CHAPTER 3
673 Words
The damn bell over the door jingles again—high-pitched and annoying as hell—but I let it slide. Small towns cling to their quirks like rust on chrome. You can’t scrub it off without taking half the paint with it.
I pick the booth farthest from the window and closest to the kitchen—habit. My back doesn't like being exposed. Neither do I.
The place smells like burnt bacon, dollar coffee, and cheap dish soap. Comforting, in a way. Real. It’s the kind of spot where no one asks questions if you come in looking like you’ve wrestled with hell and made it out the other side.
Which I do, most mornings.
The waitress—Sadie—is already here. Her movements are still uncertain, like she’s memorizing choreography one step at a time. New girl. Doesn’t match this town. Too alert. Too guarded. Pretty in a way that makes a man slow down just to see if she’ll look his way.
And when she does, there's something in her eyes that says she’s running from something. Or someone.
I know the look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
She crashes into me—literally—the first time we meet. Practically bounces off my chest and turns redder than a brake light.
Skittish, but quick to recover. I like that. Life will either chew her up or she’ll learn to shoot it between the eyes. Either way, I can’t stop watching her.
It’s not smart. Not for a man like me. Not when this morning, I’ve got two different MCs coming to my town to talk business.
Big business.
They want to plan a legacy ride—three states, seven chapters, a celebration of decades of blood and pavement. Old alliances. Old wars. A history built on two wheels and forged in fire.
And they want me—Talon’s president—to host the kick-off.
That kind of visibility comes with a price. Exposure. The kind of attention we don’t usually welcome. I’ve worked hard to clean up Talon’s image around here, but this legacy ride? It’s going to dig up old ghosts. Ghosts we buried deep.
I glance at the clock. They’re late.
The bell rings again, and like the start of a bar fight, the tension creeps in before the players even sit down.
Two separate men walk in—colors proudly displayed on their jackets. One wears the blazing red phoenix of the Fire Saints. The other, a skull wrapped in blue flames—Grave Sons. They give each other the kind of nod that says, “We’ll play nice. For now.”
They see me and head straight over. But not before Sadie’s eyes flick to their backs. She sees the cuts. Sees the tension. She’s smart. Sharp.
And curious.
I catch her watching them, then glance out the window. Two bikes sit parked beside mine—both Harleys, gleaming and loud even in silence. The kind of machines that speak before their riders do.
And Sadie?
She’s staring at them like she’s trying to remember something she shouldn't.
Then I see it. A flicker of recognition. A shift in her whole body. It’s not the bikes that spook her—it’s something else.
A car rolls by slow outside the diner. Black. Low to the ground. Tinted windows. Out of state plates. I don’t need a second look to know it’s trouble. But Sadie sees it first.
She freezes. Her tray slips from her fingers, and coffee goes flying.
Cups hit the floor. Shatter.
Silence spreads like spilled oil.
Sadie doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t move.
She just stares out the window, like she’s seen a ghost and doesn’t know if it’s real or a nightmare finally catching up.
The Fire Saint and the Grave Son look at each other. Then at me. I raise a hand to pause them. Not now.
I stand, slowly. Walk over to her.
“Sadie,” I say low, like I’m talking to a skittish animal. “You alright?”
- Writer
