12. Kyra
12
Kyra
“ W e’ll send someone out in the next ten to fourteen days.”
After dropping the kids off at school, I called my insurance company to file a claim for the damage to the diner. With what I’m paying, I didn’t realize it would be this difficult.
“Ten to fourteen days! That’s nuts. I can’t stay closed that long.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the agent says. “But our adjuster is on vacation and won’t be back fo?—”
“I don’t care if the adjuster is on his deathbed,” I snap. “Find someone else who can come out to assess the damage. I can’t wait two weeks for your company to get their head out of their ass.”
I disconnect the call, knowing that continuing the conversation will only end badly for me.
Not that things aren’t bad enough.
Fighting tears, I force my focus on the traffic. It’s morning rush hour which means people are driving like idiots, and the last thing I need is to get in a car accident.
Insurance would probably fuck me over on that, too.
Turning the radio up, I try to push my negative thoughts away. Life has given me numerous lemons before, and I’ve always managed to make lemonade. This will be no different.
By the time I turn onto the road the diner is on, I’m belting out the lyrics to “I Will Survive”.
“Think I’d crumble? Think I’d lay down and die,” I sing. “No, not I, I will…”
The words die on my tongue as soon as I reach the parking lot. Four Harleys and a pickup truck with a trailer are parked near the entrance. Not only that, but the broken front window is gone, and the bikers from yesterday seem to be hard at work inside.
What. The. Hell?
I park my car and take a deep breath before going in to see what’s going on. When we all left last night, there was no mention of them returning.
“Morning, Kyra,” Reaper greets like he owns the place when I step through the door. “There’s coffee in the kitchen as well as some eggs and bacon.”
“I, uh…” I set my purse on the counter and turn to face him, my brain finally catching up to the fact that he’s got no shirt on and is glistening with sweat. “What are you doing here?”
He arches a brow. “What’s it look like?”
I swallow… hard. “It, uh, well…”
“Cat got your tongue?” Acid taunts from across the dining area where he’s cutting wood with a table saw. “Didn’t know Reaper had that effect on women.”
“No, I…” I shake the cobwebs from my head. “I just wasn’t expecting you all to be here.”
Reaper sets the hammer he’s wielding down and walks toward me. “Figured you could use a hand.”
I glance around the space at everything they’ve done. Some of the booths have already been repaired or replaced, the counter appears to be brand new, and they’re currently working on fixing a few of the broken chairs.
“This is more than a hand.”
Reaper and Viking exchange a look before Reaper sighs. “We all have experience with construction,” he says. “And we had a lot of supplies back at our clubhouse. We took a vote and decided that putting those supplies to use here was the right thing to do.”
“But why?” I ask, immediately wanting to call the words back. “I mean, why help me? You don’t even know me. And it’s not like I can pay you.”
“You’re right, we don’t know you,” Viking says.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t get to know you,” Reaper adds. “Besides, the club likes to help out in the community when we can.”
“Okay.” None of this makes sense. He talks about the community like it’s his own, but yesterday was the first time I even heard about their club. If they were so embedded in the area, how is that possible? “Still doesn’t change the fact that I can’t pay you.”
“Again, we like to help out when we can,” Reaper repeats. “And if you’re so hell-bent on paying us, you can feed us while we work.”
“I…” I run a shaky hand through my hair. “I can do that. Thank you.”
Lemons meet lemonade.