Chapter 20
Hannah
How have you been?
“You’re kidding me. How have you never seen Friends?” I ask, stunned, as we slide into our booth at the diner.
Sarge really did know a spot nearby, only four or five miles from my place. I can’t believe I’d never noticed it before. Then again, I’d have to do more than work and sleep with the occasional visit to the gym.
Stepping inside, I take in the spacious room. It’s a cute mom-and-pop diner, farmhouse décor everywhere, exactly the kind of cozy place I adore.
It reminds me of summers at my aunt’s house: horses, chickens, two pigs, and those obnoxiously loud geese. My favorite memories live there. Driving the country roads with her, windows down, ‘90s country blaring—the best era, in my opinion.
Weekdays were for riding lessons, weekends for shows. My aunt always handmade my show outfits, complete with a matching saddle pad for my horse. Bright colors, sequins. Over-the-top, but I loved it. I felt loved.
We had a falling out years ago. Something I don’t like to dwell on.
“I don’t know, guess I just didn’t watch much TV,” Sarge says casually, settling across from me, eyes locked on mine. “Spent most of my time outside.”
I drag my eyes to his in utter disbelief. “Okay, but this is Friends. I get not watching it as a kid, but it’s a ‘90s classic. You can’t go through life without Chandler, Phoebe, Ross, Monica, Rachel, and Joey. You don’t even know Smelly Cat!”
He gives me a mocking gasp. “Guess you’ll have to catch me up on all that is Friends, then. I’d love to watch them with you. Plus, how can I go on now that I know what I’m missing?”
That smile, equal parts irritating and exciting, has me biting back my own grin. I stick out my tongue instead, burying my face in the menu.
“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, Butterfly,” he growls low, “before I find a good use for it.”
My head snaps up. Oh, I heard him right.
I tilt my head. “Oh?” I tease. “Like eating all this food you insisted on feeding me?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, sure. We’ll go with that.”
Silence settles in, but it’s comfortable. With Sarge, it feels easier than it should. He might look unapproachable in his dark clothes and kutte, but underneath, he’s warmer than most.
I’m still not over last night, but I do believe him, at least for now.
He left me in what he believed were capable hands, and honestly, I’m not his responsibility.
My anger came more from being targeted simply because I crossed paths with his club.
Still, no one forced me into this. My choices, my risks.
Everything turned out okay. It’s time to move on.
A hand covers mine, startling me.
“You okay?” Sarge’s brows draw together. “You’ve been quiet. Headache come back? Want me to call the doc?” He already has his phone half out.
I shake my head quickly. “No, I’m fine. Just lost in thought. Really. I don’t need a doctor.” I soften my voice, smiling gently, trying to convince him.
He studies me, still doubtful. “What’s got you so distracted?”
My ex hated it when I brought up the past. If I dared, it turned into a fight—or worse, an apology I didn’t owe. But Sarge isn’t him. This isn’t even a relationship.
“I was thinking about last night.”
His face falls somber. He rubs a thumb over my hand, holding it between both of his. “I’ll spend as long as it takes to make that up to you.” He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “I’m sorry for what happened. There’ll be retaliation. They won’t get away with that shit.”
I just stare. Lips parted. Not what I expected.
No blame. No shouting. No twisting it back on me.
Just support.
The waitress arrives almost on cue, breaking the moment.
“Hey there, you two. What can I get you to drink?” She glances between us, then her eyes widen.
“Sarge? Oh my goodness, hi! How have you been?”
Her name tag reads Aimee.
“Been good.” He gestures toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Aimee, her brother-in-law’s in the club. Grimace. You’ve met him.”
Yeah, if pestering him for Sarge’s number counts.
I nod politely.
Aimee beams. “It’s been so long. I swear, last time you were here, you had a pretty little thing with you—looked just like your Hannah here.”
Her “friendly” smile is all too familiar: mean girl, sugar-coated. Jealousy twists in my gut before I can stop it.
We’re not dating. He probably brings girls here all the time. I have no right to feel this way. And yet here I am, staring blankly, trying to swallow the emotions.
Sarge, meanwhile, is calm as stone. He smiles lightly. “Hannah is beautiful, but no, that wasn’t her. We only just met last week.”
“Oh. My mistake.” Aimee’s smile pinches. “What can I get you both to drink?”
Finally remembering how to speak, I clear my throat. “Coffee and water, please. Extra cream.”
“Of course, dear. And for you?”
