Page 66 of The Grief We Hold

The corner of Wraith’s lips turns up in the hint of a smile, and I want to smack him over the head with the damn menu. But given there are people from the police community sitting two tables over, I resist.

I’m not sure of all the small-town etiquette, but I’m pretty sure assault is still assault, even if the victim is a biker.

Catfish grins and repeats his order.

“And you?” I ask finally. There is no mistaking my tone, which says I’d rather be chewing on wheat chaff than asking him anything.

Wraith looks up at me. “You on the menu?” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief, the loathing I saw in them the last time we were together long-since gone.

I huff in disgust. “Definitely not.”

He has the audacity to smile at me like nothing happened between us. “I’ll take the French toast. Heavy on the bacon. Just bring the coffee pot.”

I stomp away, even as my insides melt a little at the sight of his smile. I’m a cliché for being affected by it the way I am.

When I reach the kitchen, Floyd takes the small notebook page I wrote the orders down on. “These for Margie’s boys?”

I nod. “If you mean the bikers, yes.”

Floyd nods and begins to pull the breakfast together. I want to hide out here, but I head to Tanner’s table. He’s staring at the bikers.

“Have you decided what you want to eat?” I ask.

Tanner moves closer to me. “Do you want me to have a word with him for touching you like that?”

I’m frozen in place because I don’t know how to answer. But one thing is true. “I don’t want any trouble.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t answer my question.”

“We know each other, of a fashion. He was just teasing. Don’t worry about it. Now, what can I get you?”

In movies, when something bad happens, it all slows down. You see the car roll over in four minutes of dramatic footage. Haunting music plays.

But in reality, the front window of the diner has been shattered by bullets before I even realize what’s happened.

Screams ring out.

I look around and see Tanner and his deputy lie themselves flat against the leather benches so their bodies drop just below the windows.

And I’m paralyzed, unable to move because of the Russian-sounding accents of the shooters. One of the men hanging out of the open van doors stares at me for a moment.

How did they…?

“Oof,” I grunt as I hit the ground.

“Stay down, Blue,” Wraith says, lying over me. Crushing me with his weight. And my only thought is how I’m safe. This man won’t let anything happen to me.

Tanner and his deputy return fire.

As do Catfish and Smoke.

But we stay on the floor, our bodies tangled together, unable to move or reposition ourselves in the limited floor space between tables.

I catch eyes with the lady I served a chicken club and soda to not twenty minutes ago. She’s beneath her booth table, knees tucked under her chin. Her eyes are haunted, flitting from the cops to the bikers to me.

“It’s okay, Blue. I’ve got you.” Wraith’s arms wrap tightly around me. I realize his back is to the window. My back is pressed against his chest.

Like the way we spent most of the night together.

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