Page 11
Amelia
The lunch rush hit like clockwork at Jessie’s Diner.
I balanced three plates along my left arm while my right hand gripped a fresh pot of coffee.
I’d been here a few weeks now, and I still hadn’t gotten used to how these folks took their coffee -- strong enough to strip paint and dark as midnight.
Nothing like the sugary Cuban blends back in Florida.
I weaved between the red vinyl booths, dropping off burgers and fries with practiced efficiency, my ponytail swinging as I pivoted between tables.
“Need a refill, hon?” I asked the trucker in booth three, already tipping the pot toward his cup before he nodded.
The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of hot air followed a group of men inside. One of them wore a leather vest over a faded T-shirt, the scent of motorcycle exhaust clinging to him like cologne. My hand trembled slightly, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.
“Careful there,” the trucker said, steadying my wrist with calloused fingers.
I muttered an apology and moved on, but my mind had already slipped backward through time, the diner’s chatter fading to the pulsing bass from a Florida dive bar seventeen years earlier.
The first time I saw Piston, he’d been leaning against his Harley outside The Rusty Nail, a cigarette dangling from lips that curved into a smile when I walked past. The moon hung low and yellow, casting him in dangerous shadows that should have been a warning, not an invitation.
“Where you headed, sweetheart?” he’d called out, his voice rough like gravel under tires.
I should have kept walking. Instead, I’d stopped. “Nowhere special.”
“That’s a damn shame.” He’d pushed off his bike, stepping into the light. The Devil’s Minions patch on his leather cut gleamed against the black leather. His fingers had been warm when they brushed mine, offering me a cigarette I didn’t want but took anyway.
The memory of his bike’s engine still vibrated through me -- the way it had rumbled between my thighs that first night, his broad back solid against my chest as we tore down A1A with the ocean a dark blur beside us.
The wind had whipped my hair into knots, but I hadn’t cared.
I remembered pressing my face between his shoulder blades, breathing in leather and sweat and something dangerous that made my heart skip.
“Order up, Amelia!”
I blinked back to the diner, taking the plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes from Ronnie’s weathered hands. He raised an eyebrow at me. “You with us today, girl?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, loading up my tray. “Just thinking.”
Thinking about how Piston’s kisses had tasted like whiskey and promises -- promises that had started to crack the moment Chase was born. How quickly his charm had curdled into control, his smile into a sneer.
I delivered the meatloaf special to the elderly couple by the window, refilled three more coffee cups, and wiped down a vacated table.
My reflection caught in the chrome napkin dispenser -- brown eyes that had seen too much, the tiny scar near my hairline that the makeup couldn’t quite cover.
I still vividly remembered when I’d gotten it.
Three days. He’d been gone three days without a word, and I’d had the audacity to ask where he’d been when he finally stumbled home reeking of cheap perfume and cheaper booze. Chase had barely been crawling then, asleep in the next room, and I was already pregnant with Levi.
“You questioning me?” Piston had growled, grabbing my upper arm so hard I felt the bruise forming instantly.
“I was worried,” I’d whispered, already knowing it was the wrong thing to say. Worry implied he couldn’t take care of himself. Worry implied ownership.
The wall had come up fast against my back, his forearm across my throat. “You don’t worry about me. You don’t ask about me. You take care of my kids and keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Later, I’d stood in our bathroom, examining the purple fingerprints blooming on my arm, the angry red mark across my throat.
I’d pulled out my concealer, expertly dabbing it over the evidence before my shift at the diner back then.
Different diner, same skills -- balance plates, smile through pain, hide the bruises.
Any cuts or open wounds had been harder to deal with.
They probably thought I was a klutz as many times as I tripped and fell.
Well, if I’d actually done that. I couldn’t very well have said my husband beat the hell out of me.
I’d gotten good at turtlenecks in Florida’s heat, and at making excuses. “Walked into a door.” “Fell down the stairs.” “Just clumsy. You know me.”
The coffeepot was empty. I headed back to the kitchen, passing a booth where a young mother struggled to keep her toddler entertained. She looked tired but happy, her husband’s arm draped protectively around her shoulders. Nothing like Piston’s arm across my throat.
