Chapter 3
The paint was wrong.
Trauma noticed it the moment he pulled into the lot—a patch of red on the diner's front door that was brighter than the weathered paint around it. Fresh. Recent. The kind of touch-up job someone did in a hurry when they needed to cover something up.
He parked his bike and studied the door from twenty feet away. The new paint formed a rough rectangle at eye level, about six inches tall, wide enough to cover a word or a short phrase.
Someone had written something on Amy's door.
And she'd erased it.
He walked inside, the bell announcing him the same way it had two nights ago.
Amy was behind the counter, wiping down the coffee station, her movements quick and efficient.
She looked up when he entered, and something flickered across her face—relief, wariness, that same complicated mix he'd seen Tuesday night.
"You're back."
"Told you. Best coffee in Fayetteville."
"That's not why you're here."
No. It wasn't.
He took his usual stool and watched her pour his coffee without asking. Black, same as before. She remembered.
"What happened to your door?"
Her hand jerked. Coffee splashed across the counter—same spot as Tuesday, same nervous tell. She grabbed a rag and wiped it up, keeping her eyes down.
"Nothing. Old paint job. I touched it up."
"Fresh paint's a different shade."
"It'll fade."
"Amy."
She looked up. Those tired eyes again, that weight she was carrying. But underneath it, something harder. Defiance, maybe. The stubborn set of a woman who'd been handling her own problems long before he showed up.
"It's nothing," she said. "Someone wrote something stupid on the door. I took care of it."
"What did they write?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does."
She stared at him for a long moment. He stared back. The diner hummed around them—the coffee maker gurgling, the grill hissing, a radio playing country music from the kitchen.
"You want a refill?" she asked finally.
"Amy—"
"The special tonight is meatloaf. My aunt's recipe. Comes with mashed potatoes and green beans."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then you're just here for coffee." She topped off his mug, even though he'd only taken one sip. "Anything else I can get you?"
The deflection was smooth, practiced. She'd done this before—redirected conversations, changed subjects, steered people away from topics she didn't want to discuss.
He recognized the technique. He'd used it himself, after operations he couldn't talk about, after losses he couldn't explain.
"Who's bothering you?"
"Nobody."
"The truck Tuesday night. The paint on your door. You're scared, and you're pretending you're not."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Then look me in the eye and tell me everything's fine."
She didn't look at him. Instead, she busied herself rearranging the coffee cups, straightening the sugar dispensers, wiping a counter that was already clean.
"Everything's fine," she said to the coffee maker.
Trauma waited.
She didn't say anything else.
He stayed for two hours.
Watched her move through the late-night rhythm—serving the handful of customers who drifted in, cleaning tables, restocking supplies.
She was good at her job, comfortable in the space, but the tension never left her shoulders.
Every time the door opened, her head snapped up.
Every time a car pulled into the lot, she tracked it through the windows.
She was waiting for something.
Dreading it.
At midnight, he dropped a twenty on the counter and headed for the door.
"Thank you," Amy called after him. "For the business."
He paused, hand on the door frame. "Lock up tight tonight."
"I always do."
"Tighter than always."
She didn't respond.
He walked out into the parking lot, the Carolina night thick with humidity and pine. His bike waited where he'd left it, chrome catching the neon glow from the diner's sign.
He pulled out his phone and called Forge.
"Brother." Forge's voice was gravel and gunpowder, even at midnight. "What do you need?"
"Background run. Female, early thirties, name's Amy Lawson. Owns a diner on the east side of Fayetteville. I need any recent parolees connected to her address—husband, boyfriend, family member, anyone with a record."
"This club business?"
"It's about to be."
Silence on the other end. Forge didn't ask questions when brothers needed information—that wasn't his way. He gathered intel, assessed threats, and let the club decide how to respond.
"Give me an hour," Forge said.
"I'll be at the compound."
He hung up and looked back at the diner. Through the windows, he could see Amy wiping down the counter, her movements slower now that she thought no one was watching. She paused, braced her hands on the counter, and dropped her head.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to let the exhaustion show.
Then she straightened, squared her shoulders, and went back to work.
Trauma climbed on his bike and rode.
The compound was quiet when he arrived.
Most of the brothers had turned in for the night, but the clubhouse lights were still on. He found Forge in the back room they used for intelligence work, three monitors glowing in the darkness, files scattered across the desk.
