Page 1

Chapter 1

Mira

Rain pelts the diner window, a nagging reminder that I should have put my belongings up high before leaving for work in case my basement apartment floods. Again.

Not that there's much there worth saving. Threadbare clothes. Furniture gleaned from a dumpster. A few dog-eared paperbacks I scrounged from the church donation bin. That's pretty much the sum total of my worldly possessions.

"Order up!" Jimmy's voice booms from the kitchen, making me jump and dragging my attention from the nasty weather outside.At least the storm seems to be subsiding. Maybe there's still hope for a dry apartment.

I press my palm against my sternum, trying to will away the uncomfortable squeeze as I make my way to the pickup window.

Skillfully balancing three plates of greasy meals that are mediocre in every way along my arm, I do my best to ignore the mounting pressure in my chest. I can't afford weakness. Literally, I can't afford it.

Forcing myself to breathe slowly—counting to four on the inhale and four on the exhale, like the last ER doctor taught me—I weave between the tables, past Mrs. Henry, who leaves me her newspaper coupons as a tip. Past the window booth where local college students camp out for hours nursing cups of coffee and sharing plates of fries. Past his booth—still empty, but it's only eight pm.

"Finally!" The businessman at table six barely looks up from his phone as I set his plate down carefully, plastering on a fake smile. "This better be hot."

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

He waves me off, already shoveling a heaping forkful of meatloaf special into his greedy mouth. At least he's not like the jerk at table four who keeps accidentally brushing my hip every time I pass.

The bell over the door chimes, and my heart rate kicks up as he walks in. His presence fills the room and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up in a way that's not entirely unpleasant.

Tall, dangerous-looking, with dark gray eyes that seem to see everything. My big, tattooed, rough, tough, and gruff leather-clad biker.

My?

No, he’s not mine. Not in real life, anyway, only in my late-night fantasies.

He never says much, just orders black coffee and whatever's on special. Tips way too much.

Tonight he has another biker with him, but I can hardly focus on anyone else when he's in the room. Our eyes meet for a brief but profound moment before I look away, my pulse jumping erratically.

Calm. Stay calm. You’re not fully medicated.

I busy myself refilling sugar dispensers, very aware of the two enormous bikers settling into the usual booth. From the corner of my eye, I watch him. His cut—I've learned from Sons of Anarchy that that's what they call those leather vests—has a patch that tells me he’s not only in a motorcycle club called Shadow Reapers, he’s the president.

"Coffee?" I manage to keep my voice steady as I approach his table, pot in hand.

He nods once, pushing his cup forward.

It's our usual dance—I pretend I don't notice how he watches me, he pretends he's just here for the crappy diner food.

In the harsh overhead lighting, the scars on his knuckles stand out starkly against tanned and weathered skin. I wonder, not for the first time, what kind of stories those scars could tell.

“The special tonight is meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas,” I recite automatically, though he probably knows our daily special rotation as well as I do by now.

“That’ll work." His voice is low, gravelly. As usual, it sends deliciously warm tingles through my lower belly and straight to my core.

He cocks a brow at the biker beside him who nods. “Make that two.”

I'm turning away when my heart does that thing again—that sickening flutter-stop-flutter. The room spins. I reach out a hand to steady myself, but my suddenly numb fingers miss the table entirely and I stumble. Before I can fall, his large, scarred, calloused hand shoots out catching my elbow.

His touch is electric. Warm. Strong. For a single moment, I let myself lean into it, imagining what it would be like to have someone like this man—powerful, fierce, ruggedly handsome—to lean on.

What would it feel like to have anyone to lean on?

I almost laugh at my ridiculous self. I'm a hot mess of a diner waitress who can barely afford to feed and clothe herself, and he's... Dominant. Commanding. Fearsome. So ripped his muscles have muscles. He’s way out of my league.

"Thank you," I whisper, carefully extracting myself from his grip. Is it my imagination, or do his fingers linger just a fraction longer than necessary?

I top off cups of coffee and wipe down tables, very aware of him when a soft, wobbly voice catches my attention.

"Dear, I think I might be a bit short tonight.” Mrs. Henry is sorting through the pile of nickels and dimes with her arthritic fingers. I move to assist her, grateful for the distraction from the intense stare that I can actually feel on my skin.

