Chapter 2 Xiara
M y gaze slides to the clock behind the register, lingering on the minute hands as they remain immobile. Just thirty-three minutes left in my shift, and then I can go home, take a bath, and forget the longest, most boring day in existence. My replacement for the register is already here, and I had Brooklynn clock in, switching out drawers before we got busy with a crowd of customers. Gas stations are odd places to work, and people stop at any time of the day or night for snacks, fuel, drinks, lottery tickets, or smokes. There are spurts that don’t make sense, so I try to prepare for them as best I can.
At least the sun is still shining.
It’s kind of sketchy to hang out here after dark, and most people don’t linger. They grab what they need and head out. But there’s almost always someone bold or lookin’ for trouble once the sun sets. That’s why I’m trying to schedule mostly day shifts. As one of only two supervisors, I don’t have a choice if second or third shift ends up vacant or an employee calls off. If no replacement can be found or the other supervisor doesn’t want to work, I end up taking the extra shift. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that today.
Outside the store, I hear the rumble of motorcycle engines. I tear my gaze from the clock and scan the lot, noting the numerous Harley Davidson bikes and men dressed in black leather vests. Summit Hill is infamous for attracting motorcycle enthusiasts since we’ve got some of the best hills and dirt trails in the state. But the guys heading toward the entrance of the store aren’t the Motocross or dirt bike racers we see often. These are from one of several motorcycle clubs in the area, although I’m too far away to read the patches or the emblem on their backs to know which it is.
I’m not quick to judge people, but the guys look like a rowdy bunch. Just thirty minutes , I tell myself. Smile, be polite, and clock out on time.
I finish unpacking the box of packaged snacks I’m working on and head toward the back of the store, breaking down the box before I grab another, returning to fill rows of cookies and sweet treats as I keep an eye on the door. It’s not that I expect trouble, but I don’t want to be caught by surprise if these bikers plan on making a mess or a scene in my store. I’ve worked here for the last three years, and it’s hard to leave with the amount of pay I receive now. It’s money I can count on to take care of me and Xaden, so I don’t have plans to quit, even if I must deal with riffraff occasionally.
I swear I’m not judging, just cautious because that’s how I’ve survived this long without being held up or stuck with a blade like a couple of my other co-workers in the past. There hasn’t been violence in this store for over eighteen months now, and I plan to keep it that way. I’ve got a baseball bat behind the counter (which is a direct contradiction to the non-violent promise I try to keep, but I feel better having a way to defend myself and the other employees if needed), a button that sends an alarm to the police station if I want help, and mirrors up in the corners to watch customers if they seem suspicious or dangerous. The cameras are constantly rolling, and the hard drive records all the footage 24/7.
In fact, if I step into the manager’s office, I can watch the store on a monitor without anyone knowing what’s going on. It’s the safest bet when I want to observe without being noticed. Some people get their dander up quickly when they think they’re being watched. It avoids conflict if I end up being wrong. Most of the time, I am. But shoplifters enter the store and try to take shit more often than I’d like. I’ve had to ban people and call the cops, and it’s never fun.
As the door opens and the bell dings above it, alerting us to customers, I finish placing the cookies on the shelf. I’m in no hurry to give away my presence in the aisle while several bikers enter the store. They’re a big bunch. By that, I mean height and build. None one of them are scrawny, all walking into the store with rippling muscles and skin inked with multiple black tattoos. There’s a swagger and confidence I can see with every step they take. Like any group of friends, they laugh and joke around, spreading throughout the store as I decide they’re harmless.
I spin around and head toward the back when a whistle catches my attention. I pause, shooting a curious glance at the biker who spotted me. He grins when our eyes meet.
“Damn, Beautiful, you got a name?”
I snort. “Yeah, the one my parents gave me.” I’m not trying to give snark, but the joke doesn’t land as I expect.
The biker’s jaw clenches as the smile disappears. He’s not amused.
A few of his MC brothers snicker.
