Ride or Cry

Breakfas⁠t of‍ (Broken) Cha​mpions

RIDE OR CRY

"You're telling me the coffee machine is held together with duct tape and prayers?" Maya asked, staring at the ancient contraption like it had personally offended her. "That's not a coffee maker. That's a death trap."

Jesse leaned against the counter, watching her with obvious amusement. "It's been like that for years. We've learned to live with it."

"Learned to live with it? It's spitting steam like it's about to explode." She took a cautious step back, her eyes fixed on the machine like it might attack her. "I'm not dying for caffeine. I've survived too much to be taken out by a malfunctioning coffee pot."

"You might have to. That's the only coffee in town. We don't have a Starbucks. We don't have a Dunkin'. We have that machine and whatever prayers Jesse mutters at it every morning."

"Then I'll become a tea drinker."

"Heresy." He clutched his chest like she'd stabbed him. "You can't say that in a biker bar. That's like walking into a church and saying you worship Satan. That's like ordering a salad at a steakhouse. That's like—"

"I get it. Tea is forbidden." She shook her head. "Fine. I'll risk the death trap."

Knox appeared in the doorway, a towel slung over his shoulder, his dark hair still damp from a shower. His eyes found Maya immediately, and she felt that familiar heat crawl up her spine. He had that effect on her—like she was standing too close to a fire. "She's got a point. The machine is a piece of shit."

"Thank you!" Maya gestured at him triumphantly. "Finally, someone with sense."

"I said it's a piece of shit." Knox walked behind the counter and gave the machine a firm smack. It shuddered, coughed, and produced a stream of black liquid that was probably more tar than coffee. "But it works."

"That's not working. That's surviving."

"Same thing."

"Different intentions."

He looked at her, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. That rare, devastating smile that made her stomach flip. "You're going to fit in just fine."

Jesse groaned. "Oh great, another one. You're going to corrupt her, aren't you? She's going to start fixing things with violence and leather."

"I already fix things with violence and leather," Maya said. "It's my brand."

Jesse stared at her. "I think I'm in love."

"Get in line."

Knox handed her a chipped mug of the questionable coffee. She took it, their fingers brushing, and felt that familiar jolt of electricity. Her skin burned where he'd touched her. "Drink up. You've got a long day ahead of you."

"A long day of what?"

"Learning how to survive in Nowhere."

---

The bar was closed for the morning, which meant Maya had time to explore. She wandered through the space, taking in the details she'd missed the night before. The walls were covered in faded photographs—bikers, women, old cars. A pool table with felt so worn it looked like a shedding dog. A jukebox that was probably older than she was, its glass cracked and its selections stuck on country music. A ceiling that had definitely seen better decades, stained with water marks and the residue of a thousand cigarette smoke clouds.

"Pretty depressing, right?" Jesse appeared beside her, handing her a rag. "But it grows on you. Like a fungus. A really persistent fungus that you can't get rid of no matter how hard you try."

"Thanks. That's so inspiring."

"I try." He nodded toward the counter. "Knox wants you to learn the register. He says you're working tonight."

"I'm working tonight?"

"You're working tonight." He grinned, nose ring glinting. "Welcome to the glamorous life of a biker bar employee. You'll be serving beer, wiping tables, and listening to sad country songs until your ears bleed. It's basically a dream job."

"That sounds amazing."

"It's not. But you'll learn to love it. Everyone does. It's like Stockholm Syndrome, but with more alcohol."

She followed him behind the counter and stared at the ancient cash register. It looked like it belonged in a museum. The keys were worn smooth, the numbers faded. "How do you even use this thing?"

"Very carefully." Jesse pressed a series of buttons, and the drawer popped open with a loud ding. "It's not complicated. You just have to remember the sequence."

"What sequence?"

"The one that works." He shrugged. "It changes every week. Knox likes to keep things interesting."

"Knox likes to make things difficult."

"Same thing."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

---

The first customer arrived at noon. An old man with a limp and a trucker hat that had seen better days. He shuffled to the bar and squinted at Maya like she was a mirage in the desert. "You're new."

"Very observant. You must be a detective."

"Who's the smartass?" he asked Jesse.

"That's Maya. She's our new smartass."

"I like her." The old man sat down on a stool, his joints creaking. "Beer. Whatever's cold."

Maya looked at Jesse. Jesse looked at her. "I don't know how to pour a beer," she whispered.

"Figure it out."

"Excuse me?"

"You're resourceful. Figure it out. That's how we do things around here. Trial by fire."

She glared at him, then turned to the taps. There were four of them, each with a different label and a different color handle. She picked one at random and pulled the handle. Beer exploded everywhere—on her hands, on the counter, on the old man's trucker hat.

He didn't even flinch. "First time?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You got foam in your hair, kid."

Jesse was doubled over, laughing so hard he was crying. He was slapping the counter, tears streaming down his face. "I told you. I told you she'd be a disaster. I've never seen anyone mess up a beer pour that badly."

Maya wanted to die. Instead, she grabbed a rag—not the blue one, she'd learned that lesson—and wiped down the mess. She tried again, slower this time, carefully pulling the handle at the right angle. A stream of amber liquid filled the glass, settling into a perfect pour with a creamy head.

"Here." She slid it across the counter. "Sorry about the hat."

The old man took a sip. Grunted. "Tastes fine. You'll learn."

She rang him up on the dinosaur register. It only took three tries. Progress.

"My name's Earl," he said. "And you're gonna be just fine, kid."

She didn't believe him. But she smiled anyway.

End of Chapter 4