Daddy’s Little Secret: Rejected by the MC President

Chapter 2

She holds my gaze for another moment, then smiles and slips the key into the drawer beneath the desk. “Of course it is.”

I know she doesn’t believe me but she doesn’t press and that somehow makes me more grateful than if she had.

“Have a good day, Maria,” she says as I turn toward the entrance.

“You too,” I reply before walking away.

Outside, the morning air hits my face, and I cross the parking lot toward my aging Honda, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill. I unlock the car, climb inside, and close the door, but I don’t start the engine right away. Instead, I sit there with both hands resting on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield as every possible way this could go wrong starts fighting for space inside my head.

Someone from work could drive past and recognize me.

One of Dominic’s brothers could notice my car.

Bethany could hear about me.

That last thought makes my stomach twist, so I cut it off before it can grow into something bigger. Bethany is no longer his wife. She’s his ex-wife, and Dominic made that clear to me. They have a history, a long one, and she still moves around the same world he does, which means she’ll never feels completely distant no matter how many miles sit between her life and his.

I tell myself that shouldn’t bother me.

But It does.

Maybe because she knew him before I did. Maybe because there are parts of his life she understands without needing them explained, parts I can never compete with because I wasn’t there to witness them.

I start the engine and pull onto the highway before I can talk myself into doing something stupid.

By the time I reach my apartment, the sun is already high, and I have to park beside the dumpster because every other space is taken. I grab my bag, climb the narrow stairs to the second floor, and stop outside my Apartment, where the peeling number is barely hanging onto the door.

“Home,” I mutter, staring at it for a second. “If five hundred square feet and a questionable plumbing system qualify.”

I try the door, but the lock sticks like it always does. I keep working the key while pressing my shoulder against it, pushing harder until it finally gives. I step inside, pull the door shut behind me, and glance toward the living room, where the television is still on.

“f**k,” I mutter, staring at the screen. “I forgot to turn it off again. There goes my light bill. I’m so f****d. It’s going to go up again.”

Other than that, everything looks exactly as I left it, from the thrift-store couch and chipped counter to the little succulent on the windowsill that somehow refuses to die despite the fact that I keep forgetting to water it. It isn’t much, but it’s mine, and for a few seconds, that feels like enough.

I drop my bag beside the couch and strip off yesterday’s clothes, tossing them into the washing machine before reaching for the detergent. The moment I open the bottle, Dominic’s cologne rises from the clothes, and I freeze with my hand still around the cap because suddenly I’m back in that motel room, feeling his hands on me and listening to another promise I wanted desperately to believe.

I blink, shake my head, and pour in the detergent before starting the machine.

My phone rings on the kitchen counter.

The caller ID says Lisa.

I pick it up and answer while leaning against the counter. “Please tell me you’re not calling because you need something.”

“I need you,” Lisa says, and the noise of the restaurant comes through the phone behind her. “The lunch rush is about to start, and I’m short a person.”

I close my eyes and look at the clock. “You know I was supposed to have the day off.”

“I know, which is why I’m asking nicely before I start begging.”

“You’re already begging.”

“I’m absolutely begging.”

I laugh despite myself. “Fine. I’ll be there for lunch.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Lisa says, sounding instantly relieved.

“I’m charging interest,” I warn her.

“Put it on my tab,” she jokes.

“You don’t have a tab,” I remind her.

“Then I guess you’ll have to take fries as payment,” Lisa says.

“I get those for free already,” I point out.

She laughs, and I find myself smiling as I hang up.

Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed in my Burger Barn uniform with my name tag pinned above my left pocket.

MARIA.

I grab my keys, lock the apartment behind me, and head downstairs, slipping back into the routine that has become the safest part of my life because nobody at work cares who I spend my nights with. They only care whether I show up on time, whether table six has ketchup, and whether the fry station is running low.

The drive takes less than ten minutes, and by the time I pull into the employee parking lot, the breakfast rush is thinning out. Construction workers are already coming in for an early lunch, and the smell of grilled beef, fresh coffee and hot fries reaches me the moment I open the door.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Lisa calls from behind the counter, balancing two trays on each hand.

I glance at the clock before looking back at her. “It’s practically afternoon.”

“You’re here, so I don’t care what time it is,” she says, shifting the trays against her hip so she can look at me. “I already told the manager you were coming.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“No, you’re lucky you came in before the lunch rush got ugly,” she shoots back, and I laugh as I tie my apron around my waist.

The laugh feels good.

Too good.

For a few seconds, I’m just Maria again.

“Where do you need me?” I ask, grabbing my order pad.

“Front section. I don’t see anyone there,” she says, nodding toward the dining room. “And try not to scare the customers.”

“I make no promises.”

She shakes her head, smiling as I head toward the kitchen.

Heat rolls over me the moment I step through the doorway, followed by the hiss of burgers hitting the grill and the smell of fries disappearing into hot oil. Someone calls out an order while another cook complains that we’re almost out of tomatoes, and the familiar chaos settles around me until there’s barely room in my head for anything else.

“Maria!” my manager calls from the office doorway.

I turn toward him with my order pad in hand. “What?”

“Can you handle the front section?”

“Already on it,” I answer, heading toward the dining area.