Chapter 2
Alexis
As soon as I got the job, I left, afraid the owner, Dex, would change his mind.
He didn’t like me. That much was clear from the way his green eyes lingered on me, like I was something he hadn’t decided what to do with yet, something inconvenient he’d rather step around than deal with. But I needed the job, and my car wouldn’t take me far. I didn’t have the luxury of pride.
Now I sit in my car at the edge of the Midnight Rodeo parking lot, the engine long gone quiet, the world outside wrapped in that heavy stillness that comes just before night settles in completely.
I lock the doors, the sharp click echoing louder than it should, and rest my forehead against the steering wheel as I breathe slowly, again and again, until the tightness in my chest loosens just enough to let air in without resistance.
After a moment, I reach into the backseat and pull out the blankets.
They’re old, worn thin in places, softened by years of use.
One has a tear running along the edge, the fabric frayed where it’s been pulled too many times, while the other still carries the faint scent of laundry soap mixed with dust, something clean and tired all at once.
I’ve kept them in my car for years, ever since I learned there are nights when staying isn’t an option.
Nights when Russel’s bike sits in the driveway and his club brothers laugh too loudly inside the trailer, their voices bleeding through the walls in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Nights when disappearing is the safer choice.
It’s the middle of February, and the cold presses in the moment I recline the seat, seeping through the glass, through the metal, settling into everything.
I stay fully dressed, wrapping the blankets around my legs instead of my shoulders, tucking my hands between my thighs to keep feeling in my fingers as long as I can.
I can do this.
I’ve done it before.
My breath fogs the windshield almost immediately, turning the world outside into a blur of neon and shadow, something distant and unreachable. I crack the window just enough to let air move, then pull it closed again when the cold bites too sharply against my skin.
This is temporary. One night.
If I work hard tomorrow, if I keep my head down and don’t mess up, maybe I get tips. Enough for a cheap motel. Enough for a hot shower and something warm to eat. Just one night in a real bed. Just one meal I don’t have to stretch or ration.
That thought settles into me, something solid I can hold onto.
I repeat it quietly in my head like a promise as I curl in on myself, the keys clenched tight in my fist, the metal pressing into my palm while I drift in and out of sleep.
I never fully let go, never sink completely under.
Every sound pulls me back up again. Footsteps somewhere in the distance.
An engine turning over. A door slamming far enough away that I can pretend it has nothing to do with me.
The cold doesn’t let me rest. It settles deep into my joints, into my neck and knees, turning every small movement slow and stiff, like my body belongs to someone else.
By the time exhaustion finally pulls me under for more than a few minutes at a time, my body feels hollowed out, drained, but something inside me stays sharp.
I only need one chance.
? ? ?
I wake at dawn, stiff and aching, my breath already fogging the windshield in uneven bursts.
The moment I sit up, a sharp pull runs through my neck and makes me wince, and my fingers feel swollen and clumsy when I try to move them, like they don’t quite belong to me yet.
I don’t remember when I finally fell asleep, only that it wasn’t long and didn’t feel like enough.
I need coffee.
I dig into the cup holder and count my change, the coins clinking softly in my palm. Three dollars. It will have to be enough. Right now, caffeine matters more than food.
The second I step out of the car, I regret it.
The cold hits hard, sharp and immediate, slicing through my jacket like it isn’t even there, stealing the breath from my lungs before I can brace for it.
I lock the door, pull my coat tighter around me, and start walking, moving fast enough to keep the feeling in my toes as I circle around the bar and head toward the main road.
My boots crunch against the frost, the sound too loud in the quiet morning as the sky slowly shifts into something pale and grey.
A coffee shop comes into view, Sugar & Spice, warm light glowing behind the windows, and relief flickers through me before dropping just as quickly when I see the sign.
Closed .
I let out a slow breath and lower myself onto the bench outside, rubbing my hands together, blowing warm air into my palms, trying to coax some feeling back into them. Thirty minutes. I can wait. I’ve waited longer for worse things.
A few minutes later, a truck pulls up. A woman with long dark brown hair steps out, keys already in hand, moving with the kind of quiet certainty that says this place belongs to her. She reaches for the door, then pauses when she notices me.
“Hi,” she says, turning fully toward me.
“Hi. Do you open at seven?”
She nods. “I do.”
I glance at my phone, the battery barely hanging on, and see it’s only six thirty. Of course it is.
She looks at me again, really looks this time, her gaze taking in my coat, the way I sit, the way I can’t quite stop shivering no matter how still I try to stay.
“It’s cold out,” she says gently. “Why don’t you come in? I can make you a coffee while I get the pastries started.”