"Got your parolee," Forge said without looking up. "Kyle Lawson. Thirty-eight years old. Released three months ago after serving five years for assault and armed robbery."
"Relationship to Amy?"
"Ex-husband. She divorced him while he was inside."
Trauma felt something cold settle in his chest. Ex-husband. Prison time. Assault charges.
"What kind of assault?"
Forge pulled up a file on the center monitor. "Domestic. Put her in the hospital the night before his arrest. Broken ribs, fractured orbital, internal bleeding. She nearly died."
The cold spread, mixing with something hotter. Something that wanted to find Kyle Lawson and show him what happened to men who put women in hospitals.
"Prison affiliations?"
"Ran with a crew inside. Fourteen men, various charges—assault, robbery, drugs. They're operating in Fayetteville now, handling enforcement for whoever pays. Leader's a guy named Trent Maynard, former bouncer, four years for aggravated assault."
"They connected to Kyle?"
"Trent's his right hand. Word is Kyle's been staying mobile, rotating locations, using the crew for intimidation work." Forge turned to face him. "What's your interest?"
"She's being stalked. Truck in her lot Tuesday night. Someone scratched something on her door—she painted over it before I could see what. She's scared and she won't talk about it."
"She file a restraining order?"
"Probably. Lot of good that does against a crew of fourteen."
Forge nodded slowly. "You want club involvement."
"I want to keep her safe."
"That's not what I asked."
Trauma met his brother's eyes. Forge was the club's weapons sergeant, the man who kept them armed and assessed every threat before it became a problem. He didn't make decisions about protection—that was Legion's call—but his opinion carried weight.
"She serves coffee to half the special operations community in Fayetteville," Trauma said. "Soldiers, veterans, brothers. Her diner's the kind of place people go when they need somewhere to land. That makes her ours to protect."
"And the fact that you've been watching her for eight months?"
Trauma didn't blink. "That too."
Forge's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Legion's in his office. He's been waiting for you."
Legion sat behind his desk, reading something on a tablet, the lamp casting shadows across his weathered face. Twenty-four years of Special Forces command had carved lines into his features that made him look older than forty-five, but his eyes were sharp as ever.
"Forge briefed me," he said without preamble. "Kyle Lawson. Prison crew. The diner."
"She needs protection."
"From what I hear, she doesn't want protection."
"She doesn't want to need it. There's a difference."
Legion set down the tablet and studied him. That assessing look he'd perfected over two decades of leading men into places they weren't supposed to come back from.
"You've been going to that diner for eight months. Sitting at the same stool, drinking the same coffee, watching the same woman."
"I like her pie."
"I'm sure you do." Legion leaned back in his chair. "This isn't just about protecting club territory."
It wasn't a question.
Trauma didn't answer.
"She's a civilian," Legion continued. "No connection to the club, no ties to the brotherhood. If we move on Kyle Lawson, we're doing it for her. Not for us."
"We've moved for less."
"We've moved for brothers. For family. For people who've earned our protection."
"Then let her earn it."
Legion raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Put eyes on the diner. Let the crew see we're watching. If they escalate, we respond. If they back off, problem solved."
"And if they don't back off?"
Trauma thought about the fresh paint on Amy's door. The truck in her parking lot. The way her hands shook when she thought no one was looking.
"Then we handle it the way we handle everything."
Silence stretched between them. Legion's fingers drummed against the desk—the only tell he had when he was thinking through a decision.
"Saturday," he said finally. "Church. You brief the table on what Forge found. The club votes on whether to extend protection."
"And until then?"
"Until then, you keep doing what you've been doing." Legion picked up his tablet, dismissing him. "Watch her. But don't engage until we've voted."
Trauma stood. "Thank you, brother."
"Don't thank me yet. The vote could go either way."
It wouldn't. Trauma knew his brothers, knew the code they lived by. A woman being stalked by a prison crew, a civilian who served their community, someone who needed help and couldn't get it from the system—the club wouldn't turn their back on that.
But he appreciated the process. The respect for how things were done.
He walked out of Legion's office and into the Carolina night.
Two more days until church. Two more days of watching, waiting, keeping his distance while Kyle Lawson circled closer.
He could be patient.
But if Kyle made a move before Saturday, patience would be the last thing on his mind.