And right now every single person in Freedom Falls Diner is pretending they’re not watching me talk to Tucker Bostic.Or, apparently, Mellow as they all know him.
The diner is like a step back in time, vinyl covered bench seats for booth tables, a bar eating area with stools, and the checkered flooring all as if nineteen fifties came back alive, or never died depending on how you want to view it.
I pour more coffee into his cup even though it’s still half full.Busy hands.That’s always been my trick when I’m nervous.“So,” I say, trying to sound normal.“You work at the shipyard?”
His dark eyes lift from the coffee.“Sometimes.”
“That’s helpful.”I have no idea what I’m saying or what he even does at the shipyard.Obviously, it takes man power to run a shipyard, but what kind of jobs are actually needed or available, I have no idea.
A corner of his mouth twitches.“I work wherever the club needs me.”
There it is again.The reminder.Motorcycle club.Dangerous men.The Kings of Anarchy.Still, he’s sitting here drinking coffee like a normal guy at nine in the morning.Not exactly the image people imagine when they talk about bikers.
“What can I get you?”I ask.
He glances at the menu but barely looks at it.“Whatever’s easiest.”
“That’s not how ordering works.”I counter back.
“Then surprise me.”
I stare at him.“You trust diner food that much?”
“I trust you not to poison me.”
The old man beside him chuckles.“That’s a bold assumption, son.”
Tucker doesn’t even glance at him.“I’m feeling optimistic today.”
I shake my head and grab my order pad.“Two eggs, bacon, toast.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hash browns?”I ask feeling like taking his order is similar to pulling teeth.
“Sure.”
I scribble it down and head for the kitchen window.“Order up!”I call.Johnny the cook grunts from the grill.“Got it.”
I linger there for a moment, pretending to straighten plates while my brain tries to catch up with what’s happening.Because this feels strange.
Not bad.Just strange.
Men like Tucker don’t usually come into places like this alone.They come in groups.Loud.Commanding attention.But he’s just sitting there quietly drinking coffee like he belongs.When I turn back toward the counter, he’s watching the room.Not casually.
Carefully.
Like he’s cataloging everything.
The exits.
The people.
The man two stools down who keeps glancing at his cut.The older couple in the booth whispering behind their menus.It’s subtle.
But I notice.And suddenly I understand something about him.
Men like Tucker don’t just exist in a room.
