Biker's Logic

***Big Danni's POV***

The kitchen smelled of burnt coffee and Marisol’s sofrito—onions caramelizing in guilt and garlic. Saints watched from peeling walls: La Virgen’s gaze followed me, her porcelain face cracked like my resolve. St. Lazarus with his crutches, the paint flaking like scabs—the same saint Mamá prayed to when Papa’s cough turned bloody. Mamá’s knees bruised the church floor, her rosary beads clicking like gunshots as she begged Lazarus to spare Papa’s lungs. He died anyway. Now the saint’s crutches mock me—Nobody walks away clean. Guilt? Naw. Guilt’s for folks who think they got choices. I just got consequences.

As Dru bounds down the stairs in Dragon’s shirt, my coffee turns to ash in my mouth. Look at her. His shirt swallowed her whole, sleeves rolled to her elbows. That laugh… Last time I heard it, she was three, chasing fireflies in the bayou before Louise locked her in that house. Her laughter—a shotgun blast—shattered the silence she’d armored herself in for years. Laughin’ with him like she ain’t spent years flinchin’ at shadows. Boy’s shirt hangin’ off her like some damn victory flag. His mamá’s food in his hands, his mamá’s saints on the wall—but that don’t make him no saint. Pfft.

Look at him. Fixin’ her plate like some ti chef (little chef). Extra plantains, no pikliz—he remembers she can’t handle spice. This kid… he sees her. Damn him for that. At sixteen, I’d already buried my first knife in a man’s thigh. Dragon? He’s buryin’ plantains.

Dru steals a mango slice from Dragon’s plate. The mango glistened, a fruit Louise would’ve slapped from her hands. Dragon pushed it closer, juice dripping, like a dare to take more. My jaw tightens. She sits upright, steals glances at Dragon, and laughs again—a sound so startling I freeze mid-sip. My coffee gone cold in my grip..

Papa mwen (My father) used to tell me that in Port-au-Prince, a girl wears your shirt, you best be ready to fight for her. Dragon ain’t fought nobody. Just… smiled. Fed her. Like love’s a damn buffet. Kid’s got no cut, no scars. Thinks his respect comes from carryin’ her books, not blood. I should’ve made him earn that seat at this table… But I be damned if she ain’t standin’ tall. When’s the last time she stood at all?

Dru reaches towards the coffee pot, her wrist flicking toward the stained metal, and Dragon’s hand catches hers. His hand closed over hers, thumb brushing her pulse point—a mechanic’s touch, checking for life. Not grabbing, claiming, like she’s a trophy. Callouses. Like the ones Louise’s men had—but theirs reeked of motor oil and regret. Dragon’s smelled like saddle soap and lemongrass. His fingers brush her skin like he’s handling a prayer candle. A question, not a demand. She nods. He pours. Slow. Careful. Like he’s memorizing the weight of the pot, the steam, her breath. And her? She doesn’t pull away.

Gunpowder. Blood. Same taste as the night I tried to pull her from Louise’s fire. Louise’s cigarette had kissed the curtains. Her laugh shrill as the smoke alarm when she wrenched Dru’s tiny hand from mine, blisters blooming on her wrist. Now she’s burning herself, and I can’t smother the flames. Since when does a boy like him know how to hold a woman’s heart like it’s glass? Since when does a junk-heap rider understand respect deeper than the old codes?

Staring at Dru, I noticed a hickey peeking out from the collar... of his shirt.... that she's wearing, “Sleep well, princesa? (Princess)” I slammed my coffee cup down on the counter, “Back in my day, a boy who looked at my niece like that? Yo ta pèdi dan yo. (They’d lose teeth.)”

Dru slams her fork back onto her plate, eyes blazing, “Stop calling me princesa! I’m not Louise’s doll anymore, and I’m sure as hell not yours!”

I eyed Dru like this was some sort of trick, “Piti fi, yesterday you jumped at a slammin’ door. Now you laughin’ at his jokes?” I nod in Dragon's direction, my voice edged,“Now you standing tall to me? Whatchu do to her, ti gason (little boy). She ain’t no fixer-upper.”

Marisol places a hand on my arm, trying to lighten my mood, “Tranquilo, Daniel (Calm down, Daniel). They’re young, but they have good hearts. ¿Quieres más café (Want more coffee)?” Her hand lingered on my arm, wedding band digging into my skin.”You were him once,” she said softly. “Rebellious. Scared. But you grew into your heart. Let him try.”

Dru holds her chin up high, defiantly, "I don’t need protecting all the time!“ She softens her voice a bit, "Dragon… he listened. Didn’t just… save me.” Her voice wavered like a radio signal, but her eyes? Static. Unbroken. She’s not burning—she’s a moth learning to spit fire.

Marisol starts grinning as she pours me another cup, “Ay, mi’ja, you found your voice! Gracias a Dios.” She turns to me, “Oye, Daniel— stop scowling. This is good.”

Dragon leaned forward, his boots planted like he’d dug his heels into the earth itself. His hand stayed on her chair, knuckles white—not claiming, but anchoring, “Mamá’s right. Dru’s always been strong. Just… needed room.” Protective but proud, subtly mirroring Dru’s posture. He keeps a hand on her chair, not her, respecting her space. He looks me in the eyes and says firmly, “I’d cut my hands off before I hurt her.”

“Pretty words. But I seen ‘strong’ girls break easy.” I step away from the counter, looming over both of them,“You her hero now? No. Heroes die. I buried enough of ’em to know. Be the one who stays.” Turning away, I stormed out the back door, slamming it behind me.

