Seeing Old Frenemies

Maeve's P.O.V.

"I can't believe all of that just happened," Miriam exhaled, her breath forming a faint white cloud in the biting cool fall night.

We stepped out of the diner's heavy back door, the heavy metal slamming shut behind us and cutting off the lingering buzz of the kitchen. Miriam stared blankly at the dark asphalt of the alleyway. She wore a dazed, shell-shocked expression, and I could hardly blame her. The evening's explosive chaos had left my own ears ringing. Barrett had been a hair's breadth away from firing Miriam on the spot over the altercation with Chloe. I had a resignation speech already burning on my tongue. I knew Barrett would never choose us over Chloe. He could always hire another girl willing to spread her legs in the back office to secure the prime weekend shifts.

Barrett was gearing up to tear Miriam apart, until he noticed the intimidating biker watching the scene unfold. Chloe tried to play the crying victim, but the biker shut her down fast. He backed Barrett into a corner of pure terror, made it known the diner would be blacklisted if he kept Chloe around, and exiled her from his life. Then, he turned right around and asked Miriam out on a date.

"Do you really think he's going to go get checked tomorrow?" Miriam asked as we navigated out of the alley and onto the street sidewalk.

The autumn air carried a sharp chill, stinging my cheeks but grounding my racing mind. The sky arched above us, clear and vast, scattered with bright stars. Looking up at them brought an unbidden memory rushing back—laying on the roof of my childhood home, picking out constellations with Lachlan. He knew every single one. It was an impressive feat for an eleven-year-old boy. I shoved the memory down, locking it away.

"I hope so," I replied, pulling my jacket tighter around my shoulders.

"Really?" Miriam chewed on her bottom lip, her steps slowing. "You don't think this is... well, silly?"

"Silly?" I repeated, scrunching my face.

"He just caught his girlfriend cheating," she pointed out, waving a hand back toward the diner. "The girl we both hate, who we know sleeps with anything breathing. Is it crazy that I am willing to date him after all that drama?"

I kept my pace steady, my boots clicking against the concrete. "I don't think it's fair to call it crazy," I answered honestly. "If it feels right, then go for it. It was a chaotic situation, but he clearly thought the person he was dating had your personality. He thought Chloe was you."

"It's just nerve-racking," she admitted, rubbing her arms.

"Take things slow," I warned, my tone shifting, growing heavier without my permission. "Being involved with someone in an MC can get wild. You need to think about that. You need to decide if you can handle it, if you really want inside that life. Some of these clubs are nuts. They do not treat women well. They treat them like property to be passed around or punching bags. Your guy seemed different, but you need to be careful."

Miriam fell silent. The rhythmic sound of our footsteps echoed down the empty street. She studied my face under the amber glow of a passing streetlamp.

"You say that like you know from personal experience," she said quietly.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Is that what you're running from?" she pressed.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My lungs seized, trapping the cold air inside my chest. A terrified silence settled over me, my throat locking up so tight I couldn't form a single word of denial. My past stared back at me from the shadows of the street. Miriam took two more steps before realizing I wasn't beside her. She turned, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, and offered a soft, understanding smile.

"You don't have to tell me anything," she murmured.

"I..." My voice cracked. I let the sentence die.

"Hey, it's okay. I shouldn't have pried," Miriam said. She stepped back, looping her arm through mine, her warmth anchoring me back to the present. "Let's go get those drinks."

She chatted my ear off for the rest of the twenty-minute walk, filling the silence I was too drained to break. By the time we pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the dive bar, the place was packed to the walls.

The heavy scent of stale beer, peanut shells, and cheap whiskey hit my nose. A low, thumping bass rattled the floorboards from the jukebox in the corner. Neon signs flickered through the dim lighting. It was a hole-in-the-wall. My favorite kind of place. A wave of heavy nostalgia washed over me, heavily reminding me of the fires' old clubhouse days. Instead of triggering my panic, the familiarity offered a rare, strange moment of safety. I let my tense shoulders drop.

We found two empty stools at the far end of the sticky mahogany bar. We shrugged off our jackets, and the bartender slid two dark drinks in front of us without a word. After a few sips, the burn of the alcohol thawed the ice in my veins. I finally let my guard down.

Reaching up, I hooked my fingers into the tight, messy bun perched on top of my head. I pulled the elastic tie free. The release sent a sharp ache across my scalp before my heavy, waist-length black waves cascaded down my back, spilling over my shoulders like a dark curtain.

Miriam gasped, her eyes going wide over the rim of her glass. "Holy shit, I didn't know you had all that hair under there!"

I offered a dismissive shrug, but she leaned in, going on and on about how gorgeous it was.

Secretly, I hated it. I despised the heavy weight of it against my spine. It was a haunting, physical reminder of the ghosts from my past. The men who used to dictate my every move told me exactly how I needed to wear it. They wanted it long. They demanded I keep it this way so I would look pretty for them. It was a leash they used to wrap around their fists. I thought about cutting it off a hundred times, taking a pair of kitchen shears and hacking it to my chin, but the echoing voices in my head always paralyzed me, trapping me in my own fear.

Miriam's sudden, high-pitched squeal pulled me from the dark spiral of my thoughts. She stared down at her phone screen, a face-splitting grin lighting up her features.

"Look! He already texted me!" she cheered, shoving the illuminated screen into my face.

I pushed the ghosts away and forced a genuine smile for her. "Good for you. I hope he turns out to be everything you want."

And I truly meant it.

