Ten hours on my feet at The Rusted Spoon, and my right hand had gone numb. Every time I lifted the coffee pot, my wrist gave a traitorous tremble, nearly sloshing black coffee onto a customer’s newspaper.

"Hey, Little Bird." The old trucker by the window tapped his empty mug against the table. "A little more?"

I forced a smile and aimed the spout at his cup.

"Right away."

He called me Little Bird because I was thin and walked with a light, barely-there step. The air in the diner was thick with the smell of grease—bacon and burnt onions clinging to my hair and skin like a second coat of paint. The wall clock finally ticked toward ten, and the last table of customers settled their bill and headed out. Outside, the neon sign flickered twice before the red letters of SPOON went half-dark.

I dumped the tips from my apron pocket: three ones, two quarters, and a dime stained with ketchup. Not a great day, but not the worst. I wiped the coins clean and tucked them into the deepest corner of my wallet. I was still forty-seven dollars short on the rent, and Biscuit’s cat food was going to run out tomorrow. The move hadn't been easy on him; he’d grown thin and took to watching me from the motel bathroom with wide, worried eyes.

I was just reaching for the knot of my apron when Colt, the owner, looked up from behind the register.

"Marlowe. Stay."

My fingers froze on the string.

"I already pulled two extra hours today."

"I know." He didn't bother looking at me, his fingers flying through his ledger. "So another thirty minutes won’t kill you. Go count the inventory and mop the kitchen floor. The tax man might be dropping by in the morning."

"That’s not my shift."

I regretted the words the second they left my mouth.

Colt finally looked at me. He was in his late forties, his belly straining against his shirt and his face perpetually slick with a greasy smile, as if he expected a thank-you every time he threw someone a scrap.

"Do you want your hours for next week?"

I bit my lip.

He smirked.

"I knew you were smart."

In my twenty-six years of life, "smart" usually wasn't a compliment. It just meant I knew when I didn't have a choice.

I retied my apron and headed to the back for the mop. The kitchen was empty, save for the hum of the exhaust fan and the harsh, clinical glare of the fluorescent lights. The grease on the stove hadn't cooled yet, making the air feel sticky. I shoved the last of the trays into the sink and turned on the tap. Hot water splashed over the back of my hand, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

I didn't make a sound. I’d learned long ago that not every pain needed an audience.

Once the last stack was done, I went to the storage room for the bleach. It was located right next to the walk-in freezer, behind a door that never quite shut right. The room was a cramped mess of paper towels, canned goods, disposable cups, and old advertisements Colt couldn't bring himself to throw away.

I was just reaching for the door when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was rats. Then I heard a woman’s muffled giggle.

"Not here," she said. "Someone’s still out there."

It was Tessa.

I stopped in my tracks. She was the other server on the late shift—blonde, beautiful, and loud. The customers loved her because she knew exactly how far to lean over to show just enough cleavage. She also hated me. I had a feeling it wasn't because of anything I’d done; some people just feel insulted by anyone who doesn't fight for attention.

Another voice, coarse and heavy, replied.

"She’s washing dishes, timid as a shadow," Colt said. "Even if she saw something, she wouldn't say a word."

My palms tightened. A sliver of light leaked through the gap in the door. I saw Colt’s hand braced against the freezer door, his shirt hem a crumpled mess. Tessa was leaning against the shelving units, her lipstick smeared and her top unbuttoned. Her eyes were fixed on Colt, but a second later, they snapped toward the door.

She saw me.

In that moment, only one thought pulsed in my brain: get out.

I took a step back, my heel clipping the mop bucket with a soft plastic clatter. Colt spun around instantly. His face darkened.

"What are you doing standing there?"

I dropped my gaze, staring at the tips of my shoes. The black non-slip soles were cracked at the edges, revealing a hint of white lining.

"I was looking for the bleach," I said.

Tessa pushed Colt away and began slowly buttoning her shirt. She wasn't flustered at all. If anything, she looked like she’d just caught something interesting.

