Page 19 of Hammer

When we’d decided to let the Devil’s Boneyard help us, I’d thought we were crazy to trust someone in an MC.But after meeting Scratch, I’d decided he’d seemed kind, and genuinely wanted to help us get away.It didn’t mean we’d relaxed our guard.We’d lived through too much pain and fear to do such a thing.

The clatter of dishes brought me back to the present.I blinked, realizing I’d been wiping the same spot on the counter for God knows how long.I dropped the rag and grabbed my order pad, moving to check on the few remaining tables.

That’s when I saw him.

He sat in the corner booth, angled to see both the door and the windows -- a habit I recognized from years with Piston.His silver beard contrasted starkly with the black leather cut he wore, and I knew the Dixie Reapers patch would be prominent on his back.Even seated, I could tell he was tall, his broad shoulders taking up most of the booth’s width.But it was his eyes that caught me -- deep brown and watchful, focused on me with an intensity that made me freeze, coffeepot suspended mid-pour over a customer’s cup.Hammer.He’d been one of the men to pick us up at the bus station.

“Uh, ma’am?”The customer tapped the table, snapping me back to attention.

“Sorry,” I murmured, finishing the pour and moving quickly to the next table, acutely aware of the biker’s gaze following me.

My body tensed automatically, muscles remembering years of survival instincts around men in leather cuts.But something else stirred too -- the knowledge that this man represented safety now, not danger.The Dixie Reapers had given us a fresh start.They stood between us and Piston.

Still, old fears died hard.I wiped my suddenly damp palms on my apron, deliberately avoiding his table until I’d served everyone else.Finally, with no more excuses, I approached him, coffeepot held like a shield.

“More coffee?”I asked, proud that my voice didn’t shake.

He nodded, pushing his cup forward, his weathered hands covered in faded tattoos.I poured carefully, feeling the weight of his assessment.

My world had changed so completely.Not even a month ago, a biker watching me would have meant danger -- Piston sending one of his brothers to keep tabs on me.Now, it might mean protection.The problem was, my body couldn’t tell the difference.It just knew to be afraid.

My shift continued, and I kept an eye on the biker.Even though he’d finished eating long ago, he remained, ever vigilant.At some point, I’d stopped being quite as hyper-aware of him.Now, hours later, the late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the diner’s worn linoleum floor.My shift would end in twenty minutes, but Hammer showed no signs of leaving.

I’d deliberately saved his section for last as I wiped down tables and refilled salt shakers, postponing the inevitable.My uniform stuck to my back in the Alabama heat, and I could feel a headache building at my temples -- from stress or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell anymore.

“Amelia, honey, you can head out early if you want,” Jessie, the owner, called from behind the counter.“We’re dead as a doornail anyway.”

“Just need to settle up with the gentleman in the corner first.”I glanced at Hammer, who raised his empty cup.I stopped at his table, forcing a smile as I pulled his check from my apron pocket.“Anything else I can get you?”I asked, my practiced waitress voice betraying none of the anxiety churning beneath my ribs.

Hammer looked up, his eyes the color of strong coffee, deep and surprisingly warm in his weathered face.Up close, I could see the lines etched around them -- laugh lines, not the hard creases of perpetual anger I’d grown accustomed to with Piston.

“No, darlin’, I’m good.”His voice rumbled like distant thunder, low and graveled from years of cigarettes or shouting over motorcycle engines.

I turned to leave when his hand moved, not grabbing me -- thank God -- but reaching for the check.I’d forgotten I was holding it.His fingers brushed mine, calloused skin against my knuckles, and something electric jolted through me.I hadn’t felt that kind of spark in years, had trained myself not to feel it, not to want it.

“Everything good with you and the boys?”he asked, those coffee-dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously exposed and sheltered.

The question caught me off guard.Not “How are you settling in?”or “Need anything?”-- the usual questions from the MC members assigned to check on us.This felt personal.Like he actually wanted to know.

“We’re settling in,” I replied, my gaze darting to his cut, to the Dixie Reapers patch that represented my salvation and my deepest fears all at once.“The boys like the school.”

Hammer nodded, his silver beard catching the sunlight.“Chase came by the garage yesterday.Kid’s got a knack for engines.”

My stomach tightened.“He was at the garage?”

“Just lookin’.Nothing wrong with that.”Hammer’s expression softened slightly.“He wants to protect you.Reminds me of my boy.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.The thought of Chase anywhere near the club both terrified and exhausted me.We’d fled one MC only to land in the shadows of another.Different, yes, but still men who lived by their own rules, who carried guns beneath their cuts, and settled scores in ways the law wouldn’t sanction.

My body tensed as Hammer shifted in his seat, but he only reached into his pocket.He pulled out a worn leather wallet, extracting several bills that he placed on top of the check.

“Your boys are safe here, Amelia,” he said, his voice dropping lower.“And so are you.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.I picked up the money -- far more than his coffee and pie had cost -- and turned away before he could see the tears threatening to spill.It wasn’t his kindness that undid me.It was the possibility that I might actually believe him.

From behind the counter, I watched as Hammer stood, his height impressive even from a distance.He nodded to Jessie, who waved back with the easy familiarity of someone who’d known him for years.These men were part of the community here, not outlaws passing through.The realization felt strange, like trying on shoes that might fit but weren’t yet comfortable.

I moved to the window as Hammer pushed through the door, watching as he crossed the street to where his motorcycle waited.Unlike Piston’s flashy custom Harley with its chrome skulls and flame paint job, Hammer’s bike was understated -- solid, practical, much like the man himself.He swung his leg over the seat with a grace that belied his age and size, then paused, looking back toward the diner.Toward me.

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