Page 23 of Ridin’ Dirty

He didn’t kick me out.

He wasn’t a dick, and for that I was grateful.

But he didn’t stay.

It was for the best, and I knew it.

One night.

We had one unforgettable night.

Now, I would feed off the memory until it lost its luster, and then I’d move on.

The bell jingled over the door, alerting me to a new guest. I was a little annoyed anyone would walk in after our kitchen had closed for the night until I straightened and saw Max slide into a booth. She immediately scooted all the way toward the window and stared out into the parking lot, like she was waiting for someone. A frown tugging my eyebrows together, I went to talk to her.

“Hey,” I greeted, earning her attention.

She sat up straighter and forced a smile as she echoed, “Hey.”

The thing about Maxine was she shined so bright, it was pretty obvious when a cloud was hanging over her head. In the few years I’d known her, I rarely saw her overly anxious, frightened, or worried, and I understood why. Her father was the chapter president of a motorcycle club. She rubbed shoulders with some of the biggest, baddest dudes in town. She was constantly protected from the darkness of the world, allowing her to shine her light far more often than not.

But tonight, carefree was not at all what she exuded. I glanced out the window, wondering what or who she was looking for, then asked, “Is everything okay?”

“What? Yeah. Totally. I, um⁠—”

The rumble of an approaching motorcycle caused her to abandon her sentence as she glanced anxiously out the window. I followed her lead, watching as a single hog drove through the parking lot before disappearing out of view. When Max continued to stare expectantly, I folded my arms across my chest, holding on to my suspicions.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked her.

“Oh, um, sort of,” she muttered, reluctantly dragging her focus away from the window and onto me. “Don’t worry. I don’t need anything. I should only be sitting here a few more minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Seeing as it seemed she wasn’t going to tell me what was going on, I offered her a nod and then left her alone. My last guests took their leave, and I went to start clearing their table—tucking their signed check into my apron before stacking empty plates and cups.

Ten minutes later, I was getting ready to lock the front door when I heard another motorcycle. This one didn’t arrive alone. I glanced at Max, watching as her gaze followed each hog across the lot. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, she raked her fingers through her hair, and then she got up and left without even bothering to say goodbye.

It was weird as hell.

I locked up behind her, peering into the parking lot. Other than the familiar cars of the remaining staff and Max’s disappearing taillights, there was nothing to see. With a shrug, I turned and surveyed front-of-house, checking to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Satisfied with what I saw, I journeyed back to the kitchen to ask Will, Viv’s kitchen lead and assistant manager, if there was anything he needed help with before I went home for the night. From the looks of things, it wouldn’t be long before he and his remaining crew were done with their shift.

“Get outta here,” Will insisted, not unkindly, with a jerk of his chin. “Oh—but take that bag of trash out with you, would you?”

I glanced to where he was pointing and saw what looked like a forgotten sack of trash by the door. “Sure thing,” I replied.

I slipped into the bathroom, where my purse was stowed away in my locker. When I returned to the kitchen, my bag hooked over my shoulder, I grabbed the sack of trash, waved goodnight, and headed for the back door.

The heavy barrier slammed shut behind me before I heard it—the sickening sound of flesh and bone pounding against flesh and bone. Slowly, the scene unfolding in front of me began to register in my mind.

There was a truck. It wasn’t new or old—it just was. I didn’t note the color, too distracted by the rest of what I saw. There were three Harleys present, which meant four vehicles even though there were five men in the alleyway. From the looks of things, the fifth was the one getting the shit beat out of him.

I watched as the man with familiar, blond hair in a Wild Stallions kutte squatted over his victim, delivering blow after blow after blow. I stared, wide eyed and aghast at the lack of fight his victim possessed.

My jaw fell open when I heard Nomad declare, “Ri—brother—that’s enough. He’s gone.”

Pistol lifted his arm to deliver another punch, but Nomad’s hand caught him around his elbow, stopping him. Instead of the brutal sound of violence, all I heard was the sound of distant traffic, and the heavy breaths Pistol panted.

Or, perhaps, it was the sound of my own frantic breaths which echoed in my ears.

‘…that’s enough. He’s gone.’