Page 1 of Outlaws’ Runaway

1

PAIGE

“Shake that pretty ass, girl!”one of the jerks at the big table yells. His friends laugh like he’s a comic genius.

Great. It’s going to be like that. I had a bad feeling about these guys as soon as they came in. It isn’t always fair to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes you get exactly what it promises. Trust your gut. A lesson I should’ve learned a little earlier in life, but not much I can do about that now.

“Coming!”

He and his buddies look like they’re on a hunting trip, all six of them dressed in a mishmash of stained camo and army surplus. Just that wouldn’t bother me, but they’re giving strong ‘don’t leave your drink uncovered’ energy. It’s only two-thirty, and I bet not one of them would pass a breathalyzer.

I could be on a plane heading to a tropical paradise right now, but instead I’m counting tips to scrape together enough for some supplies and a bus ticket to the other side of the country. My back hurts, my feet hurt, and if I didn't desperately need the money, I'd tell this guy exactly where he can shove his menu.But I do need it, and under-the-table work that doesn’t involve taking my clothes off isn’t nearly as easy to come by as I thought it would be. I tighten my apron, stand up a little straighter and put a polite smile on my face. Sometimes after a few beers, people get pretty free with their tips.

Not going to hold my breath, though.

“I'm so sorry you had to wait. Busy day, you know? Are you boys ready to order?” I pull my order block out of my apron pocket and do a little test doodle in the corner to make sure the ink is flowing.

The loudmouth guy looks like he’s in his fifties, and sunscreen lotion has never so much as whispered across his leathery skin. His flinty eyes scan my face like he's trying to memorize every little feature. It's creepy. A couple of the others do the same, while the rest mostly ignore me.

“I can come back if you need a minute. Or if you know what you want to drink I can get that going for ya.”Run, run, run!my instincts scream, but I’ve only been here for a few days. I'm being paranoid. It's just some local boys being assholes.

He leans back, hands linked behind his head and gives me a nasty smirk. “Nah. I think we know what we want. Unless you’re on the menu? The boys and I have always been partial to splitting a nice cherry pie.”

It's a struggle, but I grit my teeth and resist the urge to stab him in the eye with my pen.

His buddy to the right laughs at my obvious discomfort. “Ribs, extra sauce. And dirty fries. Oh, and bring a couple pitchers of beer for the table.”

I nod, scribbling down all of their orders. It'll be a miracle if I get it all right, but I do the best I can. Maybe a little food will help mellow them out. “Coming right up.”

“I like a little meat on the bones,” one of them yells after me as I walk away.

I pretend I don't hear him.

I never expected that working at a rural highway diner would be a glamorous job, but this is way worse than usual. Most of the lunch crowd that comes through here are men. Truckers, locals and seasonal workers on the nearby farms. I’ve heard my fair share of crude comments, but they usually come with a genuine smile. Nothing has made me feel unsafe. Not until now.

“Bunch of charmers, huh?” Ash, one of the busboys, says quietly to me as he walks by with a big plastic tub full of dishes. He's only a little younger than me. Probably just graduated high school. Skinny as a rail with tattoos all over his wiry arms. He's an okay guy, but I don't want to get close to anyone. For my sake and theirs. I'm just passing through anyway. Hopefully in a few more days I’ll be off to the east coast, far away from anyone who might know me.

“Yeah, real classy,” I grumble under my breath, then yell the order to the kitchen while I clip the sheet up for the cook to see.

I'm just topping off the second pitcher when the glasses start to rattle, and then I feel a rumble travel through the floor and up my legs. Motorcycles, big heavy models, roll right up in front of the windows and the engines cut off. I don’t have time to register more than leather vests, dusty jeans and boots before the table from hell yells at me to hurry up. Ash shakes his head in commiseration as I push past him with a pitcher in each hand.

“I’ll throw in a ten if you pour one of these over your shirt,” ribs guy says with a sneer. “Twenty if you’re sitting on my lap when you do it.”

I laugh, pretending to think he’s joking as I drop off the pitchers. “Food will be up soon.”

The front door chimes, so I grab a stack of menus and turn to the door.

And stop dead in my tracks.

Wow.

Dark, mossy pupils with jade flecks widen when the biker sees me, like he's spotted something he likes, but his expression gives nothing away. My pulse spikes immediately, adrenaline surging while my two working brain cells spin out of control on the hamster wheel in my skull. His short hair is thick and dark, with just a hint of red in it. A closely trimmed beard traces the outline of his defined jaw. He's built strong, his black T-shirt clinging to him in all the right places underneath his biker vest. Dark tattoos snake up his bare, muscled arms, and narrow hips give him that perfect upside down V-shape of someone who works his body hard.

I wet my bone dry lips, swallowing thickly as I try to remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

He rakes that emerald gaze from my face, all the way down to my feet and right back up. If he was a book, his cover would say: ‘Content warning: do not read in public’. And I get the feeling he isn’t even trying. Just by existing, he’s making me wonder if I should forget all my troubles and go for a ride.

“Uh…”

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