Distracting Thoughts

Maeve's P.O.V.

The heavy metal time card machine let out a sharp, metallic chunk as I punched in. The smell of stale coffee, burnt hash browns, and industrial bleach clung to the air, settling deep into my lungs.

"Hey, you're here a bit early for your shift," Miriam said, stepping out from the narrow walkway behind the counter. Her apron was already dusted with flour.

"Barrett asked me to before I left last night," I told her, sliding my time card into the metal rack on the wall.

Miriam paused, her brows pulling together as she processed the timeline. "But... you worked a double yesterday... and closed..."

And here it comes.

"Mae, you worked until past one in the morning, and you're back already?" The accusation in her tone was loud, cutting through the low murmur of the early-bird customers. She looked at me like I had actively begged for the punishment of sleep deprivation.

She knew exactly how my night went. She knew it took me forever to close the diner because I was left to scrub the grills, mop the sticky linoleum floors, and wipe down every damn booth single-handedly. Barrett was supposed to help me close. Instead, our boss spent the night shooting the shit in the back alley with the prep cook, who was also supposed to be on cleaning duty. I had no idea what time they finally dragged themselves home. Miriam knew the dynamic.

"I was asked to come in early today. I said yes, Miriam," I replied, grabbing my notepad and a pen from the apron stash. "It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" She crossed her arms, staring at me incredulously. "Mae, it's only seven in the morning right now. You have to close again tonight—"

"Miriam, please," I cut her off, spinning on my heel to face her. I kept my voice low, mindful of the old men nursing their black coffee in the corner booths. "I know you're worried, but I'm fine, okay? I got bills to pay. That's all."

It was a lie. The diner didn't pay well. The tips were mediocre at best, left behind in loose change by truckers and locals who ordered the cheapest items on the laminated menus. I didn't work these soul-crushing hours because I wanted to. I needed this specific job because Barrett paid me under the table.

Every Friday, he slipped a plain white envelope of untraceable cash into my hands. No W-2s. No tax forms. Zero questions asked. That was the lifeline I clung to.

I needed the physical paper money to build an emergency fund. I needed cash that couldn't be tracked through banking apps, routing numbers, or credit card swipes. The last time I tried to use a bank account, it left a digital footprint. That tiny breadcrumb was all it took for them to find me. The memory of my husband's heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway of my last apartment sent a cold shiver down my spine. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the rough texture of my order pad. I had to hoard every dollar, stashing it away in a hollowed-out book under my mattress, just in case I was forced to run again.

"You're going to burn out though, and then what?" Miriam muttered under her breath, grabbing a stack of clean menus.

I let the comment slide. We had tables filling up, and the morning rush was about to hit. I knew her concern was genuine. If she knew she was going to be short-staffed today, she would have told me to stay home and sleep. But I also knew Miriam couldn't handle the diner alone. Taking orders, bussing tables, balancing heavy trays of scalding food, and running the register was hellish for two people. For one, it was impossible.

The frantic pace of the morning rush became my saving grace. The constant motion kept my aching muscles from locking up and forced my sleep-deprived brain to stay alert. Time bled away in a blur of pouring coffee, balancing plates of eggs, and wiping down syrup-stained tables. Before I knew it, the chaotic roar of the breakfast crowd faded into the quiet lull of mid-morning.

I stood near the wait station, systematically wrapping silverware in thin paper napkins and marrying the half-empty ketchup bottles. Miriam shuffled over, dropping her weight against the counter beside me with a heavy sigh.

"I cannot believe that it's already almost eight o'clock," she groaned, rubbing the back of her neck.

My head whipped toward the round clock hanging on the grease-stained wall, then back to Miriam.

"You were off at four," I said, a frown pulling at my lips. "Where is Chloe? She was supposed to take over for you."

Miriam rolled her shoulders and grabbed a pile of napkins, mirroring my movements. "Guess she called in to say she was going to be late or something. Barrett asked me to stay until she got here. He said he had to run out to go get her because of car trouble."

I let out a harsh breath, rolling my eyes so hard they ached.

Right. Car trouble.

It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the fact that she and Barrett were screwing in cheap motel rooms on the side. Barrett was a married man. His marriage was a trainwreck, which made sense considering his wife, Gwen, was a walking nightmare. She paraded into the diner at least once a week, armed with a designer handbag and a sharp tongue. She made a point to insult the food, degrade the staff, and then storm into Barrett's cramped office, where they would spend hours screaming at each other behind a flimsy door. I tried to tune out the muffled crashes and insults, often wondering why they bothered staying together at all.

But Gwen's awful personality didn't change the facts. Barrett cheated constantly. Chloe wasn't the first waitress he had hooked up with, but she was the current favorite, reaping all the benefits. Barrett didn't hit on Miriam or me, likely because we maintained strict boundaries and actual standards. The kitchen staff consisted of older men, leaving Chloe as the sole target of his wandering hands.

Because she slept with the boss, Chloe got whatever shifts she wanted, showed up whenever she pleased, and left Miriam and me to suffer the crushing workload. Barrett kept scaring off any new hires with his sleazy behavior, leaving the diner perpetually short-staffed. It was a hostile work environment. Under any other circumstances, the man would be drowning in sexual harassment lawsuits.

If only I wasn't so terrified of stepping foot inside a courtroom and putting my name on a public legal document.

"Do you think that Chloe's boyfriend knows that she screws her boss?" Miriam asked, leaning closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

A sudden, sharp snort escaped my throat.

