Brad was peeling the second batch of potatoes when the sound of motorcycle engines reached his ears. Several of them.
He furrowed his brow. Stopping his work, he looked towards the dining room. From here, he couldn't see clearly, but he could hear—heavy boots on the wooden floor and chairs being pushed back with too much force.
There was no doubt about it: a group of bikers had shown up at Aunt Sally's diner.
The question was, were they here for a meal, or were they looking for trouble?
Brad sincerely hoped for the first. His instincts reminded him that hope was the mother of fools.
He discarded the half-peeled potato and the knife, washed his hands, and dried them on a towel.
They'd been on the street outside his house yesterday. Today, they were in his workplace. It felt a little too convenient for a coincidence.
He heard Aunt Sally's awkward laugh, then the woman entered the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and approached the stove to prepare another batch of fish. She didn't look at Brad once.
Not good, he thought. Very not good.
"They placed an order," he approached her.
"Yes. They came in for lunch," she answered, and the fish sizzled on the pan as it hit the hot oil.
"I'll serve them, alright?" he offered, but his tone suggested it was more of a command than a suggestion.
"There's no need…" she replied too hastily.
He smiled at her and, with a calming gesture, placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Let me handle it," his voice was softer. "You think I can hide from them?"
"Did you figure it out?" she asked. "Or did you hear something?"
"I figured," he admitted. "Listen, whatever they want, I need to settle it quickly. You know how this works."
Well, she might not know. She'd never hung around with bikers.
"I promise your restaurant won't suffer," he added.
"You're a brat. You think I care about this old wreck?" she waved her hand dismissively.
The laughter from the dining room grew louder, along with the cursing.
"I care about this wreck," he said firmly. "After all, it's where I work."
***
Brad smoothly walked into the dining area, balancing a tray in one hand like a professional waiter. In his other hand, he held a clean cotton towel.
"Here's your order, gentlemen," he said with a smile, placing the plates in front of the bikers. "Our specialty—fish and chips. I'll be right back with the beer."
He didn't need to look to know the men were staring at him as though they'd just seen something unusually strange. He heard the deep silence, as their conversations and laughter ceased mid-sentence. He always enjoyed making such a striking impression.
"So it's true," one of them spoke up. "The devil's truth. Brad Lipski works at a roadside diner as a waiter."
"Hey, Dylan," Brad greeted with a smile. "Heard you got a promotion."
Dylan was two years younger than Brad, with dark copper-colored hair that suggested a mix of warrior blood from Northern Europe. He wasn't the muscle-bound type, but his athletic build always made a good impression. He was sharp, clever, as far as Brad could tell, though like most people around here, he'd only finished high school.
Dylan smiled at Brad, showing off a full set of nice teeth.
"Which can't be said about you," he remarked with malicious satisfaction.
"Come on, work's work. Not everyone has the ambition to be a gangster. So, you want the beer?"
Dylan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Sure, bring it over. Cold."
His gaze when he issued the command, however, was far from cold.
Brad nodded and turned to head back to the kitchen. He wasn't in a hurry. He wanted to give them a moment—let them look around, get a feel for the place. In the kitchen, he grabbed six bottles from refrigerator. He set the bottles in front of them and, with the poise of a seasoned waiter, said:
"If you gentlemen need anything else, just call."
He had already turned to leave when someone slapped him on the backside—a blond guy he didn't recognize. Brad immediately grabbed his hand and twisted it until the guy winced in discomfort.
"You can look, but you can't touch," he stated flatly.
"Gray, show some respect," Dylan barked.
The man mumbled something under his breath but didn't make a fuss. The rest of his friends followed suit, sitting quietly, watching like dogs waiting for a command from their leader.
"We can talk outside?" Dylan suggested. His eyes clearly indicated this was no ordinary proposal.
"Sure," Brad smiled casually, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "Shall we?"
Finally, we're getting somewhere, he thought, mischievously winking at the guy who'd grabbed him.