CASSIDY
“Food’s up,” Reg bellows from behind the kitchen counter, and I swipe the sweat off my face.
Living in the small town of North Oakton, Pennsylvania, in the heat of the summer is bad enough, but working at a diner with only ceiling fans to rely on for air conditioning while being a table runner is like working in Satan’s crotch.
Still, I’d rather take this hell than the one I come from.
Balancing the tray, I beam to myself; I’m actually getting pretty good at this.
I call out the orders, and one after the other, the family members are handed their food.
Watching a family enjoy their meal togetherlike this has a surge of happiness welling inside me, but it’s just as quickly replaced by a rush of guilt. This is something that was once a dream of mine, and that was stolen from me with one singular mistake that ruined my entire life and that of those around me.
A mistake I can never make amends for.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? You’ve gone awfully pale,” the woman at the table asks. She’s beautiful, dressed nicely, her hair is tidy, the epitome of motherly, and I couldn’t be more jealous as I stare down at my scarred wrists and grubby workwear.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” I feign a smile and grab the tray from the table to make a quick exit. “Tell me if I can get you anything else,” I say over my shoulder before I head back to the kitchen and try not to look too long at the handsome blond, who has become a recent regular, sitting on a bar stool, watching my every move.
“Cassidy, table fifteen. Jug of water,” Belinda, one of the servers, yells.
“On it.” I fill the jug, then grab some fresh glasses, check my apron for straws, and head over to the table. Turning from the kitchen, I slam into a large, solid chest, then water spills as I fumble backward, but a thick, tattooed hand pulls me forward, holding me upright until I find my balance.
“Oh, I-I’m—” I’m stunned silent, and my cheeks heat.
The scent of tobacco and cologne wraps around me like a blanket. That, coupled with his thick thighs stretching his jeans, has me lightheaded under his firm grip.
What the hell?
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, gazing up his muscular, broad chest toward his face.
“Careful, darlin’,” he rumbles, and the gritty tone of his voice sends sparks of something I refuse to acknowledge through me.
He wears a biker cut with multiple patches attached to it. The nameKillastands out above the title ofRoad Captain. Road Captain? I wrinkle my nose, and when a breathy laugh vibrates up his chest, I snap my gaze to his face.
His jaw is covered in a scruff of a beard, his dark hair is messy yet also perfectly suited to him, and bright-blue eyes shine down on me with amusement. The man is a giant, at least six-foot-four.
My heart stills, missing a beat.
Not only is this man gorgeous, but he’s also familiar.
My mind races through the countless faces, trying to locate the one in front of me, and when his face falls, I know he recognizes me. His jaw sharpens, and he grinds his teeth, making him appear like a rabid dog. All jest dissipates in seconds, and my blood turns to ice.
His hand drops from my arm like I burned him, and his fists are balled beside him where he pumps them with ferocity.
The courtroom.
This is the man who entranced me.
This is the man who despises me.
In the courtroom, I sensed his gaze, and when I finally plucked up the courage to face him, I felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. My organs were being torn from me from pure hatred.
And the worst part was, it was like I was experiencing his pain beneath all the violence.
He wants to punish me, and my broken self might just let him.
KILLA
