Work Drama

Maeve's P.O.V.

The diner buzzed with a deafening roar of overlapping conversations, clinking silverware, and the relentless sizzle of grease popping on the grill. I grabbed a damp rag and scrubbed at a stubborn ketchup stain on the laminate counter, trying to ignore the chaotic energy thrumming through the packed room. Friday nights in Gering, Nebraska were supposed to be quiet. This was the exact reason I chose this dead-end town. Tonight, however, the universe decided to test my fragile grip on reality.

"Are they seriously going to stay locked in that office all night instead of helping?" Miriam slammed a stack of dirty menus onto the counter next to me, her chest heaving. She glared daggers toward the closed wooden door at the back of the hallway.

Andre chuckled from the kitchen side of the food window, the spatula in his hand scraping against the metal griddle. "You know the man loves getting his dick wet, girl. Let a playa play."

I shook my head, bracing myself for the inevitable explosion.

"Let a playa play?" Miriam repeated, her tone dropping to a dangerous, icy register. She grabbed a stack of clean plates, her knuckles turning white. "That playa can play when his business isn't crumbling into dust because he has zero staff working the floor!"

She spun on her heel and stormed off toward booth number four, her ponytail whipping behind her.

"Why do you have to rile her up?" I asked Andre, stacking an armful of hot plates lined with fries and club sandwiches. "She's already one bad tip away from a meltdown."

Andre threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming over the diner's overhead speakers playing an old rock tune. "Come on, Mae. That girl is too fun not to poke at."

I didn't have the energy to argue. The dinner rush had hit us like a freight train two hours ago and showed zero signs of slowing down. People filled every vinyl booth, every wobbly table, and every swiveling stool at the counter. I weaved through the narrow aisles, dropping off plates, refilling coffees, and plastering on the fake, hollow smile I had perfected over the last two and a half years.

Two and a half grueling years of running. Of hiding in the shadows.

I spent my first days of freedom bouncing from state to state, never staying in one zip code for more than three months. The fear of my past catching up to me kept my bags packed and my head on a constant swivel. But the longer I ran, the heavier the exhaustion became. Three months turned into four. Four turned into six. When I stumbled into this quiet pocket of Nebraska, I let myself breathe. I let myself settle. Nothing ever happened here. They would never think to look for me in a rundown diner smelling of stale coffee and fryer oil.

Still, my duffel bag remained packed under my bed, and I kept enough cash hidden to vanish at a moment's notice.

The night dragged on in a dizzying blur of orders and spilled sodas. Chloe, our supposed third waitress, made rare appearances, only to vanish right back into Barrett's office. The situation bordered on the absurd. Our manager possessed the self-control of an animal in heat. I spent half my shift doing my job, doing Chloe's job, and physically restraining Miriam from kicking Barrett's office door off its hinges. If she caused a scene, Barrett would fire her, and I couldn't survive this soul-sucking job without Miriam's chaotic energy keeping me grounded.

I leaned against the back counter, my hands moving on autopilot as I wrapped forks and knives into cheap paper napkins. I muttered a string of curses under my breath. The clock above the kitchen door mocked me. Seven-thirty. We didn't close until eleven. My feet throbbed, my lower back ached, and my patience wore dangerously thin.

"Excuse me."

The deep, polite voice startled me. I fumbled the silverware, dropping a knife onto the floor with a sharp clatter. I grabbed the counter, forcing my racing heart to steady, and looked up.

A man leaned casually against the opposite side of the counter, bringing a sudden halt to my train of thought. He flashed a megawatt smile, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Golden blonde hair fell around his jaw and grazed his shoulders, giving him a rugged, untamed look that belonged on the cover of a magazine, not inside a greasy Nebraska diner. He possessed an effortless, magnetic attraction that momentarily robbed me of my ability to form words.

"Uh..." I mumbled, sounding like an idiot.

The guy smirked, a knowing glint flashing in his eyes.

"Sorry to bother you while you're drowning in work," he said, his voice a smooth, low rumble. "I came in here and grabbed a seat in my girl's section, but I haven't seen her. She is here, right? I didn't get her schedule messed up? Her name is Chloe."

