Page 13

Amelia

The Wednesday lunch rush had just begun to taper off when I spotted him through the front window.

Black leather cut with the Devil’s Minions patch, a Prospect rocker where a full member would have his road name.

My coffeepot tilted mid-pour, scorching liquid splashing across the table and onto my customer’s lap as recognition hit me like a physical blow.

The Devil’s Minions. Piston’s club. They’d found us.

“Jesus Christ, lady!” The trucker jumped up, napkins clutched to his soaked jeans.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t even set the pot down properly. It clattered against the table edge, more coffee sloshing over the rim.

The Prospect lounged against a streetlight, pretending to check his phone, but he kept slightly turning his head and glancing toward the diner.

He was young -- maybe early twenties -- with the hungry look of someone eager to prove himself.

Those were the worst kind. The ones who’d do anything for their patch. Anything Piston asked.

“Hey, you okay?” The trucker’s irritation had shifted to concern.

I couldn’t answer. My chest had constricted, each breath shallow and insufficient. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as sweat beaded along my hairline despite the air conditioning. I gripped the edge of the table, the room spinning slightly as blood rushed in my ears.

“Amelia?” Jessie called from behind the counter. “Everything all right over there?”

My mind flashed to a night three years ago -- Piston dragging me by my hair through our kitchen after I’d answered a text from my cousin.

“Who the fuck is Michael?” he’d demanded, my scalp burning as he twisted his fist tighter.

“You fucking some guy behind my back?” The memory of my head slamming against the refrigerator door made my temple throb in phantom pain.

“Amelia!” Jessie’s voice was closer now, her hand on my arm. “Honey, you’re white as a sheet.”

I tore my eyes from the window, struggling to focus on her concerned face. “I… I need to go. Family emergency.”

“What happened?” Her eyes darted to the mess on the table, then back to me.

“The boys,” I managed. “School called. Chase is… sick.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but Jessie was already nodding.

“Of course, honey. Go take care of your boy.” She squeezed my arm. “Don’t worry about this. I’ve got it covered.”

I mumbled thanks, my eyes drawn back to the window like a magnet. The Prospect had moved, stepping into the shadow of the building across the street. But he was still watching. Still waiting.

My fingers fumbled with my apron ties, the simple knot suddenly as complex as a puzzle box. After three failed attempts, I yanked it over my head instead, nearly taking my ponytail with it. I hung it on the hook by the kitchen door, missing twice before it caught.

“Here.” Jessie handed me my purse from beneath the counter. “You sure you’re okay to drive? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Just worried about Chase.”

Through the front windows, I could see the Prospect moving again -- this time toward a motorcycle parked across the street. My stomach lurched as he swung his leg over the seat, but he didn’t start the engine. Just repositioned it for a better view of both the diner’s front door and the side alley.

He knew. He knew we lived above the diner. Unless it was a coincidence, but my gut said Piston had sent him to find us.

My purse slipped from my shoulder, hitting the floor with a thud . Lipstick, keys, and loose change scattered across the linoleum. I dropped to my knees, scrambling to gather everything, aware of how exposed my back felt to the windows.

“Amelia, for God’s sake, leave it,” Jessie said, crouching beside me. “I’ll get this. You go check on Chase.”

I nodded, cramming items back into my purse with trembling fingers. As I stood, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I had to grab the counter to steady myself.

“I’ll use the back door,” I said, not wanting the Prospect to see me leave.

Jessie’s forehead creased with worry. “You sure you’re all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Something close to it. The ghost of my past life. The ghost of the monster I’d thought we’d escaped.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, edging toward the kitchen. “Just worried about Chase.”

In the kitchen, the cook gave me a curious glance as I hurried past. The back door stuck as it always did, requiring a hard shove with my shoulder.

Outside, my gaze swept the empty back lot, searching for any sign of another biker.

Nothing. Just dumpsters and the old Honda parked in the corner.

The club had given it to me last week so we’d no longer have to walk everywhere. Just as a loaner.

