Hearts of Winter (Bleeding Angels MC Book 2)

by Stephens, Olivia

  “I’ll handle it,” I tell him, sounding more certain than I feel.

  “Be careful,” George says, his voice loaded with meaning. “This is the first time they’ve been back since…” He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. We both know what he’s talking about.

  I nod quickly, re-adjust my uniform if only to kill some time, and head back out onto the floor. I scan the diner quickly and see that a couple of the tables are scrambling for their wallets. They steal not particularly subtle glances at the two leather-clad men and hurry towards the door. The bell chimes repeatedly as all but a couple of the diners exit the building as fast as they can without drawing attention to themselves. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, although not surprised, when I see that Nolan is one of them.

  I take a deep breath and bite the bullet. “What can I get you?” I ask, pulling the pad and pen out of my apron, focusing on the notepad rather than looking at the men in front of me.

  “Why don’t you bring out some of that whisky your colored friend keeps in the back?” Blondie asks. I can feel his eyes on me without even looking at him.

  “You know we don’t serve alcohol here,” I remind them, still concentrating on the pad of paper in front of me.

  “Oh, they don’t serve alcohol here,” the Blonde one says in a high-pitched tone, mocking me.

  “You’re on borrowed time, little girl,” the other man warns me, and he slams his palm down hard on the table, making me jump. “Get us a drink and keep that smart mouth of yours shut before someone shuts it for you.” His voice is threatening and rough.

  The blonde guy laughs in response, obviously thinking this is the best fun they’ve had in ages. I can feel my anger starting to rise, but I swallow it down almost immediately. I can’t afford to make these men angry. I know that as well as they do, which gives them power over me. And that’s something that I can barely stand.

  I obey orders, not saying anything, and head back into the kitchen. I don’t have to tell George about it—he’s heard everything and next to the swing door is a tray with two glasses and a fresh, unopened bottle of whisky. I wordlessly pick up the tray and head back out to the diner.

  Approaching their booth, I slow down and listen to their conversation. They’re so drunk they’re talking much louder than they probably should be. Not that anyone would ever challenge them.

  “Little bitch needs to be taught a lesson,” Baldy notes, shaking his head in disgust and twirling his knife on the table. I swallow hard, remembering that same knife going through George’s hand like it was butter.

  “Forget about her, she’ll get what’s coming to her soon enough. The boss’ll see to that,” the Blonde one notes. “What time is it?” he asks.

  “2.30,” Baldy replies and I have to bite down my immediate sarcastic response that I’m surprised he knows how to read the time. Of course, it’s a digital watch. “30 minutes until the truck comes through. Just keep your eyes peeled in case it’s early.” He nods in the direction of the highway that’s visible from their seats.

  It was one of the reasons that Sunny Side Up had survived when so many other businesses in Painted Rock were going under one after the other, falling like dominoes. Being so close to the highway, we still got business from truckers who were willing to try their luck with the Angels or clueless road-trippers who hadn’t even heard of the bikers.

  The possibilities run through my head as I reach the table. They stop talking and their silence feels even more oppressive than their drunken threats. I place the glasses and bottle in front of them, keeping my mouth shut the whole time, just like they’d ordered.

  “See it’s not so hard, is it, sweet thing?” Blondie asks as I’m about to go. “You’re so much prettier when you don’t talk.” I stop myself from responding by digging my nails into the softness of my palm.

  “Baby, you’re killing me with that sweet ass of yours.” Baldy laughs loudly, but it sounds more like a growl. It’s rough and harsh and the opposite of what a laugh should be. Then he does something that a few days ago would have whirled me into a rage. He slaps me on the ass, hard.

  A few days ago I would have said something, called him out, called him any number of names under the sun. But now things are different and I’m more than aware that I’m balancing on a knife’s edge with the Bleeding Angels. I’m not willing to run the risk of making them angry. A deal is a deal, after all, but you could only ever trust the Angels so far.

  “Yeah, bet you like it rough, little girl,” Blondie jeers at my back, and both men laugh so hard it sounds like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

  I go back into the kitchen to give myself some time to process what’s just happened. I grab my phone out of my pocket, ready to tell Jake what’s going on at the diner, but I stop myself. I know exactly what he’d do if he knew that I was here with two Angels. Nothing good would come of it. I slip the phone back into my pocket and run through the conversation I’d heard between the two men.

  “You alright?” George asks, pulling out a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it hurriedly. He never smokes in the diner. This was a first and it was just a signal of how screwed up everything was getting.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m sorry they came here again,” I tell George, leaning against the gigantic refrigeration unit.

  “It’s not your fault.” He sounds certain, but I’m not so sure.

  “You don’t think it’s a little too much of a coincidence that they haven’t been back since that night? And now, during my first shift back, they appear as if by magic?” I ask, pointing out something that George has probably already thought about.