I genuinely liked Miriam. In another life, if I were capable of trusting people, we might have been close friends. She was bright, funny, and her bubbly energy made the miserable shifts bearable. She kept asking me to hang out outside of work, but I always shut her down. I couldn't afford the risk.

"I didn't know Chloe had a boyfriend," I replied, tossing a rolled napkin into the plastic bin. "I thought she had multiple, and they all knew about each other."

Miriam let out a loud burst of laughter, the sound echoing through the near-empty diner. Thankfully, our only customer was Quiet Ned. He was an elderly, grumpy local who spent two hours nursing a single black coffee while glaring at the wall. He never tipped more than fifty cents, so I didn't care if we disturbed his peace.

"Gosh, you're too much," Miriam teased, bumping her shoulder against my arm.

I offered a faint smile and focused on the ketchup bottles. I was glad I made her laugh, but my comment was dead serious. I had seen at least three different guys swagger into the diner over the past month, each claiming to be Chloe's boyfriend. I worked more shifts with her than Miriam did, so I had a front-row seat to her messy personal life.

"Anyway, her boyfriend that I know about is a guy from the motorcycle gang in the next town over," Miriam said casually, reaching for another napkin.

My hands stopped moving.

The plastic ketchup bottle slipped from my grip, hitting the counter with a dull thud. The blood in my veins turned to ice, freezing my lungs mid-breath.

A motorcycle club? Near here?

My mind scrambled, searching through every memory of the past few months. I had never seen anyone wearing cuts or club patches around town. But then again, my entire existence consisted of walking from my cheap apartment to the diner and making quick, paranoid trips to the grocery store. I kept my head down. I never looked at anyone's faces. It was possible they had been riding through the streets right outside the diner's windows, and I had been too focused on scrubbing tables to notice.

The realization triggered a massive, suffocating wave of panic.

When I was a little girl, the MC life used to be my sanctuary. Before everything went to hell, the clubhouse was the only place I felt safe. The older guys treated me like family, especially after Talon became my stepdad. They watched my back. They patted my head. They gave me a sense of belonging I never got from my own mother.

But that illusion was shattered, ripped apart by the very people who swore to protect me. My supposed friends. My cruel stepsister, Evelyn.

The nostalgic memories I used to cling to twisted into something poisonous and ugly.

None of them wanted me. The cold, brutal truth crashed over me, suffocating and heavy. My mother didn't want me. Lachlan, Cian, Declan, Grayson, Kaelen—none of them truly cared. I vividly remembered the harsh shift in their eyes, the cruel smirks on their faces when they realized they no longer had to pretend. The taunts echoed in my skull, as loud as if they were standing right next to me.

"I told you to stay away from me for a while."

"God, you're always in the fucking way, Tiny."

"What are you doing here, Ember? We told you to stay out of the clubhouse."

"Maybe you should take the hint, Freckles. No one wants you here."

They had discarded me like trash. I was a nuisance, a burden they were forced to tolerate until they decided they were done playing nice.

But my heartbreak over the past was nothing compared to the immediate, terrifying threat of the present. If there was a local motorcycle gang in the next town, who were they? Were they affiliated with The Crimson's Fire Riders? MCs were interconnected. They had alliances, rivalries, and information networks that stretched across state lines. If this local club had any ties to my past, word of my whereabouts could easily slip through the cracks.

One casual mention of a red-haired waitress in a dead-end Nebraska town. One passing comment at a club party. That was all it would take for the information to reach my father.

And if it reached my father, it would reach my husband.

The devastating consequences of my last failed escape attempt flashed behind my eyes. The bruises. The locked doors. The agonizing months of planning just to get out with the clothes on my back. I couldn't go back. I would rather die than go back.

"Mae, are you listening to me?" Miriam's voice broke through the ringing in my ears.

I gasped, my lungs burning as I sucked in a sharp breath of the diner's greasy air. I blinked rapidly, fighting back the hot, stinging tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. My hands were shaking, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge of the counter to ground myself.

I forced the corners of my mouth up, plastering on a hollow, fake smile.

"Sorry, zoned out a bit," I mumbled, my voice trembling slightly.

Miriam's expression softened into sympathy. "Understandable," she replied, patting my arm. "You're probably dog-tired."

I nodded, swallowing the lump of sheer terror lodged in my throat. Exhausted didn't even begin to cover it.

"Anyway, I was saying that we should go out tomorrow night after work," Miriam continued, oblivious to the internal war tearing me apart. Her eyes lit up with excitement. "We close together again. Let's go get a drink after. Please?"

My instinct screamed at me to say no. To lock myself in my apartment, pack my duffel bag, and start running again. But running required money, and running right now would only draw attention. I had to act normal. I had to deflect suspicion. If I kept refusing every invitation, I would stand out. I needed to blend in.

"I don't know, Miriam," I mumbled, trying to control my breathing.

"Oh, come on! Please?" She pouted, leaning against the counter. "Just a couple of drinks?"

I looked at her hopeful face, then glanced at the front door of the diner. I had to survive this.

"I'll think about it," I replied, forcing my tone to sound casual.

Miriam squealed, clapping her hands together as if my non-committal answer was a resounding yes. I turned back to the ketchup bottles, my hands still trembling slightly. I tried to rationalize the fear away. I could handle one single night out. I would stay in the shadows. I would keep my head down. It was just a local bar in a town where absolutely no one knew my real name.

I took a deep breath, the dread settling heavy and cold in the pit of my stomach.

What's the worst that could happen?