20. Hugo
20
HUGO
The diner is just how it’s always been—a little rough around the edges, a little too bright under the flickering fluorescent lights, but charming in its own way. A long counter runs along one side, its red vinyl stools cracked from decades of wear. Framed photos of locals holding trophies, newspaper clippings about the town’s annual festival, and a few faded posters advertising ice cream sundaes crowd the faded walls.
Marlene’s has been a staple of Auclair since the late nineties, and the jukebox sings the tale of grunge and feisty bubblegum pop. Not really my thing, but who doesn’t love a little early Britney Spears in the middle of the day? It plays well over the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes from the open kitchen.
The whole place smells like coffee, bacon grease, and something sweet—maybe the pies spinning lazily in the display case or the pancakes that come four to a stack. But now and then, when the busboy scoots past, his cologne lingers.
Marlene’s is wholesome, so it’s not the kind of place I usually hang out. It’s more Sam’s kind of place than my own. But today, I needed to get out of my head, and I needed information. So I texted Preacher to meet me here. It’s the last place Sam would think to find me.
I am tired of waiting. Waiting for Marie to come back around. Waiting for her to make a move. Waiting for the Hell’s Hammers to rear their ugly heads again. Waiting for Sam to realize that capitulation is a mistake.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
Preacher’s sitting across from me in a booth, still in his pastor getup from this morning’s prayer breakfast, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened. He’s got that unshakable presence he always has, the kind that makes people trust him immediately. But I’ve known him long enough to recognize the weariness behind his eyes, the kind that doesn’t go away even after a good night’s sleep.
Something is amiss.
He’s sipping his coffee, and I’m halfway through my second cup when the waitress comes over to top us off. She’s in her mid-fifties, with bleached blonde hair teased high and a voice like she’s been smoking since birth. Her name tag says Doreen, and she’s got an air of no-nonsense charm that makes her instantly likable.
“Glad you’re here, Preacher,” she says as she pours. “Those Hell’s Hammers have been sniffing around town. Makes me feel better knowing you’re around. No one messes with a man of the cloth.”
Preacher chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Doreen, but I’m just a man, same as anyone else.”
Doreen gives him a sly smile, one hand on her hip. “Oh, I remember exactly how much of a man you are.”
Preacher’s grin widens, and he shakes his head. “Doreen, you’re going to get me in trouble. Again.”
“Well, if I ever get tired of my boyfriend, I know where to find you,” she says, winking before turning back to her coffee pot.
I smirk, leaning back in the booth. “You’ve still got it, Preach.”
“Don’t start,” he says, chuckling. “Doreen’s been flirting with me since we were kids. She’s harmless.”
“She didn’t sound harmless.”
Preacher rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “How are things at the shop?”
He hasn’t asked any of us who inked his daughter since that incredible night weeks ago. I thought he might start something over that alone, but I suppose he thinks that was her business and not his. Which means he sees her as an adult on some levels.
More support for my argument.
“The shop has been quiet for a little while. We get enough business to justify keeping the place open, but you know how it is around here.”
He nods and sips his coffee. “Haven’t seen you at church in a long time, Hugo. What’s that about?”
I laugh. “The last time you saw me in the church was Kirby Reynolds’ funeral, and that was only because he named me a pallbearer, and that’s only because it was his last ‘fuck you’ to me.”
His laugh is sharp and loud, surprising, given the mood of the place. But that’s Preacher. Never one to hold back. “Yeah, I was surprised about that too. Why you and not the other guys?”
“Remember when we were building the shop?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I had slipped and hurt my back right before we were to move in, so I couldn’t help with the heavy stuff, and Sam hired Kirby and his gang to help with the move, offering free tattoos for life as payment. They weren’t about to turn that down?—”
“Who would?” he asks rhetorically.
“That whole time, I could only sit there and supervise, or the bulging disc in my back might have ruptured. So he and his buddies gave me shit for it. In turn, I asked how his motorcycle could possibly carry his weight, and he laughed and promised he’d remember that.”
“So, making you help carry him was his revenge.”
I nod, and he grins. “He was a spiteful son of a bitch. Had to have the last laugh. I miss that guy.”