"Let me help you count that, Mrs. Henry." She's a sweet, grandmotherly type. The kind of grandmother I longed for as a child.

"Oh dear, I think I'm fifty cents short." Her voice quavers with embarrassment. "Perhaps I could come back tomorrow?—"

"No, no, you have the exact amount,” I interrupt, covertly slipping two quarters from my tip pocket and adding them to the cluster of coins. "See? Perfect amount."

Her weathered face breaks into a relieved smile, and for a moment, the crushing weight of my own problems lightens. Small kindnesses are all I have to give, but sometimes they're enough to add a little sunshine to dark days and dreary nights.

Grateful, Mrs. Henry presses a thirty five cents off coupon for laundry booster and a twenty five cents off coupon for sugar pops cereal into my hand as though she’s gracing me with a thousand dollar tip before securing her rain hat over her helmet of blue-grey hair.

I risk a glance at his booth. He's deep in conversation with his companion, his powerful fist wrapped around a coffee mug that looks small and delicate in his massive grip. As if sensing my attention, he looks up, catching me staring. Heat floods my cheeks, but I can't look away. There's hunger in his gaze, raw and primal, and something else—something that looks almost like concern.

My heart leaps in my chest. No one has ever drawn these feelings from me like he does. Never this sizzling awareness that's like electricity shooting through my veins.

"Order up!" Jimmy hollers.

As I pass it, my reflection in the chrome coffee machine shows dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide.

My pulse quickens as I approach his table. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws me in despite—or maybe because of—the threatening air of danger emanating from him. I've never seen him smile, not once, but his eyes follow my movements with an intensity that makes heat bloom across my skin.

I slide the plates of tonight's special in front of the hulking bikers.

"C-can I g-get you anything else?" I ask, mortified by my sudden stutter.

He shakes his head, his penetrating eyes never leaving my face. Cheeks burning, I hurry away before I can embarrass myself further.

The rain has let up but there are huge puddles flooding the cement sidewalks and asphalt roads. My apartment will definitely be soggy. But I can't think about that. I have exactly four and a half minutes until my shift ends. Then I have to change in the bathroom, and make it ten blocks through the rain-drenched streets to empty trash cans, scrub toilets, and vacuum carpets. I have to focus on the here and now—one thing at a time. Survival skills 101.

"Mira." Dave, my manager, beckons from behind the counter. His smile is unpleasant. "Need to see you in my office after your shift."

My stomach drops. Last time he wanted to see me in his office, he spent twenty minutes explaining how understanding he could be about my schedule if I was more understanding about his needs. I'd rather work double shifts for the rest of my life than be understanding about Dave's needs.

"Actually, sir, I can't stay late tonight. I have to leave right after?—"

His eyes drag down my body lasciviously. "Don't make me write you up for insubordination." His tone carries an ugly edge that makes me shrink into myself. "It wasn't a request."

Crap.

The thought of being alone with Dave makes my stomach turn, but I need this job. At least until I can build up some savings from my new night cleaning position.

A shadow falls across the counter, and the temperature in the diner seems to drop ten degrees. I look up to find him standing there. I hadn't even heard him move. His broad shoulders and muscled arms are covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath his leather, and his massive frame radiates barely contained violence as he stares down my manager.

Dave takes an involuntary step backward. "Is there something you need?"

The biker's presence alone fills the space with menace. "Her shift is over. She's leaving. Now." His low growl leaves no room for argument.

Even so, Dave—never the sharpest tool in the shed—opens and closes his mouth several times as though he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. He looks like a fish. Finally, after a long moment, his face turns beet red and he mutters something about checking inventory before practically running to the storeroom.

This man, this stranger, exudes danger from every pore. I should be frightened. Instead, my treacherous heart flutters, and my crush on him deepens.

When his gaze shifts to me, there's something in those storm-gray eyes that makes me feel...seen. Protected. Wanted.

It's terrifying how much I crave that feeling.

So much so that I wonder if I'm imagining it. Seeing only what I want to see. Am I?

But I don’t need to be thinking about that right now. Don’t need to be thinking about the way his brief but memorable touch both soothed and aroused me simultaneously.Or how for that short-lived moment, I felt...safe.

He returns to his booth without a word, leaving me trembling for entirely new reasons.