"What did you see?"

"Nothing."

"Look at me when I’m talking to you."

I looked up. Tessa was a bit taller than me, her makeup heavy and her eyes cold.

"I didn't see anything," I repeated.

Colt cursed under his breath, reaching for his belt buckle. "It better stay that way."

I nodded and turned to leave, but Tessa stepped into my path.

"Wait."

I stopped. She moved closer, her perfume cloyingly sweet and mixing nauseatingly with the kitchen grease.

"What was your name again? Marlowe, right?"

She knew my name perfectly well. We’d worked together for three months, and she’d spent that time calling me everything from Merlot to Marlee to Lolo, as if to prove my name wasn't worth remembering.

"Marlowe Thorne," she mused. "You look like the kind of girl who writes things down in a little diary."

I didn't answer. Sometimes silence makes people leave you alone; other times, it makes them want to crush you. She was clearly the latter.

Tessa glanced at my apron pocket. "Give me your phone."

"Why?"

"I want to make sure you didn't take any pictures."

"I didn't."

"Then hand it over."

Colt stood behind her, his expression souring by the second. He wasn't afraid of me; he was afraid of a mess. He was afraid of his wife, afraid of the other employees, afraid of this town having one more story to chew on over breakfast. I knew that look too well. When men make mistakes, they don't hate themselves first—they hate the witness.

"I didn't take anything," I said. "I just want to finish mopping and go home."

"Home?" Tessa laughed. "You’re staying at that dumpy motel by the river, right? Room 19? You think people don't notice?"

My fingers went stiff. She saw the reaction and her smile widened.

"Don't be so tense, Little Bird. It’s a small town. You walk home every night in that old coat, head down like you’re afraid someone will recognize you."

My throat felt dry. "I won't say anything," I whispered.

"I know you won't." Tessa tilted her head. "Because you look like the kind of girl who’s too cowardly to open her mouth."

The words were like a needle pricking deep into my chest. Colt waved an impatient hand.

"Enough. Clean up and get out. Stop wasting my time."

But Tessa wasn't done. She leaned in, her voice dropping so low only I could hear. "If you breathe a word of this, I’ll tell everyone you’ve been stealing tips."

I blinked, stunned. "I haven't."

"Who cares?" she whispered. "You’re the new girl. No friends, living in a motel, working for under-the-table cash. Who are they going to believe? Me or you?" She leaned closer still. "Besides, my boyfriend doesn't like people giving me trouble. He’s a rider. He’s got a temper. You understand?"

I understood. In this town, the sound of a motorcycle engine was more terrifying than a police siren.

I nodded. "I won't say a word."

Tessa watched me for a few seconds, gauging if I was soft enough. Satisfied, she stepped aside. I walked past her, grabbed the bleach, and found my hand was steadier than it had any right to be.

For the next twenty minutes, I mopped, took out the trash, and wiped down the tables. Colt ignored me entirely. Tessa sat at the bar fixing her lipstick, occasionally glancing at me through the mirror. I pretended not to notice. When you have nowhere left to go, the first thing you learn isn't how to fight back; it’s how to make yourself invisible.

At 11:07 PM, I finally pulled off my apron and hung it in my locker. My T-shirt was damp with sweat and my hair was stuck to my neck. I pulled my old coat out of the locker and checked my pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. All there. I counted my tips one more time before zipping up.

Before I could leave, Colt called out to me.

"Marlowe."

I turned. He was back at the register, ledger in hand, looking as if the scene in the storage room had never happened.

"Be here at six tomorrow."

"I’m scheduled for ten."

"It changed."

I looked at him. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a protest. I gave him none.

"Okay," I said.

He looked back down, satisfied. Tessa, sitting nearby, let out a small, mocking laugh. I had played the part of the pushover perfectly.

I pushed open the back door, and the cold air slammed into my face. The alley behind the diner was narrow, flanked by dumpsters on one side and peeling brick on the other. Puddles on the ground caught the flickering red glow of the broken neon sign. I wrapped my coat tight and kept my head down, heading for the mouth of the alley.

