Hearts of Winter (Bleeding Angels MC Book 2) (5 page)

I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed working at the diner, at least a little bit.  Before everything, it had been a period of time that got me out of the sad house I was living in. Besides, it was a way to earn money to get out of this town.  I liked chatting with the regulars, overhearing snippets of conversation that would make me laugh.  The diner and its regulars were a little community. It had seemed like a safe haven, set apart from the stark realities of Painted Rock

That had changed since the fire.  Word had clearly spread through the town that I was on the Angel’s list, and no one wanted to run the risk of being tarnished by association.  The friendly regulars whose order I knew by heart pretended that they barely even knew me.  That in itself is a pretty difficult task, bearing in mind what a small town Painted Rock is and the fact that everyone knows everyone’s business. 

“How’s Janet getting on?  She must be almost full term now,” I say as I refill one of the regular’s coffees. 

I’d known Nolan since I was a little kid, and his daughter had been a few years ahead of me in high school.  We’d been talking about how proud he was of her and how excited he was over having a little grandkid.  Now it seemed like he could barely wait for me to leave his general vicinity.

“Oh yes, fine, fine,” Nolan says quickly, nodding and looking down at his coffee again without giving anything more away.

I’m hurt, but I try not to show it.  I need to get used to being treated this way by the people around town.  It’s unlikely it’s going to change anytime soon.  “Well, give her my best,” I say to the older man, turning and heading back to the safety of the kitchen.

As I go to collect the all day breakfast order that truckers seem to favor at this ungodly hour of the morning, George catches something in my expression.

“What’s up?” he asks in his typically brief manner.

“Nothing,” I answer, shaking my head.  The guy has just given me my job back—the last thing I want to do is to complain about the fact that the customers don’t want to be my best friend anymore. 

“Give them time,” he urges, quietly. 

My head snaps up to look at George, but he’s concentrating hard on the eggs he’s frying.  He still has the power to surprise me with his intuition.  He doesn’t let on that he’s watching and taking everything in, but that’s exactly what he’s doing.

The bell over the door chimes angrily, signaling a customer has just walked in.  I grab the breakfast plate on my way out, fixing a welcoming smile on my face to greet the walk-in.  But the smile slips from my face as soon as I see the two men that have just come through the door.

Blondie and Baldy, as I had christened them, are smiling their wolfish smiles.  I lay the plate of food on the counter. My hand is shaking so much that I’m afraid I may drop it.  I’m faced with the two men that terrorized the diner on collection night and stabbed George through the hand with no warning and no remorse.

The last time I saw them, they were standing with the other Bleeding Angels, watching my home burn while I negotiated with Scar.  It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that they were some of the last people that I had hoped to see, especially on my first night back working at the diner. 

“I’ll show you gentlemen to a booth in a second; I just need to deliver this.” I nod towards the plate that I’ve deposited on the counter.  My voice sounds much steadier than I’m feeling, and I feel proud of myself at being able to distance myself from them with a little professionalism.

“No worries, Aimee,” Baldy says, smiling through his cracked teeth.  “We’ll show ourselves to our seats.  Don’t you worry your pretty little head about us.” Both he and Blondie almost collapse with laughter.

They’re standing so close to the counter that I have to brush against them to get past.  I know it’s not my imagination that they both lean in even closer to me as I move past them.  I have to force myself not to recoil at the smell of booze that comes off them in waves.  They smell like they’ve been bathing in the stuff.  I know from experience that if there’s anything worse than having a couple of Angels in the diner, it’s having a couple of
drunk
Angels.

I deliver the food as quickly as I can and rush back to the kitchen.  As the doors swing shut behind me I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself. Forcing myself not to get out of control.  Slowly, my heart rate evens out and my breathing returns to as close to normal as it’s going to get while the bikers remain out there.  I look up at George, and underneath his olive skin, his face has gone white.  I don’t need to tell him who has just walked in; it’s clear that he already knows.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him, sounding more certain than I feel. 

“Be careful,” George says, his voice loaded with meaning.  “This is the first time they’ve been back since…” He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. We both know what he’s talking about.

I nod quickly, re-adjust my uniform if only to kill some time, and head back out onto the floor.  I scan the diner quickly and see that a couple of the tables are scrambling for their wallets.  They steal not particularly subtle glances at the two leather-clad men and hurry towards the door.  The bell chimes repeatedly as all but a couple of the diners exit the building as fast as they can without drawing attention to themselves.  I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, although not surprised, when I see that Nolan is one of them.

I take a deep breath and bite the bullet.  “What can I get you?” I ask, pulling the pad and pen out of my apron, focusing on the notepad rather than looking at the men in front of me.

“Why don’t you bring out some of that whisky your colored friend keeps in the back?” Blondie asks.  I can feel his eyes on me without even looking at him.

“You know we don’t serve alcohol here,” I remind them, still concentrating on the pad of paper in front of me.

“Oh,
they don’t serve alcohol here
,” the Blonde one says in a high-pitched tone, mocking me.

“You’re on borrowed time, little girl,” the other man warns me, and he slams his palm down hard on the table, making me jump.  “Get us a drink and keep that smart mouth of yours shut before someone shuts it for you.” His voice is threatening and rough.

