantically around.
Stiff laughs, and says very slowly and deliberately, “It’s definitely not behind the couch. That would be a weird place to put it.”
It takes Logan a moment, but he’s been getting acclimated to when the boys are kidding around with him. After a quick look at each of them, his eyes narrow like a predator scenting prey. It probably doesn’t help that Lash, Jackal and Stiff are struggling obviously with keeping a straight face. In a dangerous negotiation, I’m pretty sure there’s no force on earth that would shatter their stony expressions, but when it comes to Logan, they’re as lost as I am.
Like Jessica said, when bikers fall, they fall fast and hard. That’s apparently true both for old ladies and for their little boys who worship the ground they walk on.
Logan rushes around the end of the couch to spot the huge box waiting for him, all wrapped up in Christmas paper. He crouches in front of it, running his hands over the sides. It’s only the greatest of all willpower that keeps him from shredding it right there. “Is that mine? Mommy, is that mine?” He’s so wired, he’s stumbling over his words.
Jackal comes around the couch from the other side. He takes a drag of his coffee, drawing it out. “There’s a tag on top of it. Why don’t you check what it says?”
It takes a moment to find it under all the curled ribbon, but Logan finds the tag at least and looks at it. “Logan! It says Logan!” Paper shreds, like a confetti explosion.
The cardboard box underneath is unmarked, repackaged by Lash to maintain the surprise, and Logan struggles a little with opening it until Jackal gives him a hand. And then it’s open and for a surprisingly long moment, Logan is speechless.
“It’s a motorcycle!” I’m pretty sure it’s loud enough that our neighbors can hear it. “Motorcycle!”
Jackal gives him a hand while Lash comes around the other side. Stiff slides in next to me so I can shift myself up against him and rest my chin on his powerful arm as we look over the back of the couch.
Logan’s eyes are the size of saucers as the children’s bike comes into view, made to look like a motorcycle, with twistable handlebars, a big headlight that works, a little storage compartment in front of the seat in the fake fuel tank, which is black with white cartoon skulls on it. Two plastic exhaust pipes come out along the back, just under the bars for the training wheels. It takes roughly two microseconds from when Jackal and Lash put it gently onto the floor before Logan is on the seat, reaching for the handlebars. “Motorcycle!”
I know he’s only four, but he’s usually got way more grammar than that. He’s just so overwhelmed.
“Did we do okay?” Jackal asks me, with a little lopsided grin.
“I think it’s perfect.”
“We got something for you too,” Stiff says and reaches down under the couch to pull out a gift about the size of a hardback book.
I feel like I should be telling Logan that all bike riding should be happening outside, but the guys are eyeing me so expectantly that I wonder what they got for me. I put my mug down and open it carefully.
It’s a picture frame. The actual picture is covered with packing paper to make sure the glass in the frame doesn’t crack, and when I pull it away, I find a selfie of me, Georgia and Logan, the three of us smiling up at the camera, pushing in close together. It’s in the park near my old apartment, and I remember the day well. She came for a visit, we all went to have a picnic, and it was sunny and warm out. One of the last times I got to see her before she ghosted for a couple of months. Before everything went wrong.
Tears form at the corners of my eyes, pressure building behind my face as I try not to break down on Christmas morning. Stiff pulls me in, and then Jackal settles in next to me on the other side, putting me in the middle of a comfort sandwich. There isn’t much room for Lash, but he pulls the coffee table out and crouches in front of me, running a supportive hand up and down my hip and thigh.
“Where did you guys even get this?”
“When Poe went through Georgia’s phone, he found a bunch of pictures.” Jackal squeezes me. “He passed them on to me when he was finally done with getting everything off it and the boys were there, and I guess we had an idea. Figured you’d want what looked like one of the good memories.”
I nod against Stiff’s chest. “God, yes, it is. You guys did perfect. Totally perfect.”
After a few minutes of gathering my emotions, supported by the three guys I love the most in the world, I finally have enough control to sit up again and tell Logan that he has to take his bike outside if he wants to ride it. A minute later, Lash and Jackal are out there with him, getting chased around by the wildest motorcyclist on the whole block—or at least in our driveway—while Stiff stays back to make sure I’m okay.
“We’ve got one for Logan too, of Georgia and Ice, that he can keep in his room, but I figure we’ll give it to him later. I don’t think much can pull him away from the bike right now.” He chuckles into my hair.
“Perfect.” And that just sums up everything right now. I won’t get Georgia back, but everything else? Logan’s happy, I’m happy, and I’m surrounded by the three most wonderful bikers in the world.
So yeah, just perfect.
(c) Stephanie Brother 2025
