Chapter 2
Jo-Leigh
The morning flies by in a blur of clattering dishes, fresh coffee, and regulars picking up their pastry orders. I’m not as good as Caroline but no one complains about the food or the service, so I guess I’m doing something right.
It’s almost noon when the deep, unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle fills the air outside. The sound cuts through the diner, turning heads. My heart thuds. No way. Not him.
The bell above the door dings. Swag steps inside like he owns the place. He’s wearing faded jeans, a fitted gray Henley, and a black leather vest with the unmistakable skull patch of the Devil’s Regents on the back.
So that answers that question.
He walks straight up to the counter, eyes locked on me and holds out his hand.
“Keys.”
“What?”
“Your car keys. I need them.”
“What for?”
He gives me a look. The kind that doesn’t need words. “I believe we discussed this last night.”
“I didn’t think you were serious.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. And being this close to him—his sheer size, the heat rolling off him—makes sweat bead at the base of my spine.
“Fine. Hold on.”
I duck into the kitchen and into Caroline’s office, digging through my purse for my keys. When I turn around?—
“Holy crap!” I gasp, jumping. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me.”
He’s standing right there. Like a ghost made of leather and steel.
“Keys,” he repeats.
I slap them into his palm. He raises an eyebrow at the black cat keychain dangling from the ring and lets out a snort.
“You better not, like, steal my car,” I say.
His gaze flicks to mine, dry and unreadable. “Steal that piece of shit? Little girl, I’d be doing you a favor if I did.”
“It’s just…” I swallow. “I need it. Okay?”
I don’t mention that everything I own is in the trunk. Or that letting him drive off with it is the most trust I’ve handed anyone in years.
“When will you bring it back?”
“When do you get off?”
“Eight.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re working fourteen hours today?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
It is. My feet are already aching, and I’ve still got hours to go. But I offered to cover so Caroline and Armand could have some real time together. They never take breaks for them.
“I’ll have it back by then.”
He turns to leave, and I reach out without thinking, catching his arm. Holy muscles. My hand snaps back like I’ve touched a live wire. Pretty sure my face is bright red.
“Wait,” I say quickly. “I, uh, don’t have a lot of money.”
I dig into my apron and pull out three crumpled twenties, all the cash I’ve got.
“If you need more, just let me know.”
He stares at the bills in my hand for a beat, then takes them without a word and walks out leaving me standing there, feeling like a complete idiot. I don’t know what it is about him, but every time we talk, I end up feeling like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’m the one being difficult.
I suck in a breath and head back out to the floor. A couple new customers have wandered in while I was gone, and I move quickly to help them. I’ve just finished dropping off an order when one of the regulars, Larry, waves me over.
I grab the coffee pot and head to his table.
“Jo-Leigh,” he says, brows furrowed, “what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?”
My stomach flips. “Trouble? None that I know of. Why?”
He nods toward the window.
“Because I’m fairly certain the President of the Devil’s Regents MC just drove off in your car.”
His friend, Curtis, adds, “And lord knows those boys don’t do anything out of the kindness of their hearts.”
They both look at me, waiting for an explanation.
I clear my throat. “He, uh, saw me trying to get into my car after graduation yesterday. Told me to bring it by his shop in Baton Rouge. When I didn’t, he said he’d come get it today.”
They exchange a glance, both making identical disapproving sounds deep in their throats.
Larry frowns. “Still don’t like it.”
“Me either,” Curtis agrees.
“As long as he brings it back in one piece, I’ll be okay.”
Larry leans in slightly. “Just be careful. Trouble follows those boys like a storm cloud, and I’d hate to see you get caught in the crossfire.”
I bite back a snort. Swag acts like he hates me 99% of the time. Getting caught in anything with him feels laughable.
“I will,” I say instead, then pivot. “Now, can I tempt you with some banana pudding or maybe a slice of pie?”
As always, they go through their well-practiced routine of patting their bellies, claiming they’re far too full, then ordering dessert anyway. I bite back a smile as I plate their orders.
Once they’re gone, my thoughts drift right back to Swag.
Why is he so worried about me? Why show up to a high school party in the first place?
He doesn’t strike me as the punch-and-bonfire type.
There’s a tension about him. It’s something rough, guarded, and wounded, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
I’m saved from spiraling further when the door opens and a new customer walks in. I slap on a smile and go to take her order.