  George shrugs in reply, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. His shoulders relax as the nicotine hits his system and I wonder absently if I should take up smoking. “Did you think they were going to just let you go? You’re smarter than that, Aimee. They’ll be keeping tabs on you until whatever deal you’ve made with them has run its course,” he explains, keeping his voice matter-of-fact and unfeeling. But the concern in his eyes tells another story.

  I shake my head, refusing to let the tears of frustration and helplessness make their way out of my eyes. “I guess I figured they’d leave us alone, at least for a little while,” I admit, aware of how naive that must sound.

  We stare at the floor, both silent, neither knowing what to say. Eventually, my mind drifts back to what I’d overheard the bikers talking about and the thought fills me with nervousness. “I think they’re on a job,” I tell George, keeping my voice low. “They’re watching out for a truck.” Understanding dawns on George’s face, but he doesn’t say anything. “We have to do something,” I insist.

  “What?” he asks, stubbing out his cigarette and folding his arms to look at me. “What should we do? Call the cops?” he asks. He shakes his head, answering his own question. We both know that there is no point. The cops would make sure they arrived after the crime had already been committed, and there wouldn’t be any way to place the blame. Not only that, but the Angels would no doubt be alerted to the fact that the call had come from the diner. From there, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out who needed to be taught a lesson. The residents of Painted Rock had learned a long time ago that it didn’t pay to be a rat.

  “So we don’t do anything,” I say, shaking my head. In my opinion, not speaking up puts you in league with the criminals. It’s the kind of silence that has allowed things in Painted Rock to get to this extreme state.

  “Let it go, Aimee,” George tells me softly, laying a huge hand on my shoulder. “They’ll rip off the truck, and the driver will be bought off and warned what’ll happen to him if he blabs about who stole his load.” He shrugs, as if to say, “that’s all.”

  “It’s not right, Big G,” I say, hating that I feel like I’ve become complicit in what’s going to happen.

  “Right ain’t got nothing to do with it,” George admits. “You need to keep your head down for a while,” he reminds me. �
�Don’t throw away the time you have over this. No one’s going to die. Some big shot company is going to lose some TVs or whatever they’re transporting. That’s all.”

  I know he’s talking sense. Although I hate that we have to choose between doing the right thing and doing the right thing for us.

  “Now, we’ve got some customers to serve,” George notes, nodding towards the swing door. I know that he’s not angry—just trying to get my mind off what’s about to happen.

  “Sure thing, boss,” I say quietly, doing my best to summon a smile.

  Apart from the bikers, there are just a couple of customers left. As soon as I walk out onto the floor, they signal me for the check. After a few minutes it’s just the bikers and me in the front of house. I try to keep busy, re-filling sugar bowls, wiping down tables, and generally just keeping out of their way. I needn’t have bothered—both men are staring out onto the highway, their gazes trained on whatever it is that they’re waiting for. I can see from here that they’ve managed to get through almost the entire bottle of whisky in the space of around twenty minutes.

  “It’s time,” Blondie says to his follicly challenged friend.

  Both men get up from the booth, looking a little unsteady on their feet as they head for the door. “See you around, sweet thing,” Baldy throws over his shoulder before they disappear out of the door.

  I release a breath that I hadn’t even realized I had been holding in and I steady myself, leaning over the counter. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to find a message from Jake saying he’ll come pick me up from the diner when my shift ends. He doesn’t want me walking back to his place on my own. I smile to myself as I read the message. I wonder if I should tell him about the bikers in the diner, or if it’d just be worrying him without any real reason. I message him back saying I’ll be done before 3am, and I get that excited feeling that never fails to surface when I know that I’m going to see him soon.

  I finish cleaning the tables and re-filling the cutlery holders before taking off my apron and dividing the paltry tips between George and me.

  “Anything else you need, Big G?” I ask, handing over the stacks of one dollar bills that make up George’s share.

  “No, I’m all set here.” He nods to let me know that I can go. “It’s late,” he notes, unnecessarily.

  “Jake’s coming to get me,” I say, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.

  “Good.” George nods again, relieved I’m not walking home on my own on a night when something is clearly about to happen.

  “You planning on getting any sleep, Big G?” I ask, wryly. It was a running joke that Suzie and I had. We thought George must sleep in the diner. When I think about Suzie, a wave of nausea rolls over me. I try not to keep asking myself how someone that you’ve known all your life, someone you thought of as a friend, can sell you out as if you were nothing to them. I push that memory away. Thinking about Suzie only makes me angry—angry and sad.

  I force myself to continue thinking about George and his dedication to this diner that isn’t even his. He’s the only cook that Sunny Side Up has, and he’s there for every shift. It’s a mystery to me how the man can work 18- or 20-hour days back to back with little—if any—sleep. But he does it, 364 days out of the year.

