Page 1 of Kingston (Angels Halo MC Next Gen #14)

Chapter One

Kingston

Fighting back a yawn, I walked through the front door of Aggie’s so bleary-eyed, it was a wonder I’d made the drive in one piece.

Morning shifts at Aggie’s were something I avoided like the plague.

I normally worked lunch through dinner, cooking and prepping, then going over to Hannigans’ and closing the bar with my dad, uncles, and cousin before dropping into bed.

I hadn’t been asleep an hour when I’d gotten the call from my dad that our opening cook had called out and the guy who came in later in the morning wasn’t answering his phone.

Which meant only one thing. My mom would be in there slinging hash, waiting tables, and a million other things to keep our diner running as smoothly as always.

But as long as there was air in my lungs, she wouldn’t have to struggle.

Mom’s needs outweighed everything else, including my own. Sleep was for the weak anyway.

Aggie’s might look like a hole-in-the-wall, but we’d been voted as having the best food in five counties for the last two decades.

It was why we were the busiest food service business in town.

Tourists put us on their bucket lists when they did their cross-country drives, vlogging and TikToking, or whatever the fuck it was they did these days.

They kept us in the kinds of Yelp reviews that made Mom all giddy, so I wasn’t going to bitch and complain.

“Don’t rush or anything. Fucking starving here, but whatever,” someone groused as I stepped past the row of customers seated at the counter where Opal, our best waitress second to Mom, was pouring coffee for the old-timers.

They basically lived at the diner. Some walked in as soon as the doors were unlocked, coming and going throughout the day for another cup of Joe and whatever dinner plate was on special. Then they left when we locked up.

Those old men got information all over town before the local news could, before cell phones and the internet were a big thing, and they still did a better job of spreading the word than any social media site.

Lifting my eyes, I found my gaze catching on a heavyset man with a trucker hat pulled down low on his head.

His shirt was too small and didn’t cover his ass crack as he leaned forward so he could try to stare at Opal’s rack a little better.

He wasn’t a local, but he wasn’t unfamiliar either.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t know that I was the cook.

Beside him, Fred, who I was sure was the oldest resident in Creswell Springs, sloshed his coffee as he picked it up, spilling the hot liquid across the counter and onto the trucker’s lap.

“Goddamn!” the trucker shouted, trying to stand as fast as he could, but that was hard to do, given the stools were bolted into the floor and his belly was bigger than Santa’s on a cookie bender.

“Watch what you’re doing, you stupid old fool. ”

“Sorry ’bout that, young man. Parkinson’s.

” Fred didn’t sound all that apologetic.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him use the Parkinson’s excuse, usually to get out of trouble with a tourist who had wandered into the diner.

I wasn’t sure if he’d accidentally—definitely on purpose—spilled his coffee on the trucker because of the way the motherfucker had been ogling Opal or for what he’d said about me hurrying.

Knowing Fred, it could have been either or both or something completely unrelated.

Old Fred was a wrong things for the right reasons kind of person, so I let him do whatever the fuck he wanted. Especially since he always looked out for my mom.

Opal unhurriedly mopped up the counter with her rag, pushing the liquid toward the trucker, who was still standing there.

Cursing half under his breath, he swiped at his clothes like that would magically alleviate the burning sensation, not seeming to notice the waitress was adding to the growing stain on his huge potbelly.

With her free hand, Opal poured a fresh cup of coffee for Fred, while his five friends continued talking as if nothing had happened.

It was still early, not even six thirty yet, but the booths and tables were starting to fill up.

It didn’t matter what day of the week it was, we were rushed from opening to closing.

It was both a blessing and a curse to be the best of the best. Everyone wanted our food, and I was happy to feed them when I’d had enough sleep.

“Order up!” Mom called, placing two plates in the pass-through window that separated the kitchen from the serving area behind the counter.

Seeing her blond hair already coming loose from her ponytail, I picked up my steps. Her blue eyes widened then narrowed when she spotted me. “I told your father not to call you,” she said with a huff when I entered the kitchen.

I crossed my hands over my massive chest, pausing long enough to attempt to give her one of those serious looks like she used to give me that made my skin feel all itchy and tight.

At five, fifteen, or thirty-five, I still felt like that whenever she turned that stern gaze on me.

But she was half my height, so dang tiny and precious.

There was nothing I wouldn’t do for this woman.

I honestly didn’t know how a woman so small had given birth to someone as big as I was and survived.

No one ever talked about why I was an only child, but given my size alone, I could guess that she’d had complications that had traumatized her.

And if not her, then definitely my dad. He loved her so fucking much.

If anything ever happened to her, it would kill him.

Maybe he’d begged her not to have more kids. I didn’t know, because no one ever talked about it, and I’d never asked either of them before. Between work and all my cousins running around for me to play with, I was sure neither of them had minded that I was an only kid.

“If he hadn’t and I’d found out you were in here all on your own, I would have been pissed, Ma.”

Wiping her hands on her towel, she shrugged. “I’ve had to handle worse before.”

Her answer only frustrated me more. Growling and grumbling under my breath, I shrugged off my jacket, tossing it onto the hook along with my other stuff and grabbing my apron.

“But you don’t have to handle anything on your own now.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You have me.