I never used the front door. The front faced the parking lot—too much light, too many people, too many cameras. The back alley looped around to the main road, a twenty-minute walk to the motel. Usually, the path was quiet, save for the distant rumble of trucks on the highway.

Tonight was different.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard the engines. Not just one—several. The sound was low, gravelly, like thunder trapped in sheet metal.

I stopped.

Three motorcycles were blocking the end of the alley, their headlights blinding me. Several men sat astride the bikes, leather jackets open, heavy boots planted on the pavement. The man in front pulled off his helmet, revealing a young, sharp face.

I knew him. Dax Kendrick, Tessa’s boyfriend.

He’d picked her up from the diner twice, both times parking in the handicap spot like the world owed him the space. He had tattoos crawling down his arms and a jagged old scar on the side of his neck. Tessa spoke about him with a sort of pride, as if having a man with a bad temper was proof that she was more valuable than everyone else.

I took a step back. Behind me, the diner’s back door had already clicked shut.

Dax smirked. "Marlowe, right?"

I didn't answer. His two friends dismounted. One moved toward the far end of the alley, the other stood near the dumpsters, cutting off any chance of escape. My heart was racing, but I kept my movements wooden. It was an old instinct—if you’re scared enough, you turn into a block of wood. Wood doesn't provoke anyone.

Dax hung his helmet on the handlebars and held out a hand.

"Phone."

I clutched my pocket. "I didn't take any pictures."

"I’m not here to debate you."

He walked forward, his boots splashing through the puddles with a steady, rhythmic crunch.

"Tessa says you like to watch."

"I was just getting supplies."

"And you happened to see something you shouldn't have." He grinned. "Bad luck."

I looked toward the street. Cars were passing on the main road, but no one looked our way. The back door of The Rusted Spoon was thick; Colt wouldn't hear a thing. Even if he did, he wouldn't come out. He probably wanted this settled here.

I forced down the tremor in my voice. "I won't say anything. You can ask Tessa, I already promised her."

Dax’s grin faded. "I don't like relying on a girl’s word."

He reached for my arm. I instinctively flinched away.

The movement enraged him. His hand missed, and his face instantly twisted into a snarl. A second later, he lunged, grabbing my coat collar and jerking me forward. My back slammed against the brick wall, the impact knocking the wind out of me.

"Don't move," he growled.

I could smell beer and gasoline on him. His other hand traced a heavy, menacing line along my jaw.

"The phone," Dax repeated. "And that mouth of yours. After tonight, you’d better learn to keep both shut."

My hand went into my pocket, feeling the edge of the cheap burner phone. There were no photos on it. But it held everything I had—the motel’s number, scheduling texts from the convenience store manager, a few photos of Biscuit, and one old number I neither dared to call nor delete.

I couldn't give it to him.

"I really didn't take any," I said. "You can look at it, but you can't take it."

Dax narrowed his eyes. "You’re negotiating with me?"

One of the men by the dumpster whistled. "She’s got more spine than she looks."

Dax’s grip tightened, the collar of my coat choking off my breath. "Then I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners."

He raised his other hand. I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact.

But the blow never came.

A new sound cut through the alley—the roar of another engine. This one was deeper, heavier, and far more synchronized.

Dax’s hand went still. I opened my eyes to see more motorcycles pulling up at the mouth of the alley. The glare of their headlights flooded the space, casting Dax’s shadow heavily over me and turning the newcomers into silhouettes.

The lead rider didn't get off his bike. He simply pulled off his black glove and slowly raised his head.

In an instant, the air in the alley went dead silent.

Dax let out a low hiss. "Damn it."

I didn't know who these men were. But I felt Dax’s grip on my collar loosen.

A man’s voice, low and commanding, rumbled from behind the wall of light.

"Get your hands off her."

---

Devil Biker: Five Childhood Sweethearts Crave Me — Chapter 2: Don't Touch Her

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