Page 3 of Peaks and Promises

“It has been a while. Over easy.”

She smiled. “Got it. Do you want more coffee?”

I eyed the half-empty mug. I wasn’t sure how much of the black liquid my gut could safely handle. “I’m good for now.”

“Okay.”

Right as she was about to return to the kitchen, a loud roar came from outside. Motorcycle engines. Two, at least. But that wasn’t what made my back ripple with tension and my fists clench. It was the flash of fear on Summer’s face.

The color drained from her cheeks and her shoulders slumped.

Before I could ask what was wrong, she hurried up the aisle and disappeared into the kitchen.

My senses were on high alert, my eyes on the door. In a second, I had a mental map of the restaurant, including exits and potential weapons. Kitchens had knives, and I noted a fire extinguisher on the wall.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to calm down. I didn’t need to be so vigilant. I wasn’t doing security, and I didn’t live the kind of life where the roar of motorcycle engines meant I needed to be ready for anything.

Not anymore.

The front door opened and two men in leather chaps and vests displaying their club’s colors sauntered in.

Cocky gazes swept over the booths. One took a last drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling before flicking the butt through the door just as it closed.

Avoiding eye contact, I pretended to be occupied with my coffee. Not that they were there for me. I didn’t know them, and they had no idea who I was—or who I used to be. But their presence was still unnerving.

I wasn’t the only one who seemed bothered. The other customers shifted uncomfortably in their seats as the two motorcycle club members slid onto stools at the counter. One of the waitresses poured them cups of coffee, her nerves evident in the way she averted her eyes and the slight tremble of her hand on the carafe.

They both had the worn, creased look of hard living. Bristly beards, scruffy hair, deeply tanned skin, rough hands.

They looked dangerous.

Very likely, they were.

What were they doing there? There weren’t any motorcycle clubs around the small town in central Arizona. I wouldn’t have lived there if there were.

As soon as Summer emerged from the kitchen with my breakfast, the men’s eyes snapped to her. Her spine straightened and she turned her back on them, as if she were trying to ignore them.

I wondered if they’d been in before and caused trouble for the waitstaff. Seemed likely.

She slid my plate onto the table and darted a glance over her shoulder. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Are you okay?”

She blinked in surprise at my question. “What? Yeah, fine.”

My eyes flicked to the men. They watched her like hawks. Had she gotten herself into some kind of mess with a motorcycle club?

If she had, it wasn’t my problem. But I wasn’t about to leave her on her own with those two there.

“You sure?”

She licked her lips and nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “They’re not at one of my tables, so…”

“Do you know them?”

“No.”

She was lying. The slight lift of her chin, like she was subconsciously nodding, gave her away.