Seasons of Change (11 page)

When I eventually wake up I find that I’ve slept for most of the day, and if I don’t get my ass out of bed, I’m going to be late for my shift at the diner. Automatically I check my cell and try to convince myself that I’m not expecting to see a message from Jake. I don’t even manage to persuade myself that I’m not disappointed when I don’t see one.

I reason that I’m the one that left in the middle of the night, so I suppose I should be the one to get in touch with him, call to explain why I behaved the way I did, clear the air. Instead, I lay my cell back down on the nightstand and start to get ready for work.

I go through the routine of showering, dressing, pulling my long hair back into a high pony-tail, and checking on Mom before I leave the house, shutting the door quietly behind me as I head to the diner. I spend the night rushing around, as Suzie has missed her shift again and I can’t get through to her on the phone.

Big George is running the show as per usual, but he’s slower on the grill than normal because his hand is clearly hurting him. But as long as I’ve known him he has never missed a day of work. It’s obviously going to take more than a knife through the hand to keep him away from Sunny Side Up.

I check my phone on average about a million times an hour, but doing that doesn’t magically conjure up a message from Jake telling me… Well, I suppose that’s part of the problem. I don’t really know
what
it is that I’m expecting him to say or even what it is that I’m
wanting
to hear from him. If I knew that, then I guess I wouldn’t be in this mess—desperate to talk to him but not knowing what to say or how to act.

I half wish that we could just go back in time to before last night, to before everything changed and it all became so complicated. But at the same time, I know that I wouldn’t give up the memory of what happened last night for anything. Not even for a simpler life today.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one with the excuse for looking like my cat has just been hit by a train,” Big George says once the evening rush comes to a close, looking pointedly at me as he cleans the grill.

He won’t stop until that hunk of junk is shining like new. George isn’t any good at being still. He has to be doing something all the time, so between the floods of orders he does as many jobs as he can find around the kitchen.

“You don’t have a cat,” I point out grudgingly as I grab clean cutlery to set up the tables again.

“What happened? You have a fight with your young man?” George asks, raising an eyebrow and giving me a half smile that makes it sounds like he means “fight” in the loosest sense of the word.

“No, G, and there’s no young man, remember?” I remind him, heading back out to the front of the diner as quickly as I can.

George clearly catches something in my tone that tells him not to push the point, as he doesn’t follow up with a smart remark like he normally would. Instead, he goes back to cleaning the grill, concentrating on it as if it were the most important task he has to complete.

While I’m re-setting the tables for the truckers coming in for the graveyard shift, which I’m working again tonight, I hear the bell over the door sound and I try to stifle a yawn with the back of my hand as I spin around, ready to motion the new customer to take one of the many available booths in the empty diner.

But my tongue catches in my throat as I see who walks through the door, and I suddenly wish that the place was full with people, even though that really wouldn’t make much of a difference—not when it came to this guy.

“Your friends already collected the money,” I tell Ryan, rooted to the spot. “Or did you miss the memo?” I ask sarcastically, and then remind myself that getting the son of the leader of the Bleeding Angels mad is probably not the smartest thing that I could do with my time.

“Nice to see you too, Aimee.” Ryan barks a laugh as he stares openly at me.

“What do you want, Ryan?” I ask him, crossing my arms and trying not to look in the direction of the kitchen where I know George is listening to every word being said.

“Can’t a guy just swing by and say hey to an old friend without wanting anything?” Ryan asks, his platinum blonde, dyed hair overly greasy and far too long. He was probably going for a rock ‘n roll look, but he just ended up looking like a kid trying to dress up like a big boy.

“We’re not friends, Ryan,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

“Ah come on, Aimee, that’s not fair,” he slides into the booth next to him. “After all we’ve been through together.” He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe I could be so unfair.

“After all we’ve been through?” I burst out, not able to control the volume or the venom in my words. “You letting your little lapdog Elvis paw at me last night and getting my friend so high she couldn’t even speak, that’s your idea of us having been through shit together?”

“You can’t talk to me like that, Aimee!” The flat of his hand slams down on the table and sends both glass and cutlery flying into the air before they land back down with a clatter.

I jump at the outburst and remind myself that it doesn’t pay to make the Angels angry. It never works out well. I don’t speak as I watch Ryan take a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says after a few moments. “Take a load off.” He gestures towards the seat opposite him.

“I’m fine, Ryan, I’m on shift so I need to keep an eye out as clients come through the do—”

“Sit. Down.” He says the words slowly and deliberately, and the hard glint in his eye makes me stop arguing and sit heavily on the booth. “Good,” he says, his weedy voice sounding sickeningly pleased.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wondering where all this is going and wishing that I was anywhere but here, opposite a man who gives me the creeps more than any rerun of Nightmare on Elm Street.

“So what’s up Ryan?” I ask eventually, when I’m tired of him staring as if he wants to take a bite out of me.

“I just thought we could talk.” He spreads his hands and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “And also, I wanted to apologize for last night,” he adds slowly, and my head snaps up as the words come out of his sneering mouth.