That’s when I know I need to make myself scarce until they leave and move toward the storeroom, not expecting the biker who spoke to me to follow, but he does. When a hand smacks my ass, I’m so shocked that I freeze. The empty box drops from my hands and lands on the tile with a tiny thud as I turn around, my heart leaping into my throat. I’m pissed at his audacity to place his hands on me but also worry this might escalate. I lock eyes with the biker and glare at his arrogant, challenging expression. He wants me to react.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage to say in a steady voice. Kudos to me for not yelling and remaining in control. I’m a work in progress and far from perfect, but I try not to lose my shit when things don’t go my way.
I’ve got a temper. My mom used to say it got handed down from my father to me and Xaden. The truth? She was a firecracker, and I’m the same way. I don’t have a long list of things that piss me off but touching me or anyone else without permission is top of the list. Add in people who hurt animals or children, smack gum too loudly, or try to intimidate others, and you’ve got a good portion of that list.
“Hey, baby, no need to get hostile.” He holds up his hands like he didn’t do anything wrong. “Just want your attention.”
“You don’t smack a girl to get her to pay attention to you,” I snark, realizing far too late that I’m almost cornered by the commercial display cases of soda and the bathroom with no place to escape. “You should learn some manners.” It’s out before I can stop it, but I don’t regret saying the words.
All my good intentions fly out the nearest window as I hold back a sigh.
I’m not a teen or a little girl. Just because he’s a big guy with a leather vest doesn’t mean I have to take his abuse. I haven’t been a kid for years, and thanks to my parents’ accident five years ago, I’ve had to grow up faster than most girls my age. At twenty-six, I’m not in the mood for bullshit, and I’m not letting him treat me that way in front of his buddies. Screw him.
A few chuckles erupt, but the biker with the dark eyes loses any humor he had before I spoke. His gaze turns cold. “You should feel honored I’m giving you attention, baby.”
“I don’t,” I announce. “I’d appreciate it if you purchased what you needed and left my store as quickly as possible.”
His gaze slides to my nametag for the first time. “Xiara. Pretty name.”
“Uh, thanks. I think so,” I agree, taking a few steps to the right and closer to the register. “I’ll just head to the front to help once you’re ready to leave.”
The biker’s gaze follows my movements. “No need to rush off. What time does your shift end?”
Fuck. I don’t want him to come back here for me or any reason. “Not sure,” I lie. “I’ve got things to finish first.”
He moves so fast that I don’t have time to flinch. His palm presses on my shoulder and shoves me into the display case. I wince as I smack into the glass. Although it wasn’t hard, it still hurt. I’m pinned in place as fear snakes its way up my spine, threatening to send a shiver through my body and betray my feelings.
My face is level with the patch on his vest. I scan his name, knowing it’s not the one he was given at birth. Bikers use road names. I learned that in one of the romance novels I read. This guy, Murder, is dangerous.
“Listen, Murder,” I say as I try to remain calm. My heart is thumping like a jackrabbit in my chest as I struggle to stay in control and not let on how much he scares me. “I don’t want trouble, and I’m a waste of your time.”
His fingers grip my chin, and I tilt my head up. “I think you need a hard ride,” he announces as the biker beside him, Lefty, according to his patch, tears open a candy bar and bites off a big chunk. “I’ve got just what you’re craving.”
Ew. His double meaning isn’t lost on me. I know he refers to his bike and his dick. No thanks.
“Xiara, are you okay?”
I blink, shifting my attention to Brooklynn. She looks terrified. “Yes,” I say in a steady voice. “I’m good.” But I’m not. I don’t know how this escalated so fast, and I’ve got no idea how to make this biker leave me alone. He seems like the type of guy who can lose his shit with a snap of the fingers, and I need to be careful so I don’t anger him. I don’t miss his irritation with me, and it’s not a hard leap to think his fuse is short, and I’m on the receiving end of his wrath if I push him any further.
Murder’s palm wraps my neck, and I wonder if he’s going to squeeze my airway. The bell above the entrance dings as a new customer enters the store. Outside, I hear sirens.
