Fake Smiles and Real Problems
1805 Words
Chapter 9: Fake Smiles and Real Problems
Maya learns something about herself that morning. She's a really good liar.
Not the kind of liar who tells elaborate stories or weaves webs of deception. She's the quiet kind. The kind who smiles when she's supposed to, laughs when it's appropriate, and keeps the real stuff locked in a box somewhere behind her ribs. She's been practicing this particular lie for years — first with Derek, then with herself, and now with four bikers who have no idea that her phone buzzed with a threat last night.
She comes downstairs at nine. Her hair is brushed. Her face is washed. She's wearing a clean shirt — borrowed from Jesse's endless stash of band tees — and she's even managed to find mascara in her bag. She looks fine.
She feels like glass.
The bar is already open. A few early customers sit scattered at tables: an old man reading a newspaper, two women whispering about someone's divorce, a trucker who fell asleep in the corner booth and nobody has the heart to wake.
Jesse is behind the bar, polishing glasses. He looks up when she walks in. "Well, well. Sleeping Beauty rises. You look less dead."
"I feel less dead."
"Liar."
She ignores him and grabs her apron from the hook. Ties it around her waist. Checks the register. Wipes down the counter. Falls into the rhythm like she's been doing it for years.
Knox comes out of the office around ten. He's holding a clipboard and frowning at it — paperwork, probably, because even biker presidents can't escape paperwork. He glances at Maya. She gives him a small nod. I'm fine, the nod says. Don't ask.
He doesn't ask. But his eyes linger. Just for a second.
The morning passes. Maya pours coffee. Serves a grilled cheese. Wipes down the same table three times because the old man with the newspaper keeps leaving crumbs. She's good at this. The repetitive motion, the simple tasks, the way the world shrinks to the size of the bar and nothing beyond it matters.
Then the door opens, and the world gets bigger.
The man who walks in is not a regular. Maya can tell immediately. Regulars have a certain shuffle — a comfort, a familiarity. This man stands in the doorway like he's sizing the place up. He's tall, lean, wearing a leather jacket that's newer than anything in The Rusty Cage. His hair is dark and slicked back. His smile is sharp.
And he's looking right at Knox.
"Long time no see, brother," the man says.
The bar goes quiet. Even the old man stops rustling his newspaper.
Knox sets down his clipboard. His face doesn't change, but something behind his eyes does. Something cold.
"You're not my brother," Knox says.
The man laughs. It's a nice laugh — warm, easy, completely fake. "Still holding a grudge? Come on. That was years ago."
"Years don't change certain things."
Jesse has stopped polishing glasses. His knuckles are white on the rag. Tank appears in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. Ghost is suddenly there too, leaning against the wall near the men's bathroom, invisible until he wasn't.
Maya feels the shift. The air is tighter. Heavier.
The man looks around the bar, taking in the tension. His eyes land on Maya. He tilts his head. "New hire?"
"She's none of your business," Knox says.
"Everyone's my business, Knox. You know that." The man walks to the bar, slides onto a stool, and smiles at Maya like they're old friends. "I'll have a whiskey. Neat."
She looks at Knox. Knox gives a tiny nod. She pours. Her hand doesn't shake. She's proud of that.
The man takes a sip. Makes a show of savoring it. "Not bad. You always did know how to pick a bar."
"What do you want, Cole?"
Cole. Maya files the name away. An enemy, apparently. Or something worse — an old friend turned enemy, which is always more dangerous.
Cole sets down the glass. "I want to talk. Man to man. About old times."
"There are no old times."
"There's always old times." Cole's smile doesn't waver. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Just passing through. Thought I'd say hello."
"You said hello. Now leave."
Cole laughs again. Stands up. Puts a hand on his chest like he's been wounded. "You wound me. After everything we've been through?" He looks at Maya one more time. His eyes linger on her face, her hands, the way she's standing too still. "Take care of this one, Knox. She seems... special."
He walks out. The door swings shut behind him.
The bar exhales.
Jesse is the first to speak. "What the hell was that?"
Knox doesn't answer. He's staring at the door, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Knox," Maya says. Soft. Careful. "Who is he?"
Knox looks at her. For a moment, the mask slips. She sees something raw underneath — guilt, maybe. Or grief. "Someone I used to know. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before I became who I am."
He walks to the office. Closes the door. Doesn't come out for an hour.
Jesse pulls Maya aside. His voice is low, serious — a version of Jesse she hasn't seen before. "Cole used to be in the Reapers. He and Knox started the club together. Brothers, like he said. But Cole got greedy. Started making deals with people Knox didn't trust. There was a fight. Cole left. Took half the members with him."
"What happened to them?"
"They started their own club. The Vipers." Jesse spits the name like it tastes bad. "They're bad news. Drugs. Guns. Stuff we don't touch."
"And now he's back."
"Now he's back." Jesse runs a hand through his hair. "This isn't good, Maya. Cole doesn't do anything without a reason. If he's here, it's because he wants something."
They both look at the office door. Closed. Locked.
Maya thinks about her phone. About the text. About Derek's shadow reaching across state lines. Now Cole's shadow too. Two threats, converging on the same small bar.
She's not the only one with secrets.
She goes back to work. Pours coffee. Serves a sandwich. Wipes tables. Smiles when she's supposed to.
But the glass is cracking.
End of Chapter 9
- Writer
