Page 18 of Hammer

The streets were quiet as I made my way toward town, the headlight cutting through the darkness ahead of me.Muscle memory guided me through the familiar turns while my mind churned over what Saint had said.If Amelia’s ex was looking for her, it was only a matter of time before he found her.The Dixie Reapers could offer protection, but we couldn’t keep her locked away forever.

Chapter Six

Amelia

The lunch rush hit like clockwork at Jessie’s Diner.I balanced three plates along my left arm while my right hand gripped a fresh pot of coffee.I’d been here a few weeks now, and I still hadn’t gotten used to how these folks took their coffee -- strong enough to strip paint and dark as midnight.Nothing like the sugary Cuban blends back in Florida.I weaved between the red vinyl booths, dropping off burgers and fries with practiced efficiency, my ponytail swinging as I pivoted between tables.

“Need a refill, hon?”I asked the trucker in booth three, already tipping the pot toward his cup before he nodded.

The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of hot air followed a group of men inside.One of them wore a leather vest over a faded T-shirt, the scent of motorcycle exhaust clinging to him like cologne.My hand trembled slightly, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.

“Careful there,” the trucker said, steadying my wrist with calloused fingers.

I muttered an apology and moved on, but my mind had already slipped backward through time, the diner’s chatter fading to the pulsing bass from a Florida dive bar seventeen years earlier.

The first time I saw Piston, he’d been leaning against his Harley outside The Rusty Nail, a cigarette dangling from lips that curved into a smile when I walked past.The moon hung low and yellow, casting him in dangerous shadows that should have been a warning, not an invitation.

“Where you headed, sweetheart?”he’d called out, his voice rough like gravel under tires.

I should have kept walking.Instead, I’d stopped.“Nowhere special.”

“That’s a damn shame.”He’d pushed off his bike, stepping into the light.The Devil’s Minions patch on his leather cut gleamed against the black leather.His fingers had been warm when they brushed mine, offering me a cigarette I didn’t want but took anyway.

The memory of his bike’s engine still vibrated through me -- the way it had rumbled between my thighs that first night, his broad back solid against my chest as we tore down A1A with the ocean a dark blur beside us.The wind had whipped my hair into knots, but I hadn’t cared.I remembered pressing my face between his shoulder blades, breathing in leather and sweat and something dangerous that made my heart skip.

“Order up, Amelia!”

I blinked back to the diner, taking the plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes from Ronnie’s weathered hands.He raised an eyebrow at me.“You with us today, girl?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, loading up my tray.“Just thinking.”

Thinking about how Piston’s kisses had tasted like whiskey and promises -- promises that had started to crack the moment Chase was born.How quickly his charm had curdled into control, his smile into a sneer.

I delivered the meatloaf special to the elderly couple by the window, refilled three more coffee cups, and wiped down a vacated table.My reflection caught in the chrome napkin dispenser -- brown eyes that had seen too much, the tiny scar near my hairline that the makeup couldn’t quite cover.I still vividly remembered when I’d gotten it.

Three days.He’d been gone three days without a word, and I’d had the audacity to ask where he’d been when he finally stumbled home reeking of cheap perfume and cheaper booze.Chase had barely been crawling then, asleep in the next room, and I was already pregnant with Levi.

“You questioning me?”Piston had growled, grabbing my upper arm so hard I felt the bruise forming instantly.

“I was worried,” I’d whispered, already knowing it was the wrong thing to say.Worry implied he couldn’t take care of himself.Worry implied ownership.

The wall had come up fast against my back, his forearm across my throat.“You don’t worry about me.You don’t ask about me.You take care of my kids and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Later, I’d stood in our bathroom, examining the purple fingerprints blooming on my arm, the angry red mark across my throat.I’d pulled out my concealer, expertly dabbing it over the evidence before my shift at the diner back then.Different diner, same skills -- balance plates, smile through pain, hide the bruises.Any cuts or open wounds had been harder to deal with.They probably thought I was a klutz as many times as I tripped and fell.Well, if I’d actually done that.I couldn’t very well have said my husband beat the hell out of me.

I’d gotten good at turtlenecks in Florida’s heat, and at making excuses.“Walked into a door.”“Fell down the stairs.”“Just clumsy.You know me.”

The coffeepot was empty.I headed back to the kitchen, passing a booth where a young mother struggled to keep her toddler entertained.She looked tired but happy, her husband’s arm draped protectively around her shoulders.Nothing like Piston’s arm across my throat.

“You need a top-off of your sweet tea, sweetie?”I asked her, and she nodded gratefully.I went to swap out the empty coffeepot for a pitcher of sweet tea.

As I poured, I watched her child scribble with crayons, his little face scrunched in concentration.Just like Chase at that age.Just like Levi.My boys, the only good things to come from those years of hell.

I straightened my apron and grabbed a fresh pot of coffee.It had only been a few weeks since I’d found the courage to come here.The boys were settling in nicely, or so I thought.As for me… I still felt the need to constantly look over my shoulder.Especially after I got word a few days ago that Piston was searching for us.

I pasted on my best waitress smile and moved on to the next table.One foot in front of the other.One day at a time.That’s how we survived.

The lunch rush trickled to a halt around two-thirty, leaving me with a moment to breathe.I leaned against the counter, massaging my lower back where an ache had settled after hours on my feet.The diner hummed with the quieter sounds of afternoon -- forks scraping plates, ice clinking in glasses, the muffled conversation of the few remaining customers.I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, my mind drifting back to the night that had changed everything, the night I’d decided I’d waited long enough and we were leaving.I’d found myself reflecting on the past rather frequently of late.Mostly wishing I’d done something sooner.Maybe if I’d known about the Devil’s Boneyard or the Dixie Reapers months, or even years ago, we could have escaped Piston before now.

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