Chapter 3
Diablo
Usually when I’m riding, my head is clear; the only thing I’m aware of is the roar of my engine, the smell of the gas, the road ahead of me. But tonight…
It’s been nearly a week since Donovan’s leaving party, nearly a week since I kissed Elizabeth. And I haven’t been able to stop fucking thinking about it. I never kiss girls; I can’t even remember the last time I did. Fuck a girl? Sure. Get my dick sucked? Great. But I stay away from anything else.
That’s probably why this has stuck in my head, it’s different, that’s all this is. It has nothing to do with the way her hair smelled like vanilla, or the way her thick body felt pressed up against mine. Nope, nothing to do with that.
When the guys suggested we go for a ride, I jumped at the chance, hoping I could forget about her for a moment, but no, here I am, still fucking thinking about her.
They must know something is going on with me, I’m sure they’ve noticed I haven’t fucked any of the girls this week, and it’s unusual for me not to.
Hopefully they just think I’m getting sick, and they haven’t guessed what’s actually running through my head when I jerk off in my shower every morning and night, my younger brother’s best friend. Fuck.
Tank signals that he’s going to stop, so we slow to follow him, pulling into the parking lot of some roadside diner. I’ve never even heard of it, so I’ve got no idea why we’re stopping, but we park and dismount, taking a moment to stretch after the ride.
“What the fuck are we doing here?” I ask.
“I’m hungry,” Tank says.
“Hungry? It’s 10 p.m. and we had food before we left, how are you always so fucking hungry?”
I don’t really need to ask, as his name suggests, Tank is tall and built, he doesn’t have those defined gym muscles, but he’s solid, the kind of guy who most men wouldn’t even square off against in a fight.
“Fuck you!” he says, laughing as he makes his way into the diner.
It looks pretty standard inside, classic American diner. Red fake leather booths line the walls and there’s a bar with stools in front of the kitchen. We’re the only people in the place until a man’s head appears in the kitchen hatch, obviously hearing the door.
He calls behind him, “Hey! We’ve got customers.”
He nods to the booths, suggesting we take a seat. I sit in first with Tank opposite me, knowing Slim won’t want a window seat, and Pretty Boy sits last before we each grab a menu. Hearing the server approach, I look up and I’m shocked to see Elizabeth standing in front of us.
She must be wearing the diner uniform because she never usually dresses like this.
A tight black mini skirt accentuates her hips, her legs are covered in sheer black tights, and she wears a white tee, tucked in at her waist, with her usual Dr Marten boots completing the outfit.
Her hair isn’t in its usual messy bun either, instead it’s braided down her back.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She scowls. “Working, what does it look like I’m doing?”
The guys chuckle but I’m still in shock.
“Hey, Beth,” Tank says, while Slim nods at her.
“Loving the uniform, darlin’,” Pretty Boy says, not even hiding it as he lets his eyes roam up and down her body. I want to kick him under the table.
“Hey,” she smiles, and it annoys me that she seems genuinely happy to see them. “What can I get you all?”
Before any of them can answer, I interrupt, “What are you working here for?”
She’s rich, I’m sure she is. Her family must be loaded because Donovan told me they come from Radbury Heights, the most expensive district in Tynerston, we’re talking millionaire type rich.
Why is she working the graveyard shift in a shitty diner…
and out here. Where even are we? I glance out the window, we’re in a really sketchy area. What the fuck is she doing here?
“I work here because I have a fetish for old-style American diners,” she says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Obviously not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I work here to earn money, why else do people work shitty jobs?” She turns her attention to Slim. “Now, what can I get you?”
The guy from the window hatch approaches us, he’s wearing a shirt and tie and walks like he genuinely believes he’s some big shot. His name badge shows he’s called Brian and that he’s the diner supervisor.
“Beth, that homeless guy is back again. You need to stop treating this place like a soup kitchen.”
She smiles, but this time I can tell it’s fake .
“It’s not a soup kitchen if you’re getting paid for the soup.”
“Yeah, but he’s not paying for it. I take the money out of your wages each month.”