“Same here.” Preacher sighs. “We’re getting to that age, aren’t we? Where losing friends is par for the course.”
Something I try not to think of. “Middle age is undeniable if you live long enough to reach it. Such is life.”
“You’re so French sometimes.”
I snort at that. “Oui, now and then.”
“Kirby would have hated the sermon I’m working on—forgiveness. He wasn’t real big on that.”
Forgiveness? The irony. “Pretty sure I’m past forgiving?—”
“No one is.”
“So you say. But I’m also not looking for forgiveness, and I think your little book has something to say about that too.”
He smiles and shrugs. “Yeah. It is important to ask for it first.”
That’s the difference between us and Preacher. After all we’ve been through and all we’ve seen, Trick, Sam, and I came out of it lacking faith. Preacher doubled down on his. Not that I judge him for it. When men see something that makes them question everything, some go one way, others go another.
Speaking of things I do not need forgiveness over… “How’s Marie doing?”
Preacher sighs, his expression softening. “She’s been…scatterbrained lately. Ever since the mugging. I think it shook her more than she wants to admit. Sure as shit shook me.”
I nod, keeping my face neutral, even though his words make my heart stutter. “Shook her how? What is she doing that makes you say this?”
“She’s been sticking close to home,” he continues. “Work, church, straight back to the house. No detours. No socializing. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to be scared, but…” He trails off, shaking his head. “And I get it. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been more cautious or checking up on her more. But I worry this is something she can’t come back from.”
“She’ll bounce back,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it. Not when she’s been avoiding us for weeks.
It’s been hell on all of us. None of us have hooked up with anyone else, a record for us. But why would we, when we’ve had someone so…Marie. She’s exactly what I want. I will not accept substitutes. She will be mine. Or rather, she will be ours.
Trick has been extra lately. Extra snarky, extra jokey. Sam, on the other hand, has been closed off. Despondent, perhaps, but he’s not speaking about his feelings.
Not that we’re big on talking about how we feel. Each of us has tells, though. Trick’s chatty edginess and Sam’s excessive cleaning. And I have been a bit of a dick lately. It gives me flashbacks to how we were when we came back stateside. None of us knowing how to handle the day-to-day of normal life, and none of us are accustomed to being awkward.
We like order. Discipline. A purpose.
Marie could be our purpose, if we could get Preacher and the town on the same page.
Preacher glances at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “I want to thank you again for keeping her safe that night. You and the guys.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, waving him off. “We’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
He nods, his gaze thoughtful. “I don’t love the tattoo, but I guess it’ll help.”
“She’s less of a target now.”
Preacher sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nice, having you guys around. Makes me feel better knowing she’s got three overprotective uncles across the street at work.”
The words make me choke, though it’s more out of discomfort than amusement. If only he knew.
“It’s been long enough that I can’t tell if it’s her nervous energy that’s making things feel out of whack at home, or if it’s mine. Either way, she’s been losing her keys at least once a day.”
“That is unusual for her?”
He huffs at that. “My daughter is a librarian now, but I think she always was. Her stuffed animals were alphabetized on her bed as a kid.”
That is precious. “Really?”
He nods once. “These days, she color-codes her dresses in her closet. Her personal library—the one in her room—is alpha by author, as she likes to put it. Same goes for her fancy face creams and whatever the hell else is in her bathroom. I don’t snoop, so I don’t know. But anytime I’ve walked past it when the door was open, the place was clean and better organized than any makeup counter I’ve ever seen.”
“Sounds like a lot of fuss.”
“Point is, that’s how organized she is. For her to lose track of anything…I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her lose track of anything. And now, it’s daily.”
Ah. The meaning behind the story. I tuck the tale of her alphabetized stuffies in the back of my head for later. “She is being uncharacteristic of herself.”
“Exactly. Ever since that night, she’s been off. I’m not sure what to do.”
“She’s a smart, self-aware woman. Give her some credit. I am sure she is working on the problem.”
He sighs again. “Speaking of problems…” The topic switches to his church, and as Preacher rambles on about things I do not care about, I find myself drifting into my own thoughts.
