“I’m taking a break,” I say, grabbing the rag and tossing it into the sink.
Wayne doesn’t even look up from the register. “You just took one.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You leaned on the bar for twelve seconds.”
“That doesn’t count.”
He finally glances at me over the top of his glasses, already suspicious. “Rae.”
I point a thumb toward the back hallway. “Bathroom.”
His eyes narrow because we both know that’s a lie.
“You’re going to stick your nose in something that’s not your business.”
I flash him my sweetest smile. “You raised me better than that.”
Wayne sighs the long suffering sigh of a man who has been dealing with my nonsense for a decade. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“No promises.”
Before he can say anything else, I slip out from behind the bar and head down the hallway that leads to the kitchen and the back door. The sounds of the bar fade behind me as I push through the metal door and step outside into the cool night air.
The back lot of The Rust Nail is dim except for one crooked streetlight that throws a weak yellow glow over the gravel. The smell of motor oil and dust hangs in the air, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks once before going quiet again.
I stop just inside the shadow of the building.
And there they are.
The three idiots from earlier are standing about twenty feet away near the edge of the lot, but they’re not alone anymore.
The quiet guy from the bar is standing in front of them with his back to me.
Up close he looks even bigger than he did inside. Broad shoulders under a black leather cut, dark jeans, heavy boots planted solid on the gravel like he’s not planning on moving anytime soon. The light catches the patch on the back of his vest and my eyes narrow slightly when I make out the lettering.
Iron Reapers MC.
Well.
That’s interesting.
I’ve seen those guys around town before, usually riding through in packs that make half the county nervous, but they’ve never caused trouble in here. Wayne always said they were the kind of men who mind their own business unless someone gives them a reason not to.
Looks like someone just did.
I lean my shoulder against the side of the building and cross my arms, staying in the shadows where nobody can see me. Fromhere I can see everything, but the wind carries their voices the wrong direction and I can’t hear a damn word they’re saying.
The man in the cut stands perfectly still while the three idiots talk at him. One of them gestures angrily with his hands, clearly trying to throw his weight around, but the biker barely reacts. He just tilts his head slightly like he’s listening.
Something about the way he stands makes it obvious who’s actually in control of the conversation.
Even without hearing him speak, the tension in the air shifts.
Then the guy takes a slow step forward.
The three men immediately stop talking.