Her baby-blue eyes hold something soft and knowing. Not pity, something quieter than that. Understanding. Like she already knows I don’t have anywhere else to be.
“I’d really appreciate that. Thank you.”
I follow her inside.
The moment the door closes behind us, the heat hits all at once, and it hurts. It blooms through my fingers, my toes, my face, sharp and overwhelming, like my body doesn’t know how to handle it anymore. A soft sound escapes me before I can stop it, something between relief and pain.
“Easy,” she says gently.
“I’m Summer,” she adds, flipping on the lights.
“Lexy,” I manage, my voice quieter now as I ride out the sensation, clenching and unclenching my hands, waiting for my body to remember what warmth is supposed to feel like.
She sets a mug in front of me, and I wrap my hands around it instantly, the heat seeping into my skin as I breathe in the smell, letting it settle somewhere deeper than just my fingers.
“How much is it?” I ask, already reaching for my wallet.
Summer pauses, just long enough for something to pass across her face, and then she smiles, easy and natural.
“First coffee’s free. House rule.”
Relief rises fast, tangling with something sharper, something closer to embarrassment.
“And I’m testing a new latte,” she adds lightly. “Needs a guinea pig. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”
She steams the milk, pours carefully, dusts the foam with something that smells faintly of cinnamon. When she slides the cup toward me, I take a sip and feel my eyes nearly close on their own.
“It’s really good,” I say softly.
“See?” she grins. “Scientific confirmation.”
A few minutes pass in quiet warmth. My hands stop shaking. The sharp sting in my fingers fades into something dull and manageable, something I can ignore.
After a while she sets a scone on a napkin in front of me.
“I also baked too many this morning,” she says casually. “Occupational hazard. I need someone to tell me if they’re dry.”
The smell hits me instantly, butter and sugar, warm and rich, and my stomach twists painfully in response.
I hesitate.
Summer meets my eyes, her expression soft but steady, and there’s something unspoken there, something that tells me she understands more than she’s saying, and that she’s giving me space to take it without feeling small .
“They’re probably terrible,” she adds. “You’d be doing me a favor.”
I pick it up before I can talk myself out of it. “Okay.”
The first bite almost makes me dizzy.
The bell above the door jingles.
“Hello, bestie,” a voice calls warmly.
I look up, and my chest tightens before I can stop it.
It’s her. The red-haired woman from the bar last night, a fancy camera already slung over her shoulder like it belongs there.
She spots me at the same time, recognition flickering across her face.
“Hey,” she says, walking over. “You’re the girl Dex hired yesterday, right?”
“Yes. Lexy.” I hold out my hand automatically.
“Penny,” she says, taking it. “Dex’s sister-in-law.”
My fingers go slack before I can stop them.
Her smile shifts, just slightly.
“You’re freezing,” she says softly.
I pull my hand back too quickly. “I walked here. Probably not my smartest idea.”
Her eyes don’t argue. They drift instead, catching on my neck.
On the bruise I forgot to hide.
I lower my gaze to my coffee before she can say anything.
“Well,” Penny says gently, “it’s nice to meet you, Lexy.”
Summer appears then, setting a coffee and a muffin in front of her.
“On the house,” she says then looks between us. “You know each other?”
“Yes,” Penny says, slipping into the chair across from me. “Lexy’s Dex’s new bartender.”
Summer’s brows knit for a second, then her expression softens when she looks at me again.
“Well then,” she says, “welcome to Lander.”
“Thank you.”
“Dex is my brother-in-law,” she adds.
I blink. “Yours too?” I ask Penny.
She laughs. “Yep. Sisters-in-law and best friends.”
She leans back slightly. “The Hawthornes are… a lot.”
Summer snorts softly.
“Six kids,” Penny continues. “Cas is the oldest, my husband. Ethan’s next, Summer’s husband. They just got married last year.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“Then there’s Dex and his twin, Jude,” she says.
I think of the quiet man at the bar. Same face. Different weight behind it.
“And Jace and Grace. Grace is at the University of Wyoming.”
“My little brother goes there,” I say before I can stop myself.
Both of them look at me more closely now.
“Oh?” Penny asks. “What’s his name?”
“Mason. He started in September. Football scholarship.”
Penny’s eyes light up. “No way. They might know each other.”
“It’s a big campus,” I say quickly, lifting one shoulder, trying to sound casual even as something tightens in my chest. “They might not.”
I hope they don’t.
Because Mason can’t know I ran.
That I don’t have a home.
That I’m sitting here, holding onto borrowed warmth, wrapping my hands around a cup of kindness I didn’t earn.