Chapter 20
The thing about small towns is that silence is never really what it seems. It might look quiet—just a couple old men eating eggs at the counter and the low hum of the coffee machine—but underneath it there’s always curiosity humming like electricity.
And right now every single person in Freedom Falls Diner is pretending they’re not watching me talk to Tucker Bostic. Or, apparently, Mellow as they all know him.
I pour more coffee into his cup even though it’s still half full. Busy hands. That’s always been my trick when I’m nervous. “So,” I say, trying to sound normal. “You work at the shipyard?”
His dark eyes lift from the coffee. “Sometimes.”
“That’s helpful.” I have no idea what I’m saying or what he even does at the shipyard.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I work wherever the club needs me.”
There it is again. The reminder. Motorcycle club. Dangerous men. The Kings of Anarchy. Still, he’s sitting here drinking coffee like a normal guy at nine in the morning. Not exactly the image people imagine when they talk about bikers.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
He glances at the menu but barely looks at it. “Whatever’s easiest.”
“That’s not how ordering works.” I counter back.
“Then surprise me.”
I stare at him. “You trust diner food that much?”
“I trust you not to poison me.”
The old man beside him chuckles. “That’s a bold assumption, son.”
Tucker doesn’t even glance at him. “I’m feeling optimistic today.”
I shake my head and grab my order pad. “Two eggs, bacon, toast.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hash browns?” I ask feeling like taking his order is similar to pulling teeth.
“Sure.”
I scribble it down and head for the kitchen window. “Order up!” I call. Johnny the cook grunts from the grill. “Got it.”
I linger there for a moment, pretending to straighten plates while my brain tries to catch up with what’s happening. Because this feels strange.
Not bad. Just strange.
Men like Tucker don’t usually come into places like this alone. They come in groups. Loud. Commanding attention. But he’s just sitting there quietly drinking coffee like he belongs. When I turn back toward the counter, he’s watching the room. Not casually.
Carefully.
Like he’s cataloging everything.
The exits.
The people.
The man two stools down who keeps glancing at his cut. The older couple in the booth whispering behind their menus. It’s subtle.
But I notice. And suddenly I understand something about him.
Men like Tucker don’t just exist in a room.
They control it.
I walk back over with the coffee pot. “You always sit facing the door?”
His gaze flicks up. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“Military?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I wait. He doesn’t elaborate. Fair enough. We aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances so no need for him to elaborate.
The bell over the door jingles again. I glance up automatically. And my stomach drops.
Roger. Of course it’s Roger. He walks in wearing the same wrinkled baseball cap he’s had since high school, his shoulders slightly hunched like he’s already expecting a fight with the world.
He hasn’t seen me yet. But he will. He always does. Whether he finds me here or at the ice-cream shop, it doesn’t matter, he will seek me out.
My heart starts pounding. I set the coffee pot down slowly.
Tucker notices immediately. His eyes follow mine to the door. Then back to my face. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
I force a smile. “Yeah.” But my voice betrays me.
Roger finally spots me. And his expression changes instantly. There it is.
That familiar mix of excitement and entitlement. He strides toward the counter. “Lucy.”
The old men beside Tucker suddenly become very interested in their pancakes.
“Hi, Roger.”
“What’re you doing here?” he asks.
I blink unsure why he asked me this. He knows what I’m doing. “Working.”
His gaze slides to Tucker. Then to the cut on his back. Then back to me. His mouth tightens. “Makin’ new friends, Lucy?”
Tucker doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Just slowly lifts his coffee cup and takes a sip.
I wish I had that kind of control. “He’s a customer,” I answer.
Roger scoffs. “Looks like more than that the way you’re giving him attention. I watched you from outside.”
My cheeks heat. “Just stop, Roger. We’re not doing this right now.” This man has spent the last three months asking me out to dinner, each time I decline, and he still tries over and over again.
“We’re doing it whenever I say we’re doing it,” he snaps. “You let him take you to dinner, huh Lucy? You got time for him, I bet.”