I looked over my shoulder every three steps, keys clutched between my fingers as a makeshift weapon the way women have taught each other. As I approached my car, I checked underneath it, behind it, even in the back seat before unlocking the door and sliding behind the wheel.

Only when I had the doors locked and engine running did I allow myself a full breath. It caught in my throat, morphing into a sob that I quickly swallowed. No time for that now. My hands shook so badly I had to try three times to shift into reverse.

In the rearview mirror, I watched the back door of the diner, half-expecting the Prospect to burst through it at any second. Nothing moved except a stray paper bag tumbling across the lot in the breeze.

I backed out too fast, tires squealing slightly. As I pulled onto the street, I kept my gaze locked on the mirrors, watching for the Prospect’s bike. No sign of him following. Not yet. But they’d found us. Somehow, they’d found us.

My mind raced faster than my car as I sped toward the boys’ school. We needed to move again. We needed help. We needed the Dixie Reapers.

* * *

I ran two stop signs and barely touched my brakes at a third, glanced at the rearview mirror every few seconds.

The school was only ten minutes from the diner, but it felt like hours.

My knuckles bleached white against the steering wheel as I took a corner too fast, the tires protesting with a squeal that made my already frayed nerves jangle.

A Prospect. A fucking Devil’s Minions Prospect in our new town.

It wasn’t coincidence. They’d tracked us somehow.

A motorcycle appeared in my mirror, and my heart lodged in my throat before I realized it was just an old man on a Honda Gold Wing -- nothing like the Prospect’s Harley.

Still, my foot pressed harder on the accelerator, the Honda’s engine whining in protest as I pushed it past sixty on a thirty-five mph road.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered under my breath, my mind racing through possibilities.

Had I slipped up somewhere? Had one of the boys contacted someone back in Florida?

Had someone in Florida seen us leaving? Or had Piston’s reach always been longer than I’d estimated?

Sure, they’d said he was trying to find us.

But some part of me had hoped he’d never figure out where we were.

The high school came into view, its red-brick walls and American flag a picture of normalcy that felt obscene against my panic.

I jerked the wheel, pulling into the first parking space I saw -- a loading zone clearly marked “NO PARKING.” The car rocked as I slammed on the brakes, my seat belt catching painfully across my chest.

I checked all my mirrors one last time before killing the engine. Nothing. No motorcycles, no leather cuts, no hint of pursuit. But that didn’t mean they weren’t coming. Prospects never worked alone. They were always just the eyes and ears for someone higher up the food chain.

I made it to the front door and pressed the buzzer. A woman’s voice came over the intercom. “May I help you?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m Amelia Decker. I need to pick up my sons Chase and Levi. Family emergency.”

It was quiet for a moment before she responded.

“Hold your ID up to the camera, please.” I did as she asked. “I’ll buzz you through. When you come through the doors, take the door on the right.”

I heard the buzzer and I popped the door open, then went through the entrance she’d told me about.

The main office smelled of copier toner and stale coffee, an administrative blandness that clashed with the adrenaline coursing through my system.

The secretary looked up from her computer, mild irritation crossing her face at the interruption.

“Can I help you?” Her drawled question carried just enough Southern politeness to mask her annoyance.

“I just spoke to you, or someone. I’m Amelia Decker. I need to pick up my sons,” I said, the words tumbling out too fast. I forced myself to slow down. “Chase and Levi Decker.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Both of them?”

I nodded, trying to look appropriately hassled rather than terrified. “Family emergency.”

“I’ll need to see your ID,” she said, holding out her hand.

My fingers trembled as I fumbled with my wallet, nearly dropping it before extracting my driver’s license. Why had they asked to see it before I entered the building if they were going to ask for it again? The secretary examined it longer than necessary, glancing between my face and the photo.

“I’ll call them down,” she finally said, reaching for the phone. “Have a seat.”

I perched on the edge of a plastic chair, my back to the wall so I could watch both the office entrance and the windows overlooking the parking lot.

Each second that ticked by on the wall clock felt like a minute, each minute an hour.

My legs bounced with nervous energy, heel tapping against the industrial carpet.