“You need a top-off of your sweet tea, sweetie?” I asked her, and she nodded gratefully. I went to swap out the empty coffeepot for a pitcher of sweet tea.
As I poured, I watched her child scribble with crayons, his little face scrunched in concentration. Just like Chase at that age. Just like Levi. My boys, the only good things to come from those years of hell.
I straightened my apron and grabbed a fresh pot of coffee.
It had only been a few weeks since I’d found the courage to come here.
The boys were settling in nicely, or so I thought.
As for me… I still felt the need to constantly look over my shoulder.
Especially after I got word a few days ago that Piston was searching for us.
I pasted on my best waitress smile and moved on to the next table. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. That’s how we survived.
The lunch rush trickled to a halt around two-thirty, leaving me with a moment to breathe.
I leaned against the counter, massaging my lower back where an ache had settled after hours on my feet.
The diner hummed with the quieter sounds of afternoon -- forks scraping plates, ice clinking in glasses, the muffled conversation of the few remaining customers.
I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, my mind drifting back to the night that had changed everything, the night I’d decided I’d waited long enough and we were leaving.
I’d found myself reflecting on the past rather frequently of late.
Mostly wishing I’d done something sooner.
Maybe if I’d known about the Devil’s Boneyard or the Dixie Reapers months, or even years ago, we could have escaped Piston before now.
When we’d decided to let the Devil’s Boneyard help us, I’d thought we were crazy to trust someone in an MC.
But after meeting Scratch, I’d decided he’d seemed kind, and genuinely wanted to help us get away.
It didn’t mean we’d relaxed our guard. We’d lived through too much pain and fear to do such a thing.
The clatter of dishes brought me back to the present. I blinked, realizing I’d been wiping the same spot on the counter for God knows how long. I dropped the rag and grabbed my order pad, moving to check on the few remaining tables.
That’s when I saw him.
He sat in the corner booth, angled to see both the door and the windows -- a habit I recognized from years with Piston.
His silver beard contrasted starkly with the black leather cut he wore, and I knew the Dixie Reapers patch would be prominent on his back.
Even seated, I could tell he was tall, his broad shoulders taking up most of the booth’s width.
But it was his eyes that caught me -- deep brown and watchful, focused on me with an intensity that made me freeze, coffeepot suspended mid-pour over a customer’s cup.
Hammer. He’d been one of the men to pick us up at the bus station.
“Uh, ma’am?” The customer tapped the table, snapping me back to attention.
“Sorry,” I murmured, finishing the pour and moving quickly to the next table, acutely aware of the biker’s gaze following me.
My body tensed automatically, muscles remembering years of survival instincts around men in leather cuts. But something else stirred too -- the knowledge that this man represented safety now, not danger. The Dixie Reapers had given us a fresh start. They stood between us and Piston.
Still, old fears died hard. I wiped my suddenly damp palms on my apron, deliberately avoiding his table until I’d served everyone else. Finally, with no more excuses, I approached him, coffeepot held like a shield.
“More coffee?” I asked, proud that my voice didn’t shake.
He nodded, pushing his cup forward, his weathered hands covered in faded tattoos. I poured carefully, feeling the weight of his assessment.
My world had changed so completely. Not even a month ago, a biker watching me would have meant danger -- Piston sending one of his brothers to keep tabs on me. Now, it might mean protection. The problem was, my body couldn’t tell the difference. It just knew to be afraid.
My shift continued, and I kept an eye on the biker.
Even though he’d finished eating long ago, he remained, ever vigilant.
At some point, I’d stopped being quite as hyper-aware of him.
Now, hours later, the late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the diner’s worn linoleum floor.
My shift would end in twenty minutes, but Hammer showed no signs of leaving.
I’d deliberately saved his section for last as I wiped down tables and refilled salt shakers, postponing the inevitable. My uniform stuck to my back in the Alabama heat, and I could feel a headache building at my temples -- from stress or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell anymore.
“Amelia, honey, you can head out early if you want,” Jessie, the owner, called from behind the counter. “We’re dead as a doornail anyway.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11 (Reading here)
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46