The day drags in the usual rhythm until the lull hits around three.
I duck into Caroline’s office, kick off my shoes, and all but collapse into the chair.
My feet are killing me. I wish I’d left my sleeping bag here, but I couldn’t risk someone seeing it.
Image is everything when you don’t have a home.
Leaning back, I close my eyes.
Just five minutes…
The bell above the door jingles.
I groan, blindly reaching for my flats and slipping them back on before trudging toward the front. So much for my power nap.
I round the corner, smile half-formed on my face, then stop.
Swag stands at the counter, casual as you please, and tosses me my keys.
“All fixed.”
I catch them automatically. “Thanks. Did the money cover everything?”
“Yeah.” He hesitates a second longer than expected, then pulls out a stool and sits at the counter. “What’s good to eat?”
My brain stutters for half a second. Is he staying?
“The burgers are decent. Soup of the day is tomato basil, which is my personal favorite, especially with a grilled cheese.”
“I’ll take the burger and fries.”
“Anything to drink?”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin. “Guessing you don’t have beer?”
“Only root beer.”
He chuckles. It’s a low, warm sound that does things to my insides, like someone flipped a switch I didn’t know was there.
“And a root beer,” he says.
I blink. Focus, Jo-Leigh. It’s just a laugh. A perfectly nice, rough-around-the-edges, makes-your-heart-do-weird-things laugh. No big deal.
Shaking it off, I head to the kitchen and give Bruce, our part-time cook, the order.
Then I fill a plastic cup with root beer and try not to overthink everything.
One part of me wants to disappear into the back and stay there until closing.
The other part wants to sit across from Swag and ask him a million questions.
Instead, I bring out his drink.
He’s scrolling through his phone, frowning at whatever he sees. His expression is so intense it makes me pause. Something about that look makes me wonder what kind of life he’s actually living outside of the patched leather vest and gruff sarcasm.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He grunts.
Right. That’s my cue to go back to the kitchen and leave him alone.
Bruce is on the phone with his girlfriend again, half-listening to whatever drama she’s spilling while he flips burgers like it’s just another Thursday. I don’t bother him. I’m used to being invisible back here.
I drop into the chair in the corner, facing the back window.
The sky is a heavy gray, clouds thick and low.
Looks like rain. There’s a park a few blocks from here with a gazebo.
It’s covered, secluded, and mostly ignored after dark.
I’ve slept there before. Not my favorite spot, but it works in a pinch.
I frown. Last time I tried, a cop found me curled up on the bench and asked if I was okay.
He was kind enough, but attention like that? That’s the last thing I need.
Sighing, I rub my temples. I’ll figure it out. I always do.
“Order’s up,” Bruce calls.
“Thanks, B.”
I grab the plate and carry it out to Swag, placing the burger and fries in front of him. Reaching under the counter, I grab a bottle of ketchup and mustard, sliding them across.
“Got any hot sauce?”
I make a face but head to the back shelf and return with the two bottles we carry.
He studies the labels like he’s choosing a weapon, then picks one.
When he douses his burger in the stuff, I try very hard not to stare.
But when he takes a bite and I catch the way his throat moves as he swallows—yeah, that does something, and I hate that it does.
Thankfully, I’m saved from spiraling into some weird burger-induced thirst trap when another customer walks in. A woman around my age, maybe a little older. She clocks Swag, then sits at the far end of the counter.
Same, girl. Same.
I do my best to keep my distance, to stay professional.
But I keep finding little excuses to hover near him.
Refill his drink. Wipe the counter. See if he needs extra napkins.
Anything to steal another glance. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Just scrolls through his phone between bites, frowning now and then at whatever he’s reading.
And weirdly I’m a little sad when he finishes his food.
“Want to add a dessert today?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
“Nah. I can’t eat another bite,” he says. “What do I owe you?”
I slip the ticket onto the counter and walk away so I don’t look like I’m hovering. Bruce shouts that my next order is up, and I head to the kitchen to grab it.
By the time I return, Swag’s already on his way out.
“Keep the change,” he calls over his shoulder.
I blink, confused, and hurry over to his stool. The bill was ten dollars, paid in full, but next to the receipt are three twenties. My three twenties.