Tucker sets his coffee cup down. Slowly. Still not looking at Roger. But something in the air shifts. Like a storm rolling in.
Roger notices it too. His voice gets louder. “I’ve been calling you.”
“I um, I’ve had phone problems,” I lie.
“Bullshit.”
Before I can respond, Tucker finally speaks.
Calm.
Quiet. “Friend of yours, Lucy?”
Roger turns toward him immediately.
“Mind your business.”
Tucker glances up slowly. Their eyes meet. And suddenly Roger doesn’t look nearly as confident. “Seems like my business,” Tucker says evenly.
“How’s that?”
“You’re raising your voice at a woman who’s working.”
Roger scoffs. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Tucker shrugs slightly. “It concerns the entire diner at this point.”
Roger looks around.
Everyone is absolutely pretending not to listen. But they are. Of course they are. Small town shit and like every other time Roger creeps around me, they all pretend not to notice.
Roger straightens his shoulders. “You her boyfriend now?”
“No.”
The answer comes easily. Truthfully. But something about the word makes my chest feel weird.
Roger smirks. “Then shut up.”
For a moment nothing happens. Then Tucker stands. The movement is smooth. Unhurried.
But suddenly he seems twice as large. Roger steps back automatically. Just half a step But I see it. And so does Tucker.
“You’re causing a scene,” Tucker state calmly.
Roger glares. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Maybe not.” Tucker’s voice stays steady. “But she asked you to stop.”
I hadn’t even realized I did. Roger laughs harshly.
“You think I’m scared of you?”
“No.” Tucker pauses. “But you should probably stop anyway.” The words aren’t threatening. Not exactly. But the message underneath them is crystal clear.
Roger looks from Tucker to me. Back to Tucker. And something in his posture changes. He’s calculating now. Not emotional.
“You gonna follow her around everywhere?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then this conversation ain’t over.” He points a finger at me. “We’re talking later.”
Then he turns and walks out of the diner. The bell jingles behind him. The entire room exhales. Tucker slowly sits back down. Like nothing happened.
I stare at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He lifts his coffee again. “You’re welcome.”
“I mean it. I appreciate it, but you don’t have to step in and save me from the creeps I seep to draw in everywhere I go.”
“So do I.”
I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted. “Sorry about the drama.”
He shrugs. “Seen worse. Probably caused worse.” His mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
The old man beside him chuckles again. “You should keep him around,” he tells me. “Best breakfast entertainment we’ve had all week.”
I roll my eyes. “Eat your pancakes, Harold.” He grins and goes back to them. Johnny slides Tucker’s plate through the kitchen window.
“Order up!”
I grab it and carry it to the counter.
Eggs. Bacon. Hash browns.
Tucker studies the plate like it’s a mechanical puzzle. “You sure this isn’t poisoned?” he teases
“Only if you annoy me.”
He picks up his fork. “Taste test will tell.”
I watch him take a bite. For a moment he just chews. Then nods. “Good.”
Relief I didn’t know I was holding slips out of my shoulders. “Glad the diner passed inspection.”
He glances up at me again. “You okay?”
The question is quieter this time. More personal.
I think about lying. Instead I say the truth. “He does that sometimes.”
“Show up angry? Get pushy?”
“Yeah.”
Tucker’s jaw tightens slightly. “He ever hurt you?”
The bluntness of the question catches me off guard. “Not like that,” I reply quickly. Too quickly.
“Like what?”
“Like the guy last night.” That’s technically true. Roger likes to feed empowered. He hasn’t grabbed me. He just makes sure his presence is felt. Pressure of sorts.
Tucker watches me carefully. Like he can tell I’m only giving him half the story But he doesn’t push. Instead he nods once. “If he bothers you again—”
I cut him off. “I’ll handle it.”
He studies me. Then nods again. “Okay.” But something in his eyes says he doesn’t entirely believe that.
And strangely, part of me doesn’t either.
Because the truth is when Tucker Bostic walked into this diner this morning, for the first time since leaving Clint I felt a little less alone.