Chapter 1
The carafe jerked before I decided to drop it. My fingers were still locked around the black plastic handle when the glass pot tipped forward and dark coffee slopped over the red laminate counter. It hit the white mug first and the mug shivered in the splash zone, coffee pooling fast around its base and running toward the stainless edge. My grip slipped a half inch on the wet glass. I didn't let go.
The contradiction was right there in my hands. The older man in the black leather vest had his hand clamped over mine on that same handle, holding the carafe steady like we were holding it together, and across the diner the two men by the windows hadn't moved at all. They just stared at us. The lead guy in the olive jacket over his dark shirt had his eyes fixed on the counter where the biker and I were touching, and he looked completely at ease, like he had all afternoon.
My name is Maya Rook and I was twenty-four and on hour six of a double at the Pine Street Diner.
It was just past two o'clock. Lunch rush had thinned to one booth and the pie case humming by the register. Warm daylight came flat through the big windows with the horizontal blinds, cutting the same stripes across the red vinyl booths it always did. I’d been topping off the biker’s coffee when his voice dropped so low I felt it more than heard it.
His gray beard brushed close when he leaned in behind the counter. His breathing was even and I could smell leather and old coffee.
“Pretend I'm your dad,” he whispered.
I stared at him. The carafe was half-full and heavy between us. His hand tightened over mine, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep the glass from sliding out of my wet palm. The tremor in my fingers went straight into the coffee. Another little wave hit the side of the pot.
Up close I could see the patches on his vest and the lines around his eyes. He wasn't smiling. His eyes flicked once toward the windows and back to me, and he gave the smallest nod toward the men, like answer now.
I didn't know what I'd seen in his face that made me believe him, but my throat went dry. My mom had told me my father walked out before I could remember him. No photo on the wall. No name I was allowed to ask about twice. And this stranger was telling me to call him Dad with two guys watching me like they were waiting to see if I'd get the line right.
You’re lying, I thought. But I didn’t say it. I wasn’t sure who the lie belonged to anymore.
The lead man by the windows took a step forward. He didn't come all the way to the counter. He stopped where the light from the blinds cut across his olive jacket and he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
“Come on, sweetheart, your old man needs coffee,” he said.
His voice was easy and loud enough to carry. The second man stayed half a step behind him, hands in his pockets, watching.
The biker didn't look away from me. His hand stayed over mine on the carafe. Coffee was still dripping off the lip onto the laminate, making a dark, spreading stain that crept toward my apron. The white mug sat in the middle of it.
I swallowed. My heart was beating so hard I thought they could see it through my pink uniform. The green order pad in my apron pocket pressed against my hip.
I made the choice before I had a reason for it. If I said no, whatever these men wanted would happen to a waitress alone behind a counter. If I said yes, I was his daughter for as long as they were looking.
“Dad, you've had enough,” I said. I tried to make it sound annoyed, the way a daughter would. My voice came out thin at first, then steadier. I pulled the carafe back just enough to clunk it down harder on the wet counter, like I was cutting him off.
The biker let out a short breath and played along immediately. He eased his grip but didn't let go.
May you like
The man in the olive jacket didn't laugh. He tilted his head and studied my face, then the biker's hand on the carafe, then my face again. He didn't move closer and he didn't leave. He just kept watching, and the look he gave me felt like he was checking whether the word Dad had fit or not.
The coffee kept pooling. Nobody reached for a rag.
