Unlikely Allies Part 3
1023 Words
The night in Mack’s Diner is a liminal thing, a space between yesterday’s problems and the morning’s fresh hell. By three a.m., the world outside is nothing but a smear of fog and sodium vapor, the streetlights growing halos and the parking lot turned to wet obsidian. Inside, the vinyl booths are empty, even the truckers gone. Only the TV keeps talking, replaying infomercials to nobody.
Rhonda and Vondrel end up in the same booth as before. It’s not a decision, exactly—more like inertia, both of them too tired or too stubborn to pick a new spot. The remains of their eggs have been cleared away, leaving just the coffee, still bad, still hot, and two plates of pie with melting scoops of vanilla.
She pokes at her slice, letting the syrup run into the ice cream, then scoops a forkful and points it at him. “So, what’s the real reason you showed up tonight?”
He cuts a perfect triangle of pie, chews, and swallows before answering. “Wanted to see if the legend was true.”
She snorts, half amused, half wary. “What legend?”
“That you rebuilt a ‘78 Shovelhead with nothing but duct tape, luck, and the wrong manual.”
She stares, then barks out a laugh. “That story is bullshit. I had the right manual. The luck was extra.”
He actually smiles, teeth and everything. “Most people would have sold the bike for scrap.”
She shrugs, licking a smear of ice cream from her fork. “Most people aren’t idiots with a point to prove.”
“Maybe that’s why I respect you,” he says.
She nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”
Vondrel leans back, letting the words hang. “It’s rare, is all. People who do the work. People who don’t quit when things get hard. I’ve spent my life around quitters.”
She eyes him over her fork. “You don’t strike me as a quitter.”
He shakes his head. “No. But I know the type. My mother’s a master at it—quitting on people, on herself. My father was worse.”
She softens, just a little. “You ever want to walk away? From the whole family mess?”
He’s quiet for a minute, gaze fixed on the slice of pie he’s methodically dismantling. “Every day,” he says. “But then I remember—if I quit, it all goes to the wolves. The company, Mark, everything my father built. And I’m not willing to let it rot.”
She nods, slow and thoughtful. “Guess that makes you as stubborn as me.”
He looks up, meets her eyes, and they both hold it longer than is strictly polite.
She’s the first to break, clearing her throat. “You know, you’re not half as terrifying as people say. Annoying, maybe. But not scary.”
He takes the jab in stride. “You’re not so bad yourself, Taylor.”
“Tell that to anyone who’s ever dated me,” she says, grinning.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a warning?”
She laughs, a real laugh, warm and low. “Nah. Just the truth.”
They fall into a rhythm, trading war stories—her first transmission rebuild, his first hostile takeover, the time she set a car on fire and blamed it on a faulty gasket, the time he crashed a company party with a fake mustache and almost got away with it. The waitress keeps the coffee coming, and for once, Rhonda doesn’t mind the caffeine buzz.
At some point, she props her chin on her fist and says, “What about you, Lancaster? Ever do something just because you wanted to, not because it was expected?”
He thinks about it, rolling the question around. “Once,” he says. “I took a job overseas. Told no one. Lived in Zurich for six months, drinking coffee and going to jazz clubs. Didn’t talk to my family the entire time.”
She whistles. “Bet that went over well.”
“They sent a private investigator,” he admits. “Found me in a week.”
She grins. “Let me guess. You went home.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have much of a choice. But for a few days, it was perfect. Like being alive in a different skin.”
They sit in the afterglow of the story, neither needing to fill the space.
Eventually, the clock over the counter hits four. The waitress brings the bill, tucking it between the sugar packets. Rhonda reaches for it, but Vondrel lays down cash before she can.
“Old habits,” he says.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no fight in it.
Outside, the night is cold and clear, the storm having swept the sky clean. Her bike is beaded with dew, chrome catching the streetlight. Vondrel’s car—something sleek, silver, and mostly wasted on city streets—sits a few spaces down.
She zips her jacket and turns to him, keys dangling from one finger. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
He nods, solemn. “Wouldn’t dare suggest it.”
They stand there, awkward, for a beat longer than necessary.
“Take care of your brother,” she says, voice softer than she intends.
He surprises her by answering, “Take care of your sister.”
She smiles, crooked and tired. “Always do.”
She climbs onto the Harley, helmet in hand. He doesn’t leave, just stands with his hands in his pockets, watching.
She fires up the engine, the roar echoing off the buildings. She’s about to pull out when she glances in the mirror.
He’s still there, face unreadable, but he lifts a hand in a wave—not quite a goodbye, more like an acknowledgment. A truce.
She guns it, tearing down the street, the wind peeling away everything but the feeling of having survived something real.
And for the first time in weeks, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t taste like ashes. It tastes like pie, and possibility.
- Writer