“So? Why do you care where the money comes from, you get paid for the soup.”
Brian fumbles, trying to come up with a good response.
“He’s homeless, he’s going to scare away the other customers.”
She takes her time looking around the empty diner, before gesturing at us, “Oh, you mean these customers? You think some harmless old man is going to scare away the big scary biker gang?” She accentuates her description of us with mock fear in her voice and I have to stifle a laugh, enjoying seeing her give sass to someone else for a change.
He looks at us properly for the first time, realizing who we are.
Even though we’re not into illegal shit anymore, our club still holds weight in the area and the majority of people steer clear of us.
And we know our roles well, each of us giving him blank stares, as though no one and nothing matters to us.
“Well… I… uh…” Brian stutters.
“He’s not bothering us,” I say.
I’m not the most physically intimidating out of the four of us, but years of practice have made me able to intimidate most people using my voice and expressions.
“Yeah,” Tank says, “it’s fine with us if he’s here.”
Whether it’s my cold stare, or Tank’s size that does it, it works. Brian huffs at Elizabeth before storming off. She smiles at us and it’s genuine and open. She doesn’t usually smile at me like that, and I hate to admit it, but I like it.
“Beth?” The man Brian had been referring to approaches us.
“Hola, Senor Perez,” Elizabeth says, “?Cómo estás? ”
Well shit, I had no idea she spoke any Spanish; her pronunciation is actually pretty good.
“Estoy bien,” he says, “tengo dinero para ti.”
He holds out some crumpled dollar bills towards her.
“No Senor, no necesita dinero.”
She places her hand over his, guiding the money back to him.
“Por favor?” he asks, pushing his hand back towards her, clearly wanting her to take the money.
“?Sabes lo que esto te comprará?” she asks, finally accepting the money.
“?Qué?”
His eyes light up, clearly curious about what else his precious dollars might be able to buy him.
“Dos rebanadas de pastel,” she says, nodding to the selection of cakes and sweet pies on the countertop.
“?Dos?”
“Sí, comes un poco de sopa. Entonces comeremos pastel juntos.”
I can’t believe that she’s offering to bring him soup and then sit with him so they can eat cake together. The princess offering to sit and eat with a homeless guy… I’m so fucking confused.
“Muchas gracias,” he says, before heading to a different booth.
After watching him walk away, she looks back to us.
“Sorry about that, now, what would you like?”
Elizabeth
“Muchas gracias,” Senor Perez says, before he heads towards his usual booth .
I’m glad he accepted my suggestion of eating cake together. I can’t bring myself to charge him for the soup knowing it’s likely the only hot meal he has each day; it breaks my heart to think about what he does on the days I’m not working here.
Granted, having the money taken from my wages isn’t great for me financially, but I figure what’s the cost of four bowls of soup a week compared to knowing that he’s at least had a hot meal and somewhere safe to sit for a couple of hours.
After watching him walk away, I look back to the table.
I’d almost forgotten it was the guys… and Diablo.
When I first walked over, seeing him sitting at the booth made my heart stop for a moment. They didn’t know I work here so it must be a coincidence, but still, my plan to completely avoid him after making the biggest mistake ever at Donovan’s party has been ruined.
Why the fuck did I kiss him? He’d been so vile, saying all that shit about Donovan, I hate him.
Was I really that drunk? Maybe I have more of a praise kink than I thought if all it took was him telling me I was fucking perfect, even if he did mean it sarcastically.
Not to mention that when he kissed me back it was fucking amazing…
Nope. No, no and no, we are not going there.
I shake myself internally before smiling at the guys.
“Sorry about that, now, what would you like?”
After taking Senor Perez his soup, making sure Pretty Boy and Slim both have their slices of cherry pie, Tank has his loaded burger and fries, and Diablo has his black coffee, I grab two slices of the apple pie and join Senor Perez at his table .
We can’t talk about anything too in-depth; my Spanish is nowhere near that fluent, but we can make small talk, and it passes the time easily.
