Chapter 2
The coffee kept moving.
It pooled dark against the red laminate and ran toward the stainless edge where my rag always sat. I didn't reach for it. My hand was still locked around the glass carafe with his, his knuckles gray and scarred over mine, and the black plastic lid had popped half off. The heat crawled up my wrist.
The biker didn't let go. He leaned in until his beard brushed my hair and his voice dropped so low I felt it more than heard it.
"They've been watching you," he whispered. "They came for you."
His breath was steady. Mine wasn't. The two men by the windows hadn't moved, but their eyes were fixed on us now, on the spill, on the way he held me. I could see the lead man's reflection in the pie case glass, olive jacket, short dark hair, not blinking.
I turned my face just enough that my lips were near the biker's ear. My voice shook when it came out and I hated that it did.
"Who are they?" I whispered.
He didn't answer right away. He eased the carafe down onto the counter with both our hands, righting it, letting the last of the coffee settle. The second man shifted his weight by the door. The bell above it still hadn't jingled again, which meant they hadn't left and they hadn't come closer. They were waiting to see what we were.
The lead man pushed off the window frame. He came toward the counter slow, his boots quiet on the linoleum, his partner a step behind. The biker's hand slid from the carafe to the edge of the counter, not touching me now, but close enough that his arm blocked mine from their view.
The biker spoke first, louder this time, rough and easy, like he'd used that voice a hundred times at a backyard grill. "She gets nervous when she's clumsy. Don't you, sweetheart?"
I understood. He was giving me a line to stand on.
The man in the olive jacket stopped two stools down from us. He didn't smile. He looked at the spill, at my pink uniform, at the white apron with the green order pad sticking out, then back at the biker.
"Your daughter?" he asked. His voice was flat, polite, not friendly.
The biker chuckled once, dry. "Yeah. She works the lunch shift. I told her I'd stay out of her way, but she keeps pouring my cup even when I tell her I shouldn't."
He tapped the white mug in front of him. It was empty.
The man didn't look at the mug. He looked at me. "How long she been here?"
It was a test. I felt it in my stomach. He wasn't asking the diner, he was asking about me, trying to see if my story matched whatever they'd been told to watch for. My name tag said MIRA in faded black letters. I hadn't thought about whether a dad would call his daughter by a nickname or how he'd know her schedule.
The biker's eyes flicked to me, just a quick check, giving me room.
I swallowed and made myself wipe at the spill with the rag, my hand trembling again but moving. "Almost a year," I said. "Since last August. He picks me up after my shift on Thursdays 'cause the bus don't run late."
It was a lie I'd built from nothing, from the Thursday marker on our specials board behind me and the bus schedule taped to the register for the dishwasher. I kept my voice small and annoyed, like a daughter embarrassed to be watched. "He comes in even when I tell him not to. Says the coffee's better when I make it."
The man studied me a second longer. I forced myself to hold his gaze, then dropped it like I was uncomfortable, like I didn't like being questioned by strangers while my dad was right there. The biker put a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm.
"She's been telling me to cut back," the biker said to the man, shaking his head. "Doctor's orders, you know how it is."
The second man behind the lead guy finally spoke, quieter. "We didn't mean to interrupt."
"Sure didn't," the lead man said, but he didn't apologize. He tilted his chin toward the booths by the windows, the red vinyl ones that looked out onto the highway. "We can sit. We don't need anything right now."
That was the tell. They didn't order coffee. They didn't ask for menus, didn't look at the pie case. They wanted a vantage point.
The lead man stepped back, still holding eye contact with the biker for a beat too long, then turned. Both of them walked to the booth closest to the door, the one where the blinds cut stripes across the table. They slid in opposite each other, jackets still on, hands visible on the table, not touching anything. The olive jacket stayed unzipped, dark shirt underneath. They angled themselves so they could see the whole counter, the register, me.
The bell didn't ring. They were staying.
May you like
Behind the counter, the coffee had stopped running. My rag was soaked dark. The biker reached beside me, took a dry towel from the stack under the counter, and started wiping the red laminate slow, methodically, like we had all the time in the world. His shoulder pressed against mine. We were trapped in that narrow space, the carafe between us, the register at my hip, and two men watching us from the window light who had just made it clear they weren't there to eat.
I kept wiping the same spot, breathing through my nose, trying to keep my hand steady while they watched.