The blonde guy laughs in response, obviously thinking this is the best fun they’ve had in ages.  I can feel my anger starting to rise, but I swallow it down almost immediately.  I can’t afford to make these men angry.  I know that as well as they do, which gives them power over me. And that’s something that I can barely stand.

I obey orders, not saying anything, and head back into the kitchen.  I don’t have to tell George about it—he’s heard everything and next to the swing door is a tray with two glasses and a fresh, unopened bottle of whisky. I wordlessly pick up the tray and head back out to the diner.

Approaching their booth, I slow down and listen to their conversation.  They’re so drunk they’re talking much louder than they probably should be. Not that anyone would ever challenge them.

“Little bitch needs to be taught a lesson,” Baldy notes, shaking his head in disgust and twirling his knife on the table.  I swallow hard, remembering that same knife going through George’s hand like it was butter.

“Forget about her, she’ll get what’s coming to her soon enough. The boss’ll see to that,” the Blonde one notes.  “What time is it?” he asks.

“2.30,” Baldy replies and I have to bite down my immediate sarcastic response that I’m surprised he knows how to read the time.  Of course, it’s a digital watch.  “30 minutes until the truck comes through. Just keep your eyes peeled in case it’s early.” He nods in the direction of the highway that’s visible from their seats.

It was one of the reasons that Sunny Side Up had survived when so many other businesses in Painted Rock were going under one after the other, falling like dominoes.  Being so close to the highway, we still got business from truckers who were willing to try their luck with the Angels or clueless road-trippers who hadn’t even heard of the bikers. 

The possibilities run through my head as I reach the table.  They stop talking and their silence feels even more oppressive than their drunken threats.  I place the glasses and bottle in front of them, keeping my mouth shut the whole time, just like they’d ordered.

“See it’s not so hard, is it, sweet thing?” Blondie asks as I’m about to go.  “You’re so much prettier when you don’t talk.” I stop myself from responding by digging my nails into the softness of my palm. 

“Baby, you’re killing me with that sweet ass of yours.” Baldy laughs loudly, but it sounds more like a growl.  It’s rough and harsh and the opposite of what a laugh should be.  Then he does something that a few days ago would have whirled me into a rage.  He slaps me on the ass,
hard
.

A few days ago I would have said something, called him out, called him any number of names under the sun.  But now things are different and I’m more than aware that I’m balancing on a knife’s edge with the Bleeding Angels.  I’m not willing to run the risk of making them angry.  A deal is a deal, after all, but you could only ever trust the Angels so far.

“Yeah, bet you like it rough, little girl,” Blondie jeers at my back, and both men laugh so hard it sounds like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

I go back into the kitchen to give myself some time to process what’s just happened.  I grab my phone out of my pocket, ready to tell Jake what’s going on at the diner, but I stop myself.  I know exactly what he’d do if he knew that I was here with two Angels.  Nothing good would come of it.  I slip the phone back into my pocket and run through the conversation I’d heard between the two men.

“You alright?” George asks, pulling out a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it hurriedly.  He never smokes in the diner. This was a first and it was just a signal of how screwed up everything was getting.

“I’ll be fine. I’m sorry they came here again,” I tell George, leaning against the gigantic refrigeration unit.

“It’s not your fault.” He sounds certain, but I’m not so sure.

“You don’t think it’s a little too much of a coincidence that they haven’t been back since that night? And now, during my first shift back, they appear as if by magic?” I ask, pointing out something that George has probably already thought about.

George shrugs in reply, taking another slow drag of his cigarette.  His shoulders relax as the nicotine hits his system and I wonder absently if I should take up smoking.  “Did you think they were going to just let you go?  You’re smarter than that, Aimee. They’ll be keeping tabs on you until whatever deal you’ve made with them has run its course,” he explains, keeping his voice matter-of-fact and unfeeling. But the concern in his eyes tells another story.

I shake my head, refusing to let the tears of frustration and helplessness make their way out of my eyes.  “I guess I figured they’d leave us alone, at least for a little while,” I admit, aware of how naive that must sound.

We stare at the floor, both silent, neither knowing what to say.  Eventually, my mind drifts back to what I’d overheard the bikers talking about and the thought fills me with nervousness.  “I think they’re on a job,” I tell George, keeping my voice low. “They’re watching out for a truck.” Understanding dawns on George’s face, but he doesn’t say anything.  “We have to do something,” I insist.

“What?” he asks, stubbing out his cigarette and folding his arms to look at me.  “What should we do?  Call the cops?” he asks.  He shakes his head, answering his own question.  We both know that there is no point.  The cops would make sure they arrived after the crime had already been committed, and there wouldn’t be any way to place the blame.  Not only that, but the Angels would no doubt be alerted to the fact that the call had come from the diner.  From there, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out who needed to be taught a lesson.  The residents of Painted Rock had learned a long time ago that it didn’t pay to be a rat.

“So we don’t do anything,” I say, shaking my head.  In my opinion, not speaking up puts you in league with the criminals.  It’s the kind of silence that has allowed things in Painted Rock to get to this extreme state.

“Let it go, Aimee,” George tells me softly, laying a huge hand on my shoulder.  “They’ll rip off the truck, and the driver will be bought off and warned what’ll happen to him if he blabs about who stole his load.” He shrugs, as if to say, “that’s all.”