I look up at the clock for the hundredth time. This day seems like it’s never ending. The diner is about dead. We never get a lot of traffic on Mondays, but today is worse than normal. Usually, Charlie sends me home on days like today, but the other girls called in sick so I’m all she has. The end of my shift is only thirty minutes away. Surely, I can make it thirty minutes? We only have one customer right now. I guess I should be thankful. It’s been so slow, I haven’t had to deal with a lot of people. I’m still a mess from the night of the storm, and I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to push me into a panic attack.

After the mental pep talk, I start wiping down the bar. Charlie’s Diner is a small Main Street café in the center of Whitley City, and calling Whitley a city is silly. I’ve seen cities, and this definitely is not one. We have one street, (Main) and one flashing caution light, because the road dead ends without warning. That’s it. You literally have to pull into a parking lot and turn around to leave the small town. The only thing in town is this diner, the courthouse, a local bank, and an old Five and Dime Store, which is really like a Dollar General store, but they never changed the name with the times. If we want to go grocery shopping, to the movies, or even a chain restaurant, then we have to drive at least two hours away. The only other businesses in town are the clinic where unfortunately I am forced to go to the doctor, and Pastor Sturgill’s church.

Maybe that’s why I like the place though. I’m never going to be comfortable around people, and though most of the people here don’t like me, at least I know what to expect from them. The unknown monsters can be scarier than the monsters you know.

Charlie’s looks like a diner on the set of American Graffiti. Chrome barstools, and red leather fabric with the booths and bar matching. This diner is far from fancy, and the only thing that probably doesn’t belong is the country music that Charlie blasts from an old radio and cassette player she keeps behind the bar. It’s obviously a throwback from the eighties when breakdancing and boom boxes were all the rage.

I jerk up out of my thoughts when I hear the bell ring, indicating someone opened the door. I’m hoping it’s the waitress who is taking over my shift this evening. The smile I have ready freezes on my face when I see Michael instead. My mouth goes dry, and I bite my lip. I know it’s horrible, especially considering all that work he did, even in the pouring rain, but I haven’t spoken to him since that night three days ago. I should have gone by and thanked him. I really should have thanked him when he cut the tree up and had it stacked by the house so I could use it as firewood. I didn’t. I just keep remembering how he didn’t exactly receive my thank you so well the first time around. Okay, mostly I just chicken out, afraid to face him again.

I kept repeating my mantra about being stronger. I kept picking up the leftover banana bread to take to him. I never did. I had to throw out the bread this morning. Where Michael is concerned, I’m definitely not growing stronger.

I watch as he scans the room. His eyes flit across me, and I think I see his face tighten in response. He doesn’t want to see me either. That causes a curl of sadness to unfold in my stomach. Which is crazy. I mean, it’s okay that he doesn’t like me. Still, he was nice to me. Other than Charlie and Pastor Sturgill, no one has really been nice to me before—at least not without wanting something.

He sits down at a corner booth, still intimidating me. I’m not sure if it’s the fact he’s so tall or the way he looks. Even through all the hair, you can tell he has a harsh face, angular in shape. He has scars and although they look painful, they do nothing to take away from the virile face that stares at me. It’s his eyes that may scare me the most. So dark and deep, I’m afraid they see through me. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt today with writing on it. I’m curious as to what it says, but I can’t make myself stare long enough to read it. Inhaling a deep breath, I let it out, grab a menu, and go to take his order.

“Hi, Michael,” I greet him, and I know my voice comes out timid and quiet, but at least I used words. In response, he only manages a grunt. I know he can talk; he did at the house, but apparently, I’m not worth the effort today. Getting his order should prove interesting. “Here’s the menu. The special today is meatloaf. Do you need time to look at the menu, or do you know what you want?” He looks up at me then, and it must be said, the look he’s giving me indicates even louder than before that he really doesn’t want me to be here. “Right. I’ll just give you a little time. Do you know what you want to drink?”

“Coffee.” It’s one word, and he didn’t even bother to look at me when he gave it. But I guess it’s better than a grunt.

Leaving him with his menu, I go to get his coffee, bringing it back to him just as the bell on the door rings again. I look up and my heart stops…freezes mid-beat…then stutters back to life as fear ignites through me. My hand trembles and hot coffee sloshes out on my hand. Even the hot, stinging burn doesn’t jar me as the two men come in the door, heading straight for me.

“What the fuck?” Michael’s hoarse voice growls, and it breaks through enough of my panic to see he’s reaching for the coffee, probably because I’ve just poured the scalding liquid all over my hand and down on his legs.

“I’m so sorry,” I cry, still not really feeling the pain on my hand. It’s red. Logically, I know it has to hurt, but there’s too much panic and adrenaline running through me. I place the coffee carafe on the table—or rather I try. I might have succeeded if Jack and Dog hadn’t sat down. Instead, it misses the table and crashes to the floor in a shattering crash that echoes through the room. I feel like I have a million eyes on me, which isn’t rational, but that’s how I feel.

Michael jerks his leg, as more of the coffee hits him before making it to the floor. Shit.

I’m saved—kind of, when Charlie comes from behind me. She puts her arms on each of my shoulders. I jump, making a bigger mess.

“I’ll take care of it honey. Go in the back,” Charlie says, her graveled old voice, softening to an almost tender quality. She’s holding two towels and wraps one gently around my hands.

“Fucking up as usual, hey Tricks?” The sound of that old nickname forces bile to rise in my throat. I hate them. God, how I hate them. What are they doing here? They never come here. I bite my lips, refusing to turn around and look at them.

“Go into the back, honey. Now.”

I nod weakly, and I might have been okay, but I look down at Michael. That was a mistake. A big mistake. Michael is returning my stare, but I’ve seen that look before. That look they all have. The look that every man gets when he hears the name the Shadow Dwellers Motorcycle Club gave me. A name I hate. A name I can’t stand. A name that has tears threatening to spill from the brims of my eyes now. One lonely tear escapes as I turn away from him, and run away into the kitchen. Today, I can’t even pretend I’ll be stronger someday.