My eyebrows shot up.

Chloe? This sculpted, walking temptation belonged to Chloe? Chloe possessed a certain brand of fake-tanned, bleach-blonde appeal, but this man existed in an entirely different league. My brain struggled to process the mismatch.

As my eyes traveled past his broad shoulders, my breath hitched in my throat. My blood ran ice cold.

Thick black leather.

He wore a leather cut. The patches stitched across his chest hit me like a physical blow. The Scythes MC. Right below the menacing emblem sat a smaller, distinct patch: Treasurer.

Every instinct I had honed over the last two years screamed at me to run. Bikers. The very sight of the leather sent a phantom ache rippling through my ribs, a dark reminder of the world I had clawed my way out of. I fought the violent urge to back away. I forced my breathing to remain even, locking my terror behind a blank, indifferent expression. I could not let him see that I knew what that patch meant. I had to be a clueless, overworked waitress. Nothing more.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," he added quickly, catching the split-second pause where my eyes lingered on his leather.

I shrugged, forcing my shoulders to drop into a relaxed posture, and went back to rolling the silverware.

"Didn't think you were," I replied, keeping my tone flat.

"Hmm," he hummed, a thoughtful sound that made my skin prickle.

I kept my gaze fixed on the napkins, terrified that if I looked into those sharp blue eyes again, he would see the ghosts haunting mine. I didn't want any part of The Scythes MC. I didn't want any part of his world.

"So... my girl?" he prompted after a stretch of heavy silence.

Before I could formulate a safe, dismissive answer, footsteps pounded against the linoleum. Miriam stomped up beside me, her apron covered in flour and coffee stains.

"Are you trying to pay up here? Because most customers let us do the walking," Miriam quipped, offering him a tight, strained smile.

"Ah, no. I haven't ordered yet, actually," he replied easily.

"Right. Because you're sitting in Chloe's section," Miriam grumbled. She intended it to be an under-the-breath comment, but her rage amplified her volume.

The biker's face lit up. He planted both hands on the counter, leaning in. "So she is here! Where is she? She on break or something?"

Miriam froze. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she mentally put the pieces together. The golden hair. The leather. The sheer attractiveness. She realized exactly who this guy was. Chloe had been bragging about a new biker boyfriend for weeks. I watched the vindictive, gleeful fire ignite in Miriam's eyes. I wanted to stop her. Provoking an MC member, especially an officer, was a death wish. But tonight, I shared her frustration.

"Oh, you want me to take you to her?" Miriam asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

"Miriam," I hissed out the side of my mouth, giving her a sharp nudge with my elbow.

She shot me a defiant look. Her mind was made up. When Miriam reached her breaking point, logic flew out the window.

"He deserves to know anyway," she whispered back viciously.

I looked at the biker. He watched our whispered exchange with mild amusement, that charming smile still resting on his lips. He seemed too upbeat. Too decent.

The words spilled out of my mouth before my brain could filter them.

"Why are you even with her?" I asked.

The amusement vanished from his face. His blue eyes hardened into chips of ice. The shift happened so fast it sent a chill down my spine. The easygoing guy disappeared, replaced by the hardened MC officer.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped, his voice dropping an octave. "'Cause she's a waitress, and I'm a biker? You think she works too hard for me, or that my lifestyle will drag her down? Don't be jealous, sweetheart. It's not a good look on you."

I blinked, genuinely stunned.

"Jealous?!" Miriam shrieked, the sheer offense in her voice slicing through the diner chatter.

A bubble of hysterical laughter forced its way up my throat. I tried to suppress it, but the sound escaped as a loud snort. Within seconds, I bent over the counter, clutching my stomach as genuine, uncontrollable laughter wracked my body. It felt foreign. It had been years since I laughed like this.

"It wasn't that fucking funny," the biker growled, his jaw tightening.

"Actually, it was," Miriam retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because jealous is the very last thing we are when it comes to Chloe."

Right on cue, the wooden door at the end of the hallway creaked open.

A high-pitched, breathy giggle echoed into the dining room. Chloe stepped out of Barrett's office, her uniform wrinkled, her lipstick smeared across her chin. Barrett followed close behind, his hands lingering on her waist as he whispered something in her ear.