I don’t think I’d ever heard an apology from him, not since I’d known him back in kindergarten. With Ryan it was always someone else’s fault, always an excuse that had nothing to do with him.

“Go on,” I say stonily. I’m surprised, but that doesn’t change what I think about the sad excuse for a person that’s sitting in front of me.

“Things got out of hand and Elvis shouldn’t have treated you that way. He was way outta line. He won’t be bothering you again,” Ryan tells me with a self-assurance that he never had as a kid.
He’s growing into his position as second in command
, I think to myself, and the idea that this sadistic man will one day be the leader of the Bleeding Angels MC is scarier than even I would like to admit.

“So what’s changed?” I ask him, sitting as far back from him as possible. “Last night you were more than happy to watch all the drama play out and even get involved in a little, trying to start a fight with Jake,” I point out. As if my best friend’s name was enough to light the fire of aggression in Ryan, he slams his hand down on the table again and looks like he wants to reach over and grab me, but he manages to rein himself in.

“Summers should know better than to get involved in MC business,” Ryan says quietly through tightly-gritted teeth. “Elvis was just messing around, trying to get a rise out of the prissy-boy.” Clearly he finds something funny in the memory of Elvis threatening Jake with a knife.

“And what about Suzie? Is Elvis just ‘messing around’ with her too?” I ask, wondering why Ryan has come here with such bullshit.

“You’re way too protective of her,” Ryan points out, leaning over the table to get closer to me. As if he’s trying to give me some helpful advice for my own good. “She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself. And Elvis really likes her. She’s good for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks her to be his Old Lady,” Ryan says wistfully, as if that’s something he’s looking forward to.

“Good for him as in she’s sane so she balances out some of his crazy?” I ask, unable to contain myself but regretting it nonetheless.
Think before you speak, Aimee,
I remind myself.

“Watch your mouth,” Ryan replies instantly, pointing at me with his index finger like a warning. “If you said that to anyone other than me, you could find yourself in a whole world of trouble. No one talks about a member of the brotherhood like that—not if they value their life. You get me?” he asks, looking me straight in the eyes so that I can see the coldness lurking in his.

“I get you,” I agree quietly, nodding, knowing that I don’t have many free passes left. Not even with Ryan. “So you’ve apologized now.” I motion as if I’m about to stand up but Ryan’s hand shoots out and takes hold of my wrist to pull me back down hard onto the seat.

“I’m not done yet,” he says, the quiet tone of his voice in stark contrast to the danger that I can see lurking in his eyes.

“Everything alright out here, Aimee?” George’s voice pipes up as I see him come into view. He’d probably seen Ryan grab me and that was the last straw for him; he wasn’t going to wait to see things get any worse before intervening. But after having been stabbed through the hand I figure that George has already paid more than his dues to the Angels. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of dispatching any more of their own brand of justice on to him again.

“It’s all fine, George,” I assure him, nodding and managing to raise a smile that probably looks as natural as a plastic flower. “Ryan and I are just catching up.” I nod to affirm my words, hoping that George understands I’m trying to keep things under control for all of our sakes.

“Alright,” George’s voice booms. “But if you need anything I’ll just be back here.” He points towards the kitchen, more for Ryan’s benefit than for mine I imagine, to show him how close he’ll be to see everything that goes on.

“Thought he would have learned to keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him,” Ryan chuckles, looking at his own palm, as he presumably thinks about George’s hand being stabbed through by his cronies.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, looking at my clasped hands that I’m holding in my lap. I hate myself a little for being so submissive, when all I
really
want to do is to tell Ryan exactly what I think of him. But we both know how that would end and, for me, it wouldn’t be well.

“That’s better,” Ryan says encouragingly, as if he were talking to a dog learning to behave. I have to stop myself from shivering as I feel my skincrawl. “You’re so much prettier when you’re not all bent out of shape about something or other.” He shakes his head as if it’s a waste that I actually have a personality. I sit in silence, waiting for Ryan to tell me what he really wanted to say. “You were seen leaving Summers’ place this morning,” Ryan says slowly, tilting his head to look at me, as if to assess my reaction. “The boss just wants to find out what you two were talking about until so late.” He asks the question casually, folding his arms and leaning back in the booth, looking me over.

“You guys have been following me?” I burst out, unable to contain myself. “What the fuck?”

Ryan has the good grace to at least look a little embarrassed at the admission that he’s had a nineteen-year-old girl followed without the slightest provocation. “You know Summers is about to become patched,” he reasons, recovering quickly. “We make it our business to know what’s going on with our boys at
all
times,” he says pointedly. “So what did go on?” he asks, threading his fingers together, creating a steeple and leaning forward on his elbows.

“Nothing that has anything to do with you,” I tell him, folding my arms, trying to contain the anger that I can feel bubbling up inside of me like lava and threatening to explode at any moment.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong Aimee,” Ryan says, seeming nonchalant. “When it comes to one of our soon-to-be patches,
everything
has something to do with us.”