Murder’s upper lip lifts in a snarl as his attention cuts to Brooklynn. “Call the cops on me, Sugar?”
She shakes her head a little too hard, and we all know she’s lying.
Murder drops his hand and steps back. His tongue slides over his teeth as he ticks his chin at me. “I’ll be back for that ride, Xiara. Soon.”
Shit.
Murder spins on his booted heel and strides toward the door. The rest of his biker buddies follow. It occurs to me that none of them spoke up or said anything when he put his hand on a woman. Twice. Assholes.
I catch the emblem on the back of their vests as they exit, and my breath catches in my throat. A burning cross splashed with bright red is far too familiar—the Crimson Heretics. I’ve seen the news reports about their club. None of it is good. I stifle a gasp as I realize the most notorious biker gang in Summit Hill now knows my name and where I work.
Red and blue lights flash outside as the rumble of Harley engines begins to fade into the distance. Murder and his club members left the gas station before the police could question them or investigate. It’s just as well. I don’t want to file charges and say anything that will put me on Murder’s radar any more than I already am. With any luck, he’ll find another woman to warm his bed and occupy his time, and I’ll never see or hear from him again.
“Xiara!” Brooklynn rushes toward me, gasping when she looks me over. “He hurt you!”
What?
I spin around, glancing at my reflection in the glass case. To my horror, I find fingerprints on my skin. They’re a mottled red, but I can tell they’ll become bruises. My skin is far too sensitive. The marks are on my jaw and throat, and I know there’s more on my shoulder where it hit the glass case. “Well, shit,” I mutter. My shoulder throbs painfully in a delayed reaction.
I don’t need this. If Xaden sees these finger marks, he’ll flip.
The bell above the door chimes for the third time in fifteen minutes, and I glance at the cops, square my shoulders back, and shake my head. “We’re okay here,” I assure them, refusing to speak about Murder.
Brooklynn looks like she’s going to cry. “They hurt her! Look!”
Fuck. I don’t want to give a statement.
Of the two cops, one is a woman. Officer Hannigan pulls me aside, gesturing for her partner to take Brooklynn’s statement first. I can hear her rattle off the events of the last half hour as I close my eyes and sag against the cooler. “I’m fine. We don’t have to do this.”
She sighs. “I know from experience why you’re staying quiet. It’s smart. They’re dangerous.”
I can’t believe she agrees with me. “I know they are,” I admit.
“Which is why I won’t pressure you.” She gives me a tiny smile. “Of course, if you don’t say anything, we can’t go after them. And next time? Maybe he won’t stop at the word no .”
I drop my chin with her words. “I realize that,” I answer with agony because it’s probably true.
“Then how about you trust me to handle this? Murder is a suspect in a long list of crimes. He should be put away for good. I need a reason to pick him up and hold him.”
That’s going further than I feel comfortable since I know I’ll be asked to identify him. “I won’t I.D. him.”
I can’t, but not for the reason she’s quick to assume. I’m not afraid for me. This is about protecting Xaden. If Murder and his club know where I work, figuring out where I live won’t take long. I won’t endanger my brother like that. It’s not an option.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper before I push away from the glass door and head to the manager’s office. Only when the door shuts behind me with a soft click do I finally let the tears that threaten to fall surface. They sting my eyes as I blink, refusing to cry. My hands clench as I drag air into my lungs. I need to calm down before I leave work. Xaden will take one look at me and know something is wrong.
It takes twenty minutes before I finally leave the office, another thirty to get permission from the officers, and over sixty before I park in my garage. Once I’m inside the house, I’m relieved that Xaden is in his room. One peek proves he’s fallen asleep after PT. He trains hard all year for football to stay in top physical condition. I’m not surprised to find him in bed. It’s a common occurrence for him during the week. He’s in the door about an hour before me on most days. At fifteen, he’s still growing too.
I manage to smile despite the rotten day, close his door, change clothes, and start dinner.
When Xaden wakes from his nap, I’ve got food on the table, a fresh batch of sweet tea in a pitcher, and I’m composed.
It’s only in the bath later that I finally shed silent tears.