Page 25 of Babydoll

Once I sit, the weight on my shoulders doubles. Gage recovered from his overdose and was released from the hospital two months after the incident. He’d had a stroke from the overdose. When I’d last called, the nurse told me he’d been transferred to a rehab facility, but I’d hung up before she told me which one. Hell, I didn’t even know if it was a rehab for his stroke or his habit. But that’s what Satan’s Ransom wants from me. They want Gage. And anyone with even half a brain knows why.

Gage is a liability. One they need to eliminate before someone convinces him to roll over on the MC. If he hasn’t already. With shaking hands, I grab the jar of sugar from theedge of the table and the teaspoon on the edge of my saucer. The spoon clinks on the ceramic repeatedly as I try to steady it.

The only thing Satan’s Ransom knows is that Gage is no longer at the River’s End Memorial Health Center and that’s all they can know. Except now Jeff’s involved and they have me over a barrel. Because dammit. I don’t want him to get hurt. And hurt is a generous assumption.

I pour the sugar onto the spoon but end up spilling it onto the table. The mess of white granules on the dark surface upsets me more than it should, which just proves my situation is impossible. I drop the spoon with a harsh clink and reach for the bowl holding the creamers instead.

Give them what they want and Gage getshurt, don’t and Jeff getshurt. And byhurtI meandeadbecause that’s more likely, at least in Gage’s case. And while Gage got himself into this mess, I still owe him. But Jeff? His involvement is a direct result of his proximity to me.

Fuck!

Dumping several of the little creamers from the dish into my coffee, as many as I can stand because I need the calories, I grit my teeth. I either turn my foster brother over or Jeff, who’s only tried to help me even if he’s done a piss-poor job of it, gets hurt. I add two spoonfuls of sugar, laughing dryly at myself. In a former life, I felt guilty for adding sugar to my coffee, not which man I planned to turn over to a bunch of ruthless, murdering MC brothers.

Jeff left me food in the infirmary, but my temper and pride made me leave it behind. I regret that as my stomach growls, especially since I can smell food cooking from the diner kitchen. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of fries, my mouth watering.

“Dining room’s closing in twenty minutes,” the balding guy behind the counter in a food-splattered apron says. I must looklike a wreck though because after a thoughtful pause he adds, “I’ve got some stuff to do after I close though, so you can stay for a bit longer.”

I nod, noting his nametag. “Thanks, Arnie.”

He looks out the window at the snow still coming down. “Looks bad out there. Early for this much snow.”

I nod again and getting the hint, he walks into the back. He serves a few customers picking up takeout orders, but fills my cup whenever it gets low, simply saying he’ll have to toss the coffee anyway.

When he turns the lock on the door and flips the closed sign, I stand. He only waves me off with a meaty hand. “Like I said, I’ve got stuff to do. Finish your coffee.”

I listen to him shuffling around, the quiet sound of a local radio station plays in the background which he occasionally hums along with. But I only stare into my almost white coffee lost in my thoughts. I’m so deep in thought, I jump the next time he comes to the table, spilling my coffee all over the table.

“Shit! Sorry. I’ll go,” I say, standing. He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and gentle.

“No, please sit.”

That’s when I notice the plate in his hand. French fries and a burger, still steaming, are set in front of me. I blink at it, my mouth watering, and then look up at him. His kind gaze hits me in the gut. I’m not used to the kindness of strangers but maybe that’s because I’ve always pushed back on it.

“I can’t…”

He cuts me off. “End of the night and someone didn’t pick up their order. The food’ll only go in the trash,” he says, setting a napkin and utensils down beside the plate. “I’d rather feed you than the rats.” He winks. “They’re getting too big; they’ll probably jump me in the alley soon.” Arnie guffaws at his own joke, but the roar of bikes has my head whipping around.

I drop beneath the table without thinking, my coffee spilling again. The rumble stops abruptly and I look up at Arnie with wide eyes. His brow furrows before realization relaxes his face.

He looks from the door to me and then swallows. Shoving my purse at me, he pulls out a towel and begins bussing the table, taking my food and coffee cup back to the kitchen.

“We’re closed,” he says loudly at the rattle of the door, and I press myself further under the table, my heart thundering so hard I’m sure it can be heard a block away.

“Come on, Arnie, just give us some of that pie.” The voice is as recognizable as my own, probably because it’s in my nightmares every night. Slash. “We’ll pay double.”

Arnie drops the cloth and as he bends down to pick it up, he whispers, “Stay under there. Don’t come out. I’ll get rid of them.”

I nod, swallowing at the dry patch in my throat and clutch my purse to my chest.

“Hold on, hold on!” Arnie waves his cloth at the doorway as he heads to the counter where I see him open his pie case and fill a takeout box. I hold my breath as he heads to the door and clicks the lock. The bell on the door rings. “Pay me next time, the till’s been closed out. But don’t forget the double part.”

“No rhubarb?” Preacher’s voice comes through and I tremble.

Oh, god. Oh, god.

“Sold out,” Arnie replies. There’s strain in his voice and the silence that follows makes the hair on my neck rise.

Something’s wrong. I know it. I feel it like prey on the Serengeti.

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