Page 5 of Rampage

"You don't usually come to the bakery," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Maybe I should start," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

I hand him the paper bag with the turnovers, my fingers brushing against his. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I pull back quickly.

"That'll be $7.50," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty, placing it on the counter. "Keep the change."

"That's too much," I protest automatically.

His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Not for the best apple turnovers in town." He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. "Besides, I've seen how hard you work, Lily. Both here and at the diner."

I don't reply, my face red from all of the attention he has been giving me.

I watch out the window long after he is gone, his motorcycle fading into the distance. The rest of my shift passes in a blur, my mind replaying our brief interaction. There's something about Reid that unsettles me, but not in the way I'm used to feeling unsettled. It's different, a flutter in my stomach rather than the cold dread I associate with unwanted attention.

"You're distracted today," Mrs. Winters comments as we're closing up. She's wiping down the counters while I sweep the floor, gathering crumbs and stray sprinkles.

"Sorry," I murmur, focusing on the task at hand.

"That young man who came in, Reid, he's a good one," she says casually, though her eyes are shrewd when I glance up. "He helped fix my roof last winter when that big storm took half the shingles. Wouldn't take a penny for it.

"His brothers are the same way," Mrs. Winters continues, her wrinkled hands folding a dishcloth. "Those twins are always offering to help around town. Alex fixed my delivery van last month when it wouldn't start—wouldn't take payment either, just like his older brother."

I pause my sweeping. "Reid has brothers? Twins?"

"Oh yes, Alex and Jacob. They're a year younger than Reid, both in the Next Generation club too. Good boys, despite what some folks might think about those motorcycle clubs." She chuckles softly. "They look almost identical, those two, but you can tell them apart if you know what to look for. Alex has that little scar above his eyebrow, and Jacob's the quieter one. Both have their brother's eyes, though, that same intense blue."

I try to picture them—younger versions of Reid, perhaps less serious. "I don't think I've seen them at the diner."

"They come and go. Jacob's been away at some mechanic training program. Alex is around more often, probably seen him without realizing who he was." Mrs. Winters puts away the last of the clean measuring cups. "Their family's been in and out many times while you were here.”

I don't know how to respond. The Grim Sinners' reputation around town is complicated. People respect them, maybe even fear them a little, but they also speak of their protection with gratitude.

"He comes to the diner a lot," I admit.

Mrs. Winters smiles knowingly. "Always sits in your section, I bet."

I feel my cheeks warm again and turn away, pretending to concentrate on a particularly stubborn bit of dried frosting on the floor.

"You’re young, girl. If a man takes interest in you and you like him back, then take hold with both hands because MC men are unlike any others."

I nod, grateful that she doesn't push further. Mrs. Winters has never pried into my past, but like Deb, she seems to understand I'm running from something.

By the time I lock up the bakery and begin my walk home, twilight has settled over the town. The streetlights flicker on one by one, casting pools of yellow light onto the sidewalk. I pull my jacket tighter around me, more out of habit than necessity in the mild spring evening.

The rumble of motorcycles in the distance makes me tense instinctively, my steps quickening. It's not that I'm afraid of the Sinners exactly, but large groups of them still trigger my flight response—too many loud voices, too much unpredictability.

As I turn the corner onto the street that leads to the diner, a single motorcycle slows beside me. My heart leaps into my throat until I recognize the rider.

Reid.

He pulls to a stop, cutting the engine. "Bit late to be walking alone," he says, removing his helmet.

"I do it every night," I reply, continuing to walk. He rolls the bike alongside me, matching my pace.

"Doesn't make it safe."

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