Broken Wings and Burning Roads

CHAPTER 5

“No,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “Just the ones who look like they’re trying real hard not to fall apart.”

And damn him—he winked. Not playful. Not sweet. Like a dare. Like he knew just how to knock down the last bit of armor I had left.

Then he turned and walked off like a goddamn storm on two legs, climbing onto his bike with the same quiet authority he wore like a second skin. He didn’t look back.

The engine roared to life, and a moment later he and the other two MC presidents disappeared down the road, thundering away like ghosts wrapped in chrome.

I blinked, cigarette down to the filter, fingers shaking again.

Definitely the weirdest f*****g day of my life.

Back inside, I swept up the broken ceramic and whatever was left of my composure.

When I returned to the booth, it was empty—but not forgotten. Left behind was a folded napkin, a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and five words scrawled in bold, slanted handwriting:

“Your time is wasted here.”

What the hell does that even mean?

I stared at the note like it might bite me, then slid it into my apron, heart thudding against ribs that suddenly felt too tight.

No time to process. Not today.

Bob's voice croaked from the kitchen, snapping me back into motion like a puppet on fraying strings.

And just like that—I was back on stage.

Back inside the diner, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap fryer oil wraps around me like a chokehold. I toss the broken pieces of ceramic in the trash, fingers still trembling, apron damp with nerves and sweat and spilled caffeine.

Before I can even breathe—

“Sadie. Office. Now.”

UGH. Here we go.

I follow the raspy voice to the back, past the flickering exit sign and the crusty employee calendar with two years’ worth of missed birthdays.

Bob’s already waiting in the office, slouched behind his desk like a greasy toad. He gestures at the chair across from him, but I stay standing. My skin already itches from being in here too long.

“You embarrassed the diner,” Bob wheezes, trying to sound stern, but there’s a glint in his beady little eyes that makes my stomach turn. “Cups aren’t cheap, sweetheart.”

“Neither is dignity,” I mutter.

He chuckles, like we’re sharing a joke. Like this is all some big misunderstanding. Then he leans back in his chair, buttons screaming for mercy against his gut, lips twisting into something vile beneath that patchy excuse for a mustache.

“Look,” he says, licking his lips like the slimeball he is, “we can work something out. You bend over that desk for a minute or two, I forget the whole thing. Maybe even bump your pay.”

The air in the room turns solid. My heart doesn’t just beat—it slams against my ribs.

Time slows. Then snaps.

I see red.

And fire.

And every damn reason I ever ran.

“You know what, Bob?” I say softly. Sweetly. Like honey before the sting. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Broken. b***h. Even a bomb about to go off. But no one—no one—has called me desperate.”

His grin fades, a flicker of confusion crossing his piggy face.

I step closer.

And then?

I move.

Fast.

My knee drives straight up between his legs with all the fury of every woman who’s ever been cornered, talked down to, or treated like disposable flesh.

The sound Bob makes is something between a wheeze, a squawk, and a prayer. He doubles over, hands between his legs, face turning the color of spoiled meat. Chair skidding back, papers flying, everything a blur of chaos.

I rip my arm from his flabby grip as he reaches out, trying to hold on to anything. I twist hard, and his sweaty fingers slide right off me.

“I quit,” I snarl, “you crusty, greasy motherfucker.”

And then I raise both hands.

Double middle fingers. Full salute.

“Here’s a double dose of goodbyes.”

I don’t wait for a reply.

I storm out of the office, through the kitchen, past the grill cook’s wide-eyed stare. The bell over the door rings as I shove it open. The cold air rushes in like a high-five from the universe.