Chapter Two.
The bell above the door jingled, and Constance looked up, brow furrowed. A man stood in the doorway, his vest unmistakable. The one-percent patch caught the harsh fluorescent light, glinting like a warning. Her stomach tightened. “What’s your angle?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.
Jinx lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “No angle,” he said, his voice calm. He stepped fully inside, letting the door thud softly behind him. “I just… thought I could help.”
Constance’s eyes narrowed. “You think wearing that patch makes you trustworthy? You think I’m stupid?”
He shook his head. “No. I know it doesn’t. But hear me out.”
There was a pause, a measured silence that made the small room feel heavier.
When he spoke again, his voice carried a steady gravity, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name.
He told her about nights overseas, in places where bombs had left nothing but rubble, and families scavenging for scraps of food.
How he’d share what little he had with children who didn’t know if morning would come.
“And when I came home,” he continued, “I saw hunger everywhere. Even here. In towns small enough that nobody should be going hungry, nobody should be homeless or struggling.”
He shrugged, a quiet weight in the gesture. “I have the time to help. If you need it. That’s why I’m here.”
Constance crossed her arms, studying him. There was honesty in his eyes—pain, sure, but also something harder to ignore, something carved from a life she recognized, even if she didn’t know it yet.
“I noticed you’re having a problem,” he said, his tone casual but deliberate. “whoever they are, I’ve seen they’ve been messing with your building… I think my chapter could help you handle that.”
Her brow lifted. Help—from someone wearing that patch? It sounded almost too easy. Her gut told her to be wary, but there was something in him—the quiet certainty, the lines of hardship etched into his face—that made her hesitate.
She didn’t know much about bikers, only what she’d seen on TV shows and documentaries. Maybe… just maybe, this was the help she’d been waiting for. But she didn’t trust it. Not entirely.
“You can volunteer,” she said slowly, crossing her arms tighter. “But I’m not interested in your… chapter, taking care of my problems.”
When the conversation ended, he handed her a business card, the edges smooth under her fingers.
“If you have any problems with your visitors,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer than necessary, “call me.”
She watched him leave, the door swinging shut behind him. Tapping the card against her palm, Constance tried to ignore the thought that maybe… she might actually need to call them. Was that inviting a turf war? Sliding the card into her back pocket, she pushed the question aside.
Turning, she saw the other women fanning themselves with their hands, wiping sweat from their brows. Shaking her head, Constance smirked. He wasn’t young enough to be her child, not old enough to be her brother, but close to both she hadn’t checked him out.
“Let’s get back to work,” she called over her shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Even if just one person stops in, we need it ready for them.”
The ladies nodded, picking up their papers again. Constance thought about the card in her pocket for a moment longer, a flicker of something she couldn’t name running through her chest—hope, maybe, or a warning she wasn’t ready to admit.
Checking her watch, Constance noted the time.
Fifteen minutes until they’d close the doors.
Another day with too many meals unclaimed.
Yesterday she’d loaded the leftovers into boxes and taken them to the shelter, handing them out to people lined up along the building’s side.
Tonight, she planned to run them over to the park, see if anyone there would take them.
The bell above the door jingled again. She turned, expecting maybe Jinx returning—but it wasn’t him. It was two of the jerks who had been harassing them, their sneers sharp as they stepped inside.
Constance stiffened, her fingers curling at her sides.
The room seemed to shrink, the fluorescent lights glaring off the linoleum like a spotlight on trouble.
Her heart thumped in her chest—not from fear, exactly, but from the sudden tension that prickled along her nerves.
She knew these two. They thrived on intimidation, liked to push people around just to see how far they could go.
And tonight, it seemed, they were back for more.
She watched in disbelief as they grabbed the brown paper food bags, tearing into them with careless force.
One of them bit into a piece of fruit and spat it onto the floor, the slick thud echoing in the small room.
Another tore open a sandwich, chewed for a moment, then let it drop.
They kicked the rest of the bags to the ground, stomping on them, the crumpled paper and scattered food sliding across the tiles.
Constance’s jaw tightened. Every instinct in her screamed at her to intervene, but she stayed rooted to the spot, studying them.
There was a twisted satisfaction in their cruelty, a hunger for domination she couldn’t ignore.
Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
The smell of crushed fruit and torn bread filled the air, mingling with the tension that made the room feel smaller, tighter, like it could snap at any second.
Constance’s stomach tightened as she stepped forward. “You think this is funny?” Her voice was low, sharp, carrying a steel that made even grown men hesitate.
The taller one sneered. “Funny? No. Business. You know the deal. Protection money.”
Her jaw tightened. “Protection?” she repeated, incredulous. “From you? You don’t protect anyone. You destroy what you touch.”
The shorter one laughed, a rough, bitter sound. “Cute. You really think you can tell us what to do?”
“I don’t think,” Constance said, her gaze hard, unwavering.
“I know.” She let the words hang. She could feel the tension crackling in the small room—the smell of sweat and crushed food mixing with the fluorescent glare overhead.
“You step in here again, or try to pull this stunt anywhere near my place… I promise you, it won’t just be words next time. ”
The taller man’s smirk faltered slightly. He glanced at his companion, who shifted nervously, and the bravado that had filled the room a moment ago began to fade. Constance’s posture was calm, but every muscle in her body was coiled, ready. She wasn’t bluffing, and they could feel it.
“Just… watch yourself, lady,” the taller one muttered finally, shoving a hand through his hair. “We’ll be back for that money.”
“Idiots, this is a nonprofit, we don’t make money here.” She saw the shocked look on their faces. Priceless.
They backed toward the door, uneasy now, their confidence cracking. The bell jingled behind them as they left, a stark punctuation to the threat they’d tried to make real.
Constance exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop just slightly. She looked down at the mess, the torn sandwiches, smashed fruit, crumpled paper bags and shook her head. Her lips twitched into a smirk. “Unbelievable.”
Locking the doors she faced the ladies that showed up every day to help. “Let’s get this cleaned up and close up.”
What else was there for them to do with all the meals smashed on the floor. She couldn’t even take it to the park. Her hand brushed the card in her back pocket—a reminder that there was another option if this escalated. But for now… she had stood her ground.
She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen later when she left? Would they be waiting like so many other nights? Ready to harass her.