As we finish, I know he’ll be getting up to leave shortly, so I gather our plates and say my goodbyes, telling him I’ll see him on Monday.
I head towards the staff area but when I put the plates on the dishwasher’s trolley, I feel a presence behind me.
“It’s not every day you see a princess clearing up the plates of a homeless man.”
I swear I can hear the smugness in his voice, and it makes me want to punch him, but the only way I’m going to get out of this is if I keep my cool.
“What do you want, Diablo?” I ask, not hiding the irritation in my voice or giving him the satisfaction of looking at him.
“I just thought we should probably have a talk.”
Why does his voice have to be so fucking sexy, has he always sounded like this, or is it because I still have the memory of him standing so close to me, telling me I’m fucking perfect.
“Oh yeah, about what?” I ask, hoping I sound aloof instead of my voice betraying how much he’s affecting me.
He shifts forward so he’s pressing up against my back, luckily, we’re away from the eyes of the others so they won’t see. He chuckles, his breath warm against the sensitive skin on my neck.
“I think you know, princess.”
Fuck.
I can’t tell if I’m turned on, terrified, or both. All I know is that he’s making me feel things with just a few words that I don’t usually feel until I’m, well, much further on with other guys, let’s say.
The sound of someone clearing their throat loudly makes me jump and I look up to see Brian standing in the door to the kitchen.
Stepping away from Diablo, I pretend to arrange the plates on the trolley.
Diablo hasn’t moved a muscle, as though he has every right in the world to be standing here, and that he hasn’t been distracting me from my job or standing inappropriately close to me.
He must be staring Brian down, because when Brian glances at him, he disappears back into the kitchen with the expression of a child who’s been caught doing something wrong. Yeah, Diablo tends to have that effect on people.
“Well we can’t talk now, I’m working,” I say, desperately trying to keep my voice calm and distracting myself by organizing the condiments.
“So when?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to stall, this isn’t exactly a conversation I’m dying to have with him.
“What time does your shift finish?”
“3 a.m. Why? You want to talk then?” I ask, knowing there’s no way in hell he’ll agree to that.
“Sure, is your car here?”
“Firstly, I was joking, and secondly, I don’t have a car.”
“How do you usually get home?”
I shrug. “It depends on the weather, and how tired I am. Sometimes I take the bus, sometimes I walk.”
A look crosses his face, but I can’t work out what it is; I thought he was angry but that makes no sense, why would he be angry that I walk or take the bus. Although, trying to interpret any emotions he feels is definitely a complete waste of my time.
“I’ll pick you up at three.”
He hands me a hundred-dollar bill and walks away. I follow, the guys are standing by the door waiting for him, each of them giving me a wave and yelling thanks as they leave.
What the fuck was that ?
Rather than trying to process what just happened, I head to their table to clear it, hearing their bikes start up outside before they ride off in the direction of the clubhouse.
As I’m collecting the plates I calculate their food probably came to thirty dollars maximum.
Fucking asshole, flashing his money around by giving me a hundred dollars and not even asking for change.
At the register I pay for exactly the cost of their food and drink and put the rest in an envelope addressed to Brian, to cover the cost of soup and slices of cake for Senor Perez for the rest of the month.
I’d rather Diablo’s money goes to help someone else than in my pocket, even if that seventy dollars is practically the same amount I’ll earn for this entire night shift.
The rest of my shift passes without incident; the usual truck drivers needing their coffee and people returning home late from their own night shifts and not wanting to cook.
Usually, I pass the time by reading, or even writing on my laptop, but tonight I’ve been too distracted.
It’s the norm for time to drag during the graveyard shift, but tonight the clock seems to be moving faster than ever towards 3 a.m.
I shouldn’t complain; this is my last shift of the week, I have a few classes tomorrow and then the whole weekend off.
And it’s okay, Diablo’s probably just messing with me again, he won’t show up and I can go home as normal, he’s probably asleep at the clubhouse.
I relax, of course he isn’t going to show up, why would he ride all the way out here just to pick me up, or talk, as he said. I’m worrying for nothing.
Then I hear the roar of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot…
Fuck.