  “Sleep is for wimps,” George replies, smiling cheekily. “I’ll lock up behind you,” he tells me, ushering me towards the door.

  “Thanks again, G. I don’t think I could ever explain how much it means to me to have you on my side,” I call to him from the door. He’s one of the few people in Painted Rock that hadn’t turned their backs on me, and for that I know I’ll be forever grateful.

  George, typically, looks like he’s about to get seriously embarrassed and just waves away my thanks. “You’re on the lunch shift,” he says gruffly.

  I smile my gratitude to him and walk out. I see Jake making his way down the road, looking all sexy and rumpled in the darkness of the hour. That’s precisely when the world seems to slow down. There’s a bang that echoes through the silence of the night. It sounds like the earth has been split apart. Before I have time to figure out what I’ve just heard, I see a fireball spreading out towards the sky in the direction of the highway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It takes a little while for awareness to return after what I’ve just witnessed. I slowly realize that I’m not standing anymore—in fact, I’m lying on the floor, face in the dirt. When I try to get up, I can’t. A moment of panic comes over me as I ask myself why I can’t move. Have I been hit by something? I try to piece together the bits of information that I have and am calmed when I note that I don’t feel any pain. There’s a groan above me and strong hands pull me up from the floor.

  “Aimee, are you okay?” Jake’s voice reaches me as if I were hearing him underwater.

  I nod, slowly. “You?” I ask automatically. I realize that he must have thrown himself on top of me and I feel a wave of love for him wash over me.

  “I’m fine,” he responds, pulling me close to him and hugging me so tight it makes it a little difficult to breathe. But I don’t care. I inhale his scent, feel the warmth of his body against mine, and I’m comforted just by his presence.

  “What the hell just happened?” I ask. Looking up at him, I can see the worry in his eyes.

  “Kids, get inside,” comes George’s commanding voice from above us before Jake has time to reply to my question.

  We hurry up the stairs and George slams the door shut, locking it behind us as we get inside the diner.

  “Jake, how you doing?” Big G asks, shaking his hand.

  “Doing alright, thanks George. You?” Jake replies, as if everything were completely normal and we hadn’t just witnessed—well, whatever it was that we’d just seen.

  “Sorry to interrupt this little catch up,” I say, “But does someone want to tell me what in God’s name we all just saw?” I’m aware that becoming hysterical is not the most useful way to deal with the situation. But, bearing in mind recent events, fire was not one of my favorite things.

  “An explosion,” Jake confirms, putting his arm around me and pulling me to his side as if trying to protect me from the blast again.

  “It looks like it came from the highway, heading out of town,” George notes, and Jake nods in agreement.

  “You don’t think...?” I start, not able to finish the sentence as I look askance at George.

  “What?” Jake asks, looking between George and me.

  “A couple of Bleeding Angels came in here earlier,” I explain, taking hold of Jake’s hand to stop him from flying off the handle. “They were talking about a truck they were looking out for.” I don’t need to say anything else for him to connect the dots.

  “But that’s not their M.O.,” Jake notes. “They don’t blow the trucks up. Draws too much attention, and people start asking questions.” He shakes his head like none of this makes any sense. Which it doesn’t.

  “They were drinking,” I say, quietly. “They were drinking a lot and they were already pretty well oiled before they came in here.”

  The sound of sirens fills the air and I’m pulled back to the night that my home burned to the ground and all help arrived too late. I’m vaguely aware of Jake gently shaking my arm.

  “Aimee, Aimee,” he repeats, until he’s satisfied that I’m back in the here and now. “We need to get out of here.” He holds my face between his hands so that our eyes lock.

  “Whatever just happened, you can bet that this wasn’t how shit was supposed to go down,” George notes, shaking his head. “You two.” He turns to face us. “Go straight home, don’t talk to anyone, don’t do anything, just get off the street.” The concern in his face makes me even more nervous.

  “George, what do you know that we don’t?” I ask him, searching his face for an answer.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I just know that someone made a mistake tonight and there’s going to be hell to pay. Now get out of here and rem
ember what I said,” he tells us as he locks the door behind us, motioning for us to hurry down the street.

  Despite the late hour, the streets are busy. People have come out of their house, awakened by the huge bang that went off less than a mile away from the town center. The sounds of fire engines and police sirens merge together and, with all the activity buzzing around, no one takes much notice of Jake and I walking fast in the opposite direction, heading to the body shop.

  We don’t speak until we get inside. I sit down heavily on the sofa and, absently, I hear Jake pouring water and then placing a glass in front of me. He sits on the coffee table opposite of me, holding my legs between his, and looks into my face. I’m struck yet again by how it had taken me so long to realize everything that Jake means to me.