Over the Edge (Crimson Edge #3)

Chapter 1

Tate

It’s raining so hard the torrent is coming down sideways. The wind is howling, tree branches are snapping, and I’m laser-focused on following the lighted sign indicating there’s a truck stop up ahead.

So that’s why we’re walking in the rain in the middle of nowhere to a small truck stop with what appears to be a diner attached.

“Almost there!” I yell to my friends.

We pick up speed, keeping our heads down as we trudge down the interstate off ramp, across the two-lane highway and into the parking lot.

“Fuck,” my drummer, Angus, grunts as we run the rest of the way.

“Diner!” Jonny Gold, our singer, yells.

We make our way in that direction, yanking open the door and stepping inside.

A blast of air conditioning hits us, but I’d rather be cold than out in this damn storm.

The place is packed, though, and I look around doubtfully.

“There’s nowhere to sit,” Jonny mutters.

“Let’s see if there’s a bathroom where we can dry off,” Bart, our bus driver, suggests.

We make our way into the attached convenience store and head to the restrooms.

I have a clean, mostly dry T-shirt in my backpack, so I take off my windbreaker and the T-shirt I’m currently wearing, replacing it with the dry one.

It fared pretty well considering how hard the rain was coming down, and I ball up the wet shirt and windbreaker, stuffing them back in my bag.

My jeans are damp, along with my water-resistant boots, but there’s no help for that.

It takes us about ten minutes to freshen up and then we trudge back into the diner. A harried-looking waitress looks up and frowns.

“Wherever you can find room!” she yells, pivoting as someone seated at the counter asks for more coffee.

We pull two small tables together in the back by the window and settle in.

“This is bullshit,” Angus says, shaking his head.

“Sorry about this, boys.” Bart looks frustrated. “I wish I knew what the hell happened.”

“It’s a vehicle,” Mick Lips, our bassist, says gently. “Sometimes they break. This just happened at an unfortunate time in a very unfortunate place.”

“Look, we’ll hunker down here until the storm lets up,” Sam Fielding, our other guitar player, says with a shrug. “Then we’ll find a motel and wait for word on what to do next.”

We were on our way from Albany to Montreal when the bus broke down, but the show isn’t until Tuesday and this is Saturday night. Well, technically it’s Sunday morning now, so we have a couple of days to get there.

“Summer, where the hell is my burger?!” one of the men sitting at the counter yells out.

The bell jingles and two men that look like truckers come in, shaking off the rain and making a mess all over the floor. I watch as the waitress—I guess her name is Summer—eyes them. There’s no doubt in my mind she wants to yell something about how wet they are but she just sighs.

“Find a place to sit, boys,” is all she says.

Then she glances in our direction, and we make eye contact.

She’s pretty, despite the wet tendrils of hair framing her face or the smudge of something—ketchup maybe?—on her cheek.

“Give me another minute,” she calls to me, before hurrying into the back again.

She comes out a minute later carrying plates of food and drops them off to the loud guy at the counter. I can’t hear what he says to her, but she purses her lips and grabs a stack of menus. She hands them to us on her way to another table.

“I’ll be right back, guys. I’m here by myself.”

Before any of us can respond, she’s gone again.

“She’s really here alone?” Sam asks, looking around. “That’s bullshit.”

Every table in the dining room and every chair at the counter is filled now, and I haven’t seen anyone else.

“Looks like it.”

“Well, it’s not like we have anywhere to be.” Angus picks up the menu and starts to read it.

There’s a pretty good selection considering where we are and I’m trying to decide between the bacon cheeseburger and the meatloaf when Summer approaches our table. “Sorry about that,” she says. “Are you ready to order?”

“What’s better?” I ask. “The bacon cheeseburger or meat—”

I’m cut off as someone yells out, “Summer, what are you doin’ over there? I need more coffee!”

“I’ll be right there!” she snaps. She turns back to our table, fixing a pair of golden eyes on me. “And definitely the meatloaf.”

She’s hot and already finishing my sentences.

I like her.

“Then that’s what I want. With mashed potatoes and corn, please.”

She nods, her gaze locking with mine for another beat before turning to the others.

Unfortunately, that’s as much flirting as I can manage because she takes all our orders and then disappears again, just as three more guys come in.

“This is a zoo,” Mick says, grimacing.

“A zoo with no manners,” I mutter, watching as someone throws a balled-up napkin at Summer to get her attention. I don’t know why it bugs me but it does. She’s a waitress at a diner in the middle of nowhere and I don’t know her, but for some reason, I want to.

She looks like...summer.

Honey-blond hair, lightly tanned skin, and those golden eyes.

She’s like a day at the beach with curves and silky hair.

I catch myself staring and quickly look away.

“She’s cute,” Sam murmurs under his breath.

He knows me too well.

“If another guy throws something at her, I’m going to say something,” I grumble in response.

Sam’s gaze sharpens as someone whistles to get Summer’s attention.

“Shake a leg, honey—we’re hungry!”

“I’m doing the best I can, Roscoe,” she replies smoothly. “Gimme a break, will ya? Your food will be out in a minute.”

There’s more back and forth, and I’m somewhat riveted.

No matter what they say to her, she takes it in stride, focusing on her job.

She moves fluidly, like she can carry plates of hot food in her sleep.

She probably can. And she seems to know everyone.

Most address her by name, though there are a handful who use terms like “honey” and “sweetheart.”

“You really need to stop staring,” Angus says after we’ve finished eating. “If you want to hook up, go talk to her.”

I roll my eyes. “Does she look like she’s in any position to hook up? She’s running around like a chicken with her head cut off.”

A few more guys come in, leaving a trail of mud all over the floor, and Summer’s eyes narrow for a second, before her expression morphs into one of resignation. Like this is par for the course.

“She’s cute,” Mick says. “You should go for it.”

“She’s busy,” I reiterate. “And guys probably hit on her all day long. Last thing she needs is some horny rocker all up in her business.”

“Maybe we could help,” Bart says thoughtfully.

Angus follows his gaze and then wiggles his eyebrows. “Hold that thought.”

At that, he gets up and walks behind the counter. He picks up the two coffee pots—one decaf and one regular—and starts walking around the restaurant asking people if they want refills.

“What the hell is he doing?” Jonny asks, wide-eyed.

I chuckle.

My bandmates really are the best.

Sam pulls out his phone and snaps a few pictures—our publicist is going to love this. Frankly, I wish I’d thought of it, because the look of shock and then appreciation on Summer’s face is priceless.

“You’re not as cute as her,” one of the truckers says to Angus.

“I’m also not as busy as she is,” he replies. “Decaf or regular?”

I bite back a grin as I get to my feet and reach for our now empty dishes.

“What are you doing?” Jonny demands in confusion.

“What’s it look like?” I laugh. “I’m gonna bus some tables for her.”

“Are we too poor to pay the bill?” he asks.

“No, dipshit, we’re nice guys.” I carry the stack of dishes toward the back just as Summer is coming back out.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, eyes wide and filled with confusion.

I give her what I hope is my most charming smile. “Helping.”