The biker had a direct, unobstructed view down the hallway.

I didn't need to turn around to know what was happening. I watched the biker's reaction. His broad shoulders went rigid. The muscles in his neck strained against his skin. The ticking of his jaw became so pronounced I thought his teeth might crack. He stared unblinking at the undeniable, humiliating sight of his girlfriend cheating on him with their boss.

"I can give you his home address if you want," Miriam offered, leaning over the counter with chaotic eagerness. "He has a wife. We can blow his whole life up."

"Nah," the biker muttered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Fuck that shit. That bitch ain't worth the energy."

"Okay, but can you at least make a massive scene?" Miriam whined, giving him a pleading, wide-eyed look. "Throw a chair? Punch him? This is the highlight of our entire month."

The biker tore his gaze away from the hallway and stared at Miriam like she had lost her mind. He looked between the two of us, taking in my lingering amusement and Miriam's bloodthirsty excitement. He let out a long, heavy sigh, the tension draining out of his posture.

"Sorry I made assumptions about you two," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shouldn't have done that."

"It's fine, I get it," I said, waving a hand in the air.

"So, anyway," Miriam pushed forward, determined to keep the spotlight. "For starters, I feel obligated to let you know that you are one incredibly fine specimen of a man. You can do leaps and bounds better than a skank like Chloe."

The biker ran a hand through his golden hair, his gaze drifting past us, lost in thought.

"I liked that she was trying to build something," he mumbled, a trace of genuine disappointment coloring his tone. "I liked that she was going to school and working her ass off. I thought she was real, ya know? How many chicks do you find that are fun to hang with but still smart? She's going to school to be a children's therapist. She busts her ass here to take care of her sick grandmother who raised her. I thought she was sweet. Kind."

Dead silence fell over our side of the counter.

I stopped breathing. I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the words he just spoke. I slowly turned my head to look at Miriam.

Miriam stood frozen like a statue. All the color drained from her face, leaving her chalk-white. Then, a dark, terrifying flush crept up her neck. Her eyes widened, filling with an inferno of unadulterated fury.

"You psychotic bitch!" Miriam screamed.

The sheer volume of her voice ripped through the diner. Conversations halted. Forks stopped halfway to mouths. The entire packed room went dead silent, turning to watch.

Miriam stomped past the counter, marching straight toward the hallway. Chloe froze, finally noticing the crowd, and more importantly, noticing her biker boyfriend standing by the register.

"You are going around pretending to be me to snatch up hot biker guys!" Miriam bellowed, jabbing an accusing finger right into Chloe's face. "You crossed the line! I do not care what deranged lies you feed your freaking harem of men, but you leave me out of it! And how is that even fair?!" Miriam threw her hands up, pacing in tight circles. "You literally stole my exact life story! You stole my identity, and you landed the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life, and I can't even get a text back from a guy who works at the gas station! I can't take this shit anymore!"

While Miriam continued to verbally tear Chloe to shreds in front of a captive audience, the biker leaned his forearms against the counter. He didn't look angry anymore. He watched the irate, screaming Miriam with sudden, intense fascination. His eyes raked over her flailing form, a new kind of heat replacing the betrayal.

He tilted his head, leaning closer to me. "Her life?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

I grinned. I knew exactly what that look in his eyes meant.

"Yeah," I confirmed, leaning against the register. "Miriam is the one going to school to be a therapist. Miriam works her ass off here. Miriam takes care of her sick grandmother. I don't know what Chloe's actual situation is, but I can guarantee you she doesn't work hard at all. Ever."

The biker watched Miriam rip off her apron and throw it at Barrett's chest. He quirked a golden eyebrow.

"But Miriam...?" he started, trailing off as he let out a low chuckle.

"Well," I said, grabbing a fresh stack of menus. "Why don't you go ask her yourself?"

He turned his head back to me, that megawatt smile returning in full force. "You think she really thinks I'm the hottest guy she's ever seen?"

I let out another bark of laughter, shaking my head at the sheer ridiculousness of the night.

"I think you better go schedule an STD screening," I told him deadpan.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fuck. I'll get one tomorrow."