I’m here. Take a break. I’m going to start on the pancakes. ”

“Fine. But only because I have to go potty.” I couldn’t help but smile at her when she said shit like that.

I was thirty-five years old, and she still used words like “potty” with me.

I helped my dad run a biker bar after I left Aggie’s most nights and was a patched brother of the Angel’s Halo MC.

Vulgar was an understatement for the kind of language we used at the club.

But my mother was a real-life angel, and no one could make me believe otherwise.

Pushing up my sleeves, I washed my hands and dived into the stack of orders waiting. I’d grown up in Aggie’s kitchen, could walk around it with my eyes closed and still cook an entire meal without burning the place down. Aggie’s brought me the kind of comfort home was supposed to.

“Hey Kingston,” Opal called, and I looked up from the grill to glance at her through the window. “Demi is here.”

I cocked a brow. “And I’m supposed to know who Demi is?”

“She’s dropping off the pastries.”

“Okay, cool.” I flipped a row of pancakes before plating the next order for a platter with extra eggs. Setting the plate in the window, I called, “Order up!”

“Kingston,” Opal muttered, looking annoyed as one of the other waitresses hurriedly grabbed the plate. “Demi is waiting.”

“There’s a display out there she uses,” I dismissed, setting down fresh pancake batter. It was an endless cycle. I preferred cooking lunch and dinner to breakfast.

“She needs to be paid,” Opal said as discreetly as possible, her face pinched.

My head shot up at that. “The fuck you say! She already got paid at the beginning of the week. What kind of bullshit is this chick trying to pull?”

I was aware my mother had an arrangement with some single mother who needed a little extra cash.

She made decent-enough baked goods from what everyone who raved about the muffins said.

I’d never actually gotten to eat any of it, mostly because by the time I got to the diner, they were sold out.

Customers had been enjoying the extra goodies and they were aware those items weren’t made in-house, so I didn’t have an issue with it.

But I hadn’t thought much about it, really.

It was a mornings-only thing, and I didn’t work mornings.

What I did know of the situation was that Mom paid her suppliers and vendors on Mondays.

No matter what—and that included the single-mom baker.

That was something I was aware of because we were business partners, and I had to sign off on the books every month just like she did.

Since it was now Thursday, I knew that Demi, or whoever the fuck she was, had already gotten her money, and she wasn’t getting another penny until Monday.

Opal gave me a look like she was disappointed, shaking her head.

I didn’t give two shits what she thought of me.

No one was going to take advantage of my mom.

“Tell her to take the fucking muffins and go if she wants to be a bitch about it. But she already got paid this week. This is a business, not a goddamn charity. And I sure as fuck won’t be letting some cunt try to con my mom out of cash she didn’t earn. ”

Turning my attention back to the grill, I was just in time to save the eggs from overcooking.

Mr. Gregor was a grumpy bastard, and that only got worse if his eggs weren’t perfect.

Eggs runny, bacon extra crispy but not burned, home fries heavy on the peppers and onions, toast light brown and not a shade darker.

Coffee as strong as an ox. It was the same order every morning.

I remembered him repeating it when I was five and pretending to take orders while I ran around the diner before school.

Aggie, who had been the original owner of the diner and the closest thing to a grandmother I’d had, used to tell me that it was the exact same order he’d had way back when the diner first opened eighty years ago.

“You’re making a mistake, Kingston,” Opal hissed.

Without looking up again, I waved my spatula and then plated the eggs and bacon.

Turning with the plate in hand, I was about to grab the toast when something nailed me directly in the face.

Stunned by the surprise attack, I dropped the dishes in time to protect myself from the next foreign object that was aimed right at my head.

“Bitch?” Another missile was thrown at me.

“What the fuck?” I shouted, grabbing a frying pan and using it as a shield. “ What the fuck! Are you crazy?”

“Con?” I got nailed in the chest. Whatever the hell-raiser was throwing didn’t hurt. I’d been shot more than once, and the impact of whatever I was getting hit with barely registered. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t, or wouldn’t, change.

“Jesus, you lunatic…”

Lifting the pan carefully, I took in my attacker. Her arm was already raised, what looked like…. Was that a muffin in her hand?

Once I was sure that it wasn’t a gun or a grenade or even a rock, I took in the woman herself.

Something uncurled in my chest, my heartbeat thumping in a way that suddenly seemed to vibrate through my entire body. All the air rushed out of me in a whoosh as a crackling of electricity lit up my veins.

Fucking gorgeous.

She was a little bitty thing, maybe five feet in shoes.

My mom was small, but even she had height on this woman.

In comparison, I was a giant to her, towering over her by at least a foot and a half.

Her long strawberry-blond hair, with its natural highlights of gold and red that caught the light, swung around her shoulders as she slung the pastries at me.

I batted away the muffin with the frying pan on autopilot.

Her pixie nose scrunched up, her lush lips twisting in anger as she grabbed another from the container she held in her free hand.

“Don’t worry, you piece of shit. I won’t be bringing my muffins back to this stupid diner ever again. I don’t need or want your charity, you fucking asshole. I just wanted to be paid what I’m worth.”

Her voice trembled as she launched another muffin at me, the sound causing an echo of pain deep, deep inside me. Between that and watching her lips move, I was so distracted that I didn’t duck in time, getting smacked in the face with a double-chocolate muffin. “I hope you choke on it, dickhead.”