I’d been working at the coffee shop for less than a year when I first heard about The Wicked Angels.

 

It was a Sunday morning and the place was jumping, just as it always was after church let out. Carly and I were like a well-oiled machine, though, working together seamlessly to keep the line moving. I knew I’d hit the jackpot when I hired her. She needed next to no supervision, totally able to read a situation and go with it. When a shot of espresso was finished brewing, she’d start the next without asking. When a tray of muffins was running low, she’d go to the back to get a new one. She wiped down the tables as soon as customers left so new ones could sit down, kept the milk and creamers full, everything. I knew I could count on her.

 

This left me free to take orders and chat up the customers. “Mrs. Barker! That’s a large no-foam skim latte and a blueberry muffin, right?” I’d ring up the sale, getting things in order while asking whether her daughter had decided on a college yet. Mr. Louis was a small black coffee and a cheese danish. His wife had just gotten one of her knees replaced, so I asked after her and told him to give her my best. The Fosters always brought in their three-year-old, and I gave him a special little treat while I fixed their coffee.

 

This was what I’d always seen myself doing: running a little place the townspeople could visit and feel as though they belonged somehow. Like I cared about them—because I did. When they walked in and heard their order being called out even before they spoke, they felt valued. That’s the sort of treatment that keeps customers coming back for more.

 

“How do you manage to keep it all straight?” Mrs. Foley asked, handing me a ten-dollar bill. “I’d go crazy trying to remember everything and everybody.”

 

“You keep track of all those soap operas you watch,” Mr. Foley pointed out with a chuckle. “All the characters and the storylines.” I laughed along with him.

 

“That’s different. I’ve been watching them for years—she’s only been here six months!” They both looked at me, the picture of a cute little old couple if ever there was one.

 

I shrugged. “I have a good memory, I guess. It comes naturally. Plus, I like you. It helps.” I winked at Mr. Foley, and he chuckled again.

 

“If I were thirty years younger…” he hinted.

 

Mrs. Foley gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. “Try fifty years,” she corrected. “Besides, a pretty young thing like Amanda wouldn’t have the time for you.”

 

Mr. Foley rubbed his shoulder in mock pain. “See how she abuses me?” They both laughed, and I joined them half-heartedly.

 

“If you were young and single, Mr. Foley, I’d give you my number for sure.” I handed them their pastries, thinking they would drop the subject now that they’d been served.

 

“A pretty girl like you should be married, or at least going with somebody,” Mrs. Foley insisted.

 

I bit the side of my tongue to hide my distaste. One thing about living and working in a small town where you knew everybody: everybody knew you right back. At least they thought they did.

 

“You’re such a sweet girl, too. Don’t worry,” she patted my hand reassuringly, “the right fella is out there for you.”

 

“Amanda, another gallon of whole milk!” Carly was working the espresso machine, steaming milk for lattes. I smiled at the Foleys and turned to help her.

 

“Thanks,” I whispered. “That was getting awkward.”

 

“Mrs. Foley’s always trying to fix people up,” Carly explained. “She’s a sweetheart.”

 

I didn’t disagree. I just wished she’d let my business be my business. There wasn’t much about me I didn’t share with others, except my love life. That was off-limits.

 

Awkward conversations aside, I loved the work. I felt energized, accomplished, all because my customers were pleased. Once the rush died down, I went from table to table, saying hi to those I hadn’t gotten the chance to chat with, while Carly manned the register and coffee machines. All the while I reminded myself I was making my mark on the town, which was a fantastic feeling.

 

It was a great little shop, too. I’d only bought it a little over six months before, when the previous owner had to pull up stakes and move across the country to care for a sick parent. Everything was in working order. All I had to do was step in and take over. The best part was, since the move was taking place in such a hurry and he didn’t want to leave the shop abandoned, I managed to get it for next to nothing.

 

I wiped down the tables that had just emptied, feeling proud of what we were building here. Sure, the customer base was already healthy when I took over, but now there was a feeling of family. I heard it time and again, how happy the customers were when they came in and I knew who they were. That’s what I wanted to set me apart—well, that and my baking.

 

“Amanda, this is the best carrot cake muffin I’ve ever had,” I heard one woman say over a mouth full of food. I smiled and reminded her I could always box up a couple for her to take home. My recipes were my babies, and I guarded them with my life. I’d always wanted to go to culinary school. Well, this was the next best thing. Besides, what was the point of culinary school but to have my own bakery one day? I’d pretty much cut out the middle man.

 

Good thing, since I didn’t have the money for tuition anyway.

 

A loud growl sounded outside, and every head turned toward the plate glass windows that looked out onto the street. It was a pretty little street, very all-American, with its shops, striped awnings and leafy trees. The sight of two dozen motorcycles traveling down the center seemed extremely out of place. Their engines roared as they passed by.

 

“Damn it,” I heard one of the customers grumble. “I thought they were gone for good.”

 

Carly came up beside me. “They’re back,” she murmured.

 

“Who are they?” I had never seen them before. They all rode black bikes, all dressed in denim and leather. They were a fearsome-looking bunch.

 

“The Wicked Angels,” she said. I heard disgust in her voice.

 

“Why haven’t I heard of them before? Where did they come from?”

 

“Most of them were in jail, some big thing around a year ago. Destruction of property, suspected arson. They were all on probation for one reason or another, so they all got time for violation,” she explained quietly. “I never heard the specifics, but, suffice it to say, nobody was sorry to see them go. I guess they got out. Their clubhouse is right on the outskirts of town. They’re not allowed to do business inside.” A couple walked in just then, and Carly went back to the register to take their order.

 

A motorcycle club? That didn’t fit the town at all. It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. That’s why I settled here in the first place, just before buying the shop. I heard several customers murmuring among themselves, and I inched my way closer to them. Now that I’d heard of the club’s existence, I wanted to know more.

 

“She was such a sweet girl, too,” one of them was saying. “I never understood why she married him.”

 

“Suspicious,” another one declared, shaking their head. “Never believed it was an accidental death.”

 

“Of course not. Nobody mixed up with that club dies accidentally. Just because she wasn’t a member doesn’t mean she wasn’t part of it.”

 

“I heard he still hasn’t gotten over it.”

 

“Would you? A dead wife and no answers? And the way she died…so awful.” They continued their gossip while I walked away to clear off another table.

 

I thought back to the men I saw riding past. I wondered which one they were talking about. Or was he even riding with the club anymore, considering he hadn’t gotten over his wife’s death? If somebody I loved died tragically, potentially because of what I was mixed up in, I wasn’t sure I’d want to be part of it anymore.

 

I hoped they stayed far away from Main Street from now on, and if they didn’t, I hoped they weren’t in the mood for coffee when they visited. I could only imagine how quickly my customers would fly away to the big chain coffee shops if a motorcycle club started hanging around, no matter how delicious my baked goods were.

 

I made it a point to busy myself and stop thinking about it. After all, no sense in worrying about something that hadn’t happened yet and probably would never happen.

 

I didn’t need any more scary people in my life. I moved to this town to get away from scary people. Or rather, one scary person in particular.