***

The next morning at the diner was a living nightmare.

My head pounded with a dull, rhythmic ache from the lack of sleep and the drinks. The morning rush hit us like a tidal wave, and Barrett was in rare form. His face was flushed red, sweat beading on his forehead as he paced behind the register, barking endless orders at me.

"Maeve, I need you to run these plates!"

"Maeve, take out the trash in the back!"

"Maeve, we need three fresh pots of coffee made right now!"

"Maeve, table three needs a refill!"

I scrambled between the booths, balancing trays, dodging impatient customers, and trying to keep the chaotic rush contained. I wiped down a table, my muscles screaming in protest, when Barrett stomped over.

"Maeve, I need—"

"Barrett!" I snapped, my voice cracking like a whip. I bit the inside of my cheek, tasted copper, and tried again. "Barrett, I am only one person. I cannot do everything."

His eyes narrowed into dark slits. He leaned over the counter, pointing a thick finger at my chest. "No, but you can bust your ass and try. Considering it is your fault that I had to fire Chloe."

I stopped wiping the table. I stared at him, incredulous. "My fault?"

"Yours and Miriam's," he spat, nodding his head like it was a proven fact.

The sheer audacity of the man shattered the last remaining thread of my patience. The physical and mental exhaustion stripped away my filter. I slammed the damp rag down onto the counter.

"Maybe if you stopped fucking your employees, you would be able to hold onto them!" I yelled.

A few customers in the nearby booths went dead silent, their eyes darting over to us, but I didn't care. I leaned closer to Barrett, lowering my voice into a vicious hiss. "Firing Chloe was your own damn fault. You shouldn't shit where you eat. Blaming two women because you were too afraid to stand up to the biker makes you look like a pathetic pansy. That girl never worked a day in her life anyway. Her leaving is a blessing to this diner. Unless you want to run this entire floor all by yourself, I suggest you cut me some slack. And if you are still hellbent on blaming someone, I just cleaned the mirror in the men's bathroom. Go take a long look at yourself."

Barrett's jaw dropped. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple, but he didn't say a single word. I snatched up a fresh coffee pot and marched away to make my rounds. I had never talked back to him in the two years I worked here, but he pushed me to my absolute limit.

The rush eventually faded into a steady, manageable hum. The adrenaline crash left my hands shaking as I stood behind the counter, setting up fresh mugs. Miriam burst through the front doors, her face glowing as she tied her apron around her waist.

The bell above the door chimed again, signaling a new group walking in.

"Oof, they sat at your section, but Specter is with them," Miriam mumbled, grabbing a notepad. "What is with all the bikers lately? Is there a convention in town?"

I cracked a small smile. I assumed they were just friends of her new guy coming to check out the diner. Bikers took their brothers' new women seriously. "I'll take them some coffee," I offered, lifting the steaming pot from the burner.

I spun around and walked past the register. I rounded the edge of the counter, lifting my head to glance at the booth.

I froze mid-step.

The blood instantly drained from my face, rushing straight to my feet. The diner's ambient noise—the clinking silverware, the low hum of conversation, the sizzling grill—faded into a distant, muffled ringing.

I recognized those faces. I recognized the scuffed heavy boots. I recognized the black leather cuts draped over broad shoulders.

Most terrifyingly, I recognized the massive logo stitched across their backs. A crimson rider. Blood-red wings. Surrounded by sprawling, vibrant flames.

The Crimson's Fire Riders.

My heart slammed against my ribs with enough force to crack bone. My lungs turned to stone. The world tilted on its axis. I tried to force my brain to work, scrambling to rationalize through the blinding, suffocating panic. *It's fine,* I told myself, my inner voice screaming. *They are just the older kids. They were in the club, but they didn't really know me. They won't notice me. Just walk away.*

I spun around on my heels, desperate to retreat into the kitchen, to hide in the walk-in freezer until my lungs remembered how to function.

The bell above the front door dinged again.

My feet felt nailed to the linoleum floor. The urge to sprint out the back door tore at my muscles, but a morbid, paralyzing gravity forced me to turn my head back toward the entrance.

I found myself staring directly into a pair of familiar green eyes.

The air vanished from the room. He was older now. The boyish softness was gone, replaced by a hardened, razor-sharp jawline and a slightly crooked nose that spoke of broken bones. His shoulders were incredibly broad, filling the doorway, his dark brown hair styled with the same effortless sweep of a hand. He was dangerous, imposing, and undeniably him.

Lachlan Bruce MacKenzie.

My throat clamped shut. Pure, unadulterated terror seized my windpipe. My knuckles turned stark white as my fingers dug into the plastic handle of the coffee pot. My knees shook so violently I thought I would collapse right there on the diner floor.

A thousand horrifying questions bombarded my mind like artillery fire. Is he here looking for me? Did they track me down? Is he going to drag me out of here by my hair? Are they working with my father? Did my abusive husband send them to collect me?

I braced myself. I locked my knees, preparing for the violent fallout, for the shouting, for the heavy hands grabbing my arms.

Lachlan stepped forward. He walked right past the counter. He walked right past me.

His eyes slid over my face without a single flicker of recognition. He didn't pause. He didn't blink. He moved past me like I was nothing more than a piece of the diner's cheap furniture, joining his brothers at the booth. He acted like he had no idea who I was.

I stood there, the heavy coffee pot trembling in my white-knuckled grip. And to my own absolute shock, the cold, empty dismissal in those green eyes hurt far worse than the violence I had expected.