“Coffee and iced tea,” Sarge answers.
“No lemon?” she asks with a knowing smile.
“Yep. No lemon. Thanks, Aimee.”
Of course, she knows. She probably knows more than that. She even looks a little like me—his “type,” maybe. She’s married now, but at one point she could have been more than just his waitress.
The thought digs deeper than it should. I’ve known him barely a week, and already there’s a possessiveness I can’t justify. Not healthy. Definitely therapy material.
He’s got that handsome that sneaks up on you and makes you forget how to think straight. That smile. Easy, confident, but without the cockiness. The way he carries himself, calm and steady, confidence without arrogance.
And then there’s the kutte. God help me, the kutte. Something about it adds weight to him, like he belongs to something bigger, something dangerous and untouchable. Something with roots, more of a family than what I was given.
No wonder women line up for him. I’d bet money half of them thought they were special, convinced that grin and gravel-rough voice were just for them.
And then? Left with nothing but a fast ride, a full belly, and maybe a promise he never intended to keep.
Men like him don’t settle or choose. They pass through lives like storms. Thrilling while they last, destructive once they’re gone.
For all I know, he’s just like the rest. My track record with men isn’t exactly a shining example of my ability to tell the difference. If anything, it screams, “Don’t trust him.”
And yet... here I sit. Still looking and still hoping. Still betraying myself with that stupid flutter in my stomach and the warmth pooling low just because he looked my way. Damn my traitorous ovaries. Have they not learned a single thing from the “winners” they’ve led me to in the past?
Suddenly, the diner feels too small. Too risky. Like I should get out now, before I hand him my heart only to watch him drop it.
I should’ve listened to Scarlett’s warning. Clearly, I’m nothing special. I’m just a notch on his belt—another ass on the back of his bike.
My heart splinters at the hope I allowed myself to feel. I hate that I let myself down like this. I was doing so well. Go to work, come home, keep to myself. It was working. It was safe. Going out with Martin wasn’t supposed to end with me spiraling in a diner booth.
“Actually, I am feeling a little sick. I’m gonna go to the restroom,” I mutter, scooting out of the booth before anyone can question me.
Once I’m inside the stall, I lean my back against the door and close my eyes, trying to find my breath and trying to categorize the emotions that are suffocating me. They’re all flooding in at once, and I don’t know what my next move should be.
Do I accept some free food, go home, and forget about him? Do I leave and rip the band-aid off now? That seems to be the best idea. I’m not too far from home, so I could make the trek on foot. Stop at a gas station for a bear claw on the way. Go back to my life the way it was.
I allowed myself to come out of my bubble, my safety, and this is how it goes. I should have expected nothing less.
How could I have let my feelings get involved so quickly? It’s not like our meeting was some scene out of a fairy tale. Hell, by our second encounter, I’d been drugged. That’s a pretty low bar for “romance,” even for me.
Is this what being single has done, made me desperate and blind to red flags? Or maybe it’s just the lack of sleep catching up to me. But, if we did date, how long before he gets bored with me? Or begins to chip away at who I am, one small request at a time, before I don’t recognize myself anymore?
Sure, he was there for me when I woke up, but he probably just thought I’d sue him or the club. He no doubt saw the whole situation as a loose end to tie up, and I was stupid enough to think it was more than that.
A knight in a denim vest. What a joke.
Because here’s the truth: what looked like a man stepping into my life and offering kindness without strings was really just a guy doing what was best for himself and his patch. How could I have been so naive?
Everything hits me at once. I’m sick of it all.
Sick of men treating me like some shiny trophy to be won, only to be forgotten on a shelf the second the novelty wears off.
Sick of being a notch on a bedpost and a footnote in a story.
Sick of my mother’s voice in my head, reminding me of every way I’ve ever let her down.
I won’t let Sarge add me to his list of one-nighters. Nor will I be his “good deed” for the day.
I wash my hands, the cold water offering no sudden wave of clarity. I decide it’s better to slip out undetected. It’s less confrontational that way, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m humiliated. I want to disappear before I have to look at him—or that waitress—ever again.
Fight-or-flight has set in, and I am choosing to flee.
I know if I go back to that table, those beautiful eyes and that panty-dropping smile will make me second-guess everything.
I can’t give him the chance to talk me out of this.
I stare into the mirror, mentally begging myself to be strong, to remember that walking away is the only way to stay safe.
For once, I don’t take the time to overthink or overcomplicate things. Instead, I listen to my gut.