I haven’t seen her since that night. She hasn’t come by the shop, hasn’t texted, hasn’t given me anything. It’s driving me insane. I want to know what she’s thinking. What she’s feeling. If she regrets it.
Hell, I want to know if she’s already moved on.
She’s been weirdly distant, and I can’t figure out if it’s because she’s scared of what happened that night or if she’s scared of us. Of what we could mean.
Did she just have her fun and decide that was enough?
It’s a thought I can’t shake, and the more I think about it, the more restless I feel. I need to see her. I need to talk to her. I need to know if there’s still something there. But for now, all I have is Preacher’s updates.
“…wish she could get her head on straight again. She was shaken up when she got back here?—”
“Understandably, given the circumstances,” I interject. Guess he circled back to Marie.
He nods. “Of course. We just lost her mom. It wasn’t an easy time for anyone. When I was in Boston for the funeral, we had a long talk about things, and she agreed to come back to Auclair so she wouldn’t be alone. At the start, she had me and her new job that she loved…” He pauses, frowning. “But now, she’s isolating herself. She hasn’t spent any time with her work friend. The other day, we had a potluck at church. Normally, she would have made conversation with some folks, stuck around to clean up after, all that.”
“And this time?”
“This time, she made me a plate and hid in the kitchen to start cleaning up while the potluck was still going on.”
My stomach grips. A little forgetfulness and sticking to a rigid routine is one thing. But for her to hide in the kitchen…Marie is quiet, but she’s not one to hide. “Something has truly changed with her.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He readjusts in his seat, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Because I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure her out.”
I swallow, preparing to deceive my old friend. “You say she’s been different since the attack. Perhaps a bit of professional counseling would benefit her. She’s a civilian, after all.”
He sits back, sighing. “That’s not a bad idea. The trauma of that incident…I thought she’d brush it off, but that’s my training, isn’t it? We got good at forgetting that kind of thing. She’s never really had to.”
I nod, relieved he’s run with the hint I left him. The front door opens, and my attention snaps to the entrance.
Four men walk in, their leather jackets scuffed and their boots heavy against the tiled floor. They’re quiet, but their presence changes the atmosphere immediately. I recognize the tattoos on the backs of their left hands before seeing their faces.
Hell’s Hammers.
I straighten in my seat, my eyes narrowing as I take them in, clocking each one. Crow is not among them.
Is he still in jail or simply not here?
The tallest of the group has a shaved head and a jagged scar running down the left side of his face. The second is stockier, with a thick beard and eyes that never stop moving, scanning the room like he’s sizing up everyone in it. The third is lean and wiry, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a lazy smirk that makes me want to smack the taste out of his mouth. And the fourth—the one bringing up the rear—is younger than the others, his face still boyish, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that doesn’t belong there. He reminds me of a child soldier I met many years ago. He’s fourteen at the oldest.
Too young for that kind of life, but he’s got the tattoo just like the rest of them. Just like the one that hurt Marie. That marks him as my enemy.
I jut my chin in a quick upward nod, and Preacher’s on alert, clocking them too. He might be a man of the cloth now, but old instincts die hard.
To their credit, they don’t start anything upon arrival. They grab a booth in the corner, speaking in low voices as the waitress takes their order. They take turns flicking their gaze over the restaurant, casing the place.
Setting up for a robbery? Or worse?
Their presence sets my teeth on edge. Preacher’s eyes narrow on them. Watching. Waiting. We both are. Granger might be their current stomping ground, but Auclair is mine. I refuse to let them take what’s mine.
Preacher shifts in his seat. “You know them?”
“Not personally,” I say, my voice low. “But I’ve seen their kind before. Same gang of traffickers Crow belongs to.”
His jaw clenches. “They’re here for a reason, then. Making a statement. Telling you that you can’t stop them from being here.”
I glance at the group again, memorizing every detail of their faces, their posture, their movements. Checking for any gun bulges under their jackets. “Maybe.”
Preacher looks at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “Hugo…”
“Only keeping an eye on them,” I say, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not the one who came in here looking for a fight.”
He nods slowly, but I can see the concern in his eyes. “Just…be careful.”
I smirk, leaning back in my seat. “Always.” But the truth is, I don’t feel careful. I feel ready.