Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
How could I have missed the fact that Turkey club, mayo on the side, no coleslaw, extra pickle had been taking pictures of me?
I guess that was an easy one to answer.
Because I was the only server on the overnight shift, and sometimes things got crazy, and I was too busy to pay attention to who might have been pointing their phone at me to take pictures of me while I rushed around.
"You saw him and you didn't say anything to me?" I asked, voice pitching higher, more upset than I probably should have been. When it came to assholes, Don was only slightly better than Luis himself. Of course he hadn't said anything. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd asked Turkey club, mayo on the side, no coleslaw, extra pickle for a copy.
"Ain't my business."
I let out a sound as I walked away from him that sounded eerily similar to a growl. An actual growl.
Someday, I tried to remind myself, this job would be a distant memory. Time would soften the rough edges. I would probably be able to find some humor in these events that felt unendingly frustrating in the moment.
Thankfully, after I finished bussing the table for the poor—and likely traumatized—teenagers, I got a small rush of people who worked at a nearby bar.
Service people made the best customers.
They asked for everything they might need all at once. They didn't make you run back and forth a dozen times. They stacked their plates for you near the end of the table. And they tipped well.
I'd once had a server from another restaurant bus a couple tables for me when I'd been swamped taking orders, and there was a small line waiting to sit down.
It was a firmly held belief of mine that if everyone had to serve tables for a couple months, the world would be a much better, kinder place. Because once you dealt with a couple hundred demanding, condescending, and rude people, you made sure you were never one yourself.
But having something else to think about helped, for a bit, to keep my mind from flashing back to the parking lot.
Not the fight itself.
But Malcolm being led away by the police, being cuffed, put in the back of a car, and driven away.
I wanted to call.
Or text.
But I didn't know how any of this worked. If he was still in a cell. If he was being questioned. Or if he'd maybe gotten out on bail.
I didn't want my name to pop up on a screen if the police had possession of it, and start to get ideas other than whatever story Malcolm was telling them.
He'd done so much for me.
I really didn't want to get him in trouble.
So I would just wait, do my job, go home, and get some sleep.
Or so that was the plan.
And I did get three whole hours before restlessness woke me up, making it impossible to fall back to sleep. So I went ahead and showered the grease smell out of my hair, then shredded potatoes to make hash browns before the curiosity got the better of me, leaving me to look up the number of the police station, then calling before I could lose my nerve, asking if I could post bail for Malcolm, but being informed he'd already made bail.
He'd made bail.
So he was free.
At least for now.
Free to go back to his clubhouse. Yes, clubhouse. Because he was a biker. Which was why he and that other guy had been wearing those "cuts" the night before that I'd called vests in my head.
I'd done a little research between tables at the end of my shift.
There wasn't a whole lot of information available online. Which felt almost suspicious. But I'd learned that the Henchmen were a local biker club in Navesink Bank.
They had a clubhouse right in the center of town.
I'd probably driven by it a dozen or so times without really even noticing it before.
But there was no doubt I would be noticing it from then on.
All my research aside, though, I needed to get in touch with him.
I needed to find some way to thank him.
After I dropped Shep at physical therapy.
I had a tendency to show my gratitude in the shape of cookies and cakes and scones.
So while the potatoes cooked, I did something I hadn't done in far too long. I got my baking supplies out.
When I'd moved in with Shep, it had been round-the-clock care for many weeks which quickly turned into care for three-quarters of the day, followed by work, and the occasional snippets of sleep.
I'd been living out of my suitcases for two months. And I'd only managed to unpack a handful of my baking supplies.
I actually needed to dig most of my stuff out of the front coat closet before I could get started.