Dragon calls out after me, “I ain’t my dad. And you ain’t Louise. So stop pretendiendo (pretending) this is about me. It’s about you losin’ control.”

Hearing his words, I mutter a few curses as I make my way down the back porch and through the yard. Maybe… maybe his word’s steel under that soft skin. Maybe the bike ain’t the man. Fòk nou gade nan kè li (We have to look at his heart). But God help me, if he cracks hers—I’ll feed him his own chain.

Grumbling, I stomped towards a magnolia tree and lit up a clove cigarette. I exhale a cloud of the sweet scented smoke as I hear Dru marching towards me. Dru stops, still wearing Dragon’s oversized shirt and a journal clutched to her chest. The journal’s spine was cracked, pages swollen with sketches and pressed flowers—proof she’d been rebuilding herself word by word. The hum of cicadas sharpens the silence before she speaks.

Standing firm, but her voice cracks, “You gonna keep glaring at him? Or actually talk to me?”

Staring down at the grass, I refuse to look up, “Ain’t got nothin’ to say you wanna hear, piti fi ( little girl).”

She steps closer, “Stop calling me ‘little girl.’ I’m not gonna…” Her breath hitches.

My voice low, warning, “Gonna what? Trust the first boy who hands you a plantain and a pep talk?"

Dru flung her journal open with a picture bookmarking the page. A sketch fluttered out—Dragon’s profile, shaded with coffee stains, his scarred knuckles cradling a magnolia bloom. Beneath it, in shaky letters: *‘Not a savior. A mirror.’*

Her voice began to crack, “Dragon didn’t just ‘save’ me. He… he sat there. For hours. Listened to me cry. Didn’t touch me ‘til I said okay. You think that’s easy? To just… wait? He even asked me twice if I was sure! This was my choice!"

Beneath the coffee-stained pages: a self-portrait, her face half-shadowed, one eye swollen shut—’Before Dragon’ scrawled beneath it. My breath hitched as I studied it, like she’d carved the truth from my ribs.

I finally looked up, to notice Dragon leaning on the doorway, arms crossed, watching from the porch. His jaw clenched like a vice, but his eyes—hell, they were softer than I’d ever seen. Not the hungry stare of a boy, but the quiet watchfulness of a man who’d learned to measure his wants. My eyes turn hard with the turmoil raging through me, “Easy? Naw. But keepin’ that patience? That’s the test. Men got honey tongues ‘til they get what they want.”

Dru takes the picture in her hand, slamming the journal shut, “You don’t know him! You don’t know me anymore! I’m not hiding in your shadow or his! I chose this. I choose him.”

I push off the tree, standing abruptly, towering over her, “Choices? You’re sixteen. You don’t know what the world—”

Dru shouts, tears blazing, “I know what a fist feels like! I know what silence costs! And I know Dragon’s the first person who made me feel… safe to be loud! So yeah, Uncle D, I’m choosing him. And you can either help me… or get outta my way.”

I stood in silence. A crow caws in the distance. Crows meant death in Port-au-Prince. This one cackled like Louise. “Eske ou konnen ki jan li pèdi (Do you know how it kills me)," my voice crumbles as I try to hold back the emotions before they overtake me.

Dru gently touches my arm—a first, “I’m not running to him. I’m… walking. With him. Ansanmn (Together)." She hands me the photo from her journal—a faded picture of me and her father as teens, laughing on a bike. “Both of you saved me. Dragon— from being raped. You— from Louise. Now let me save myself too.”

My eyes grew wide at the mention of that. I hadn't known he'd already fought for her. I stare at the photo. The photo burned hotter than Louise’s cigarettes. My brother’s grin in the picture mocked me—*You died playing hero. You want her to bury you too?* Gruffly tucking it into my vest, “Mwen pa ka pèdi ou (I can’t lose you.)"

Dru suddenly looks up at me, voice clear, "You won’t. Uncle D… remember that song you’d sing for me when I couldn't sleep? ‘Kite’m’?” (Let Me)." She swallows hard, “Let me… try? Let me try to figure out who I want to be?" Smiling tearily, “But you gotta let go of my hand.”

I was caught slightly off guard. How could she remember that? She was just a baby when I'd sing that to her.

**Suddenly, I’m back in that rotting FEMA trailer, her three-year-old body curled on my chest after a hurricane ripped through New Orleans. The trailer’s ceiling leaked nicotine-yellow rain, each droplet hissing as it hit the hotplate. Her hair smelled of baby shampoo, her tiny fists clutched my shirt as I hummed “Kite’m”—the Creole lullaby my own mother sang—until her tears dried and her breath steadied. The trailer walls groaned as the wind and rain threatened to tear them down, but my voice stayed steady—'Kite’m, piti fi. Let go. I’m here.' Outside, the storm raged. Inside, she slept.**

I sniff, kicking a rock toward the garage, “Tell that boy his exhaust still sounds like a cat in a blender. And… ou gen bèl souri (You have a nice smile)." I stalked off, the photo burning a hole in my vest. “Keep it,” I growled, but the words tasted like ash. Her laughter followed me—*Kite’m, kite’m*—a ghostly refrain. Maybe saints didn’t live in statues, but in stubborn girls who sang lullabies to their own shadows.

Thunder growled in the distance, the Saints’ answer to my retreat. But this time, the storm felt different—not an end, but a beginning.

******