Page 26 of Hawke

I never had a desire to have kids, not after what I went through. I wouldn’t put a child through that. I could have waited for him. But then I saw Grim and Journey, and I snapped.

I wanted what they had.

To stop hiding, to live, to be normal.

I angrily tied the laces of my recently polished and shined shoes. Straight black was the uniform, along with hair in a neat bun. I was made for this, made to serve, help, and bring a smile to others’ faces.

I quickly glanced in the mirror, making sure my smile was as bright as it could be. It was fake, not that anyone would notice.

Except Hawke.

“Dang it! Stop!” I groaned. “Listen here.” I pointed to myself in the mirror. “All day today, you will not think about him. Not even wonder if he notices if you’re gone.” I pursed my lips.

He was drunk, of course he may not notice. He could be still sleeping off the regretted kiss as we speak, and it’d been days.

“And you are going to have a great day. Serve some people happy little coffee with happy little bacon and whipped cream faces on their pancakes.” I nodded, satisfied with myself, and grabbed my bag from the table next to the door.

The extended stay hotel was more than I wanted to pay, but until I found an apartment, it would have to do. Besides, they do the sheets, and I hated washing sheets.

I sighed, opening the door, and looking back at the bed. I hadn’t even made it. What was the point? I didn’t even have the cute stuffed bear anymore, so it didn’t remind me ofhim. But the absence of it clarified that I was emotionally fucked.

Chapter Nine

Delilah

Isetdownaplate of eggs benedict in front of the last customer, checking if they needed anything before I went back to the server’s station. I surveyed my tables to see if anyone needed any additional coffee or drinks, resting my hip comfortably against the counter.

This job wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was great to keep busy. When I was off the clock, my mind wandered back to the dark eyes and overly grumpy biker that stole more than kisses from me.

Dang, I was doing so well not thinking about him this morning.

Screwed that one up.

I slapped my hand on my forehead, earning a look from several other servers.

“Great,” one server groaned. She set a pitcher of ice water on the table. “Colonel Sanders just sat down.”

I squinted, focusing on the Colonel Sanders impersonator grumpily sitting in the restaurant’s corner. He had pepper colored curly hair on the top of his head and a white handlebar mustache that he probably spent way too much time on to make it look halfway decent. He’d worn a plaid shirt with dark jeans every day since I’d worked here, and no one had ever said a word to him about the dress code.

He must think he is hot stuff or something around here.

This place was dress pants or dresses, not jeans and plaids. But not even the manager, Simon, who could be a real thorn in my side, dared to look him in the eye.

I couldn’t see why no one had approached him. He was of average size, much smaller compared to the bikers I typically interacted with. His face was in a permanent scowl though, wrinkles lining his frown. His fingers were covered in gold and silver rings with various deep colored stones on them.

Who was he?

“I’ll take him again.” I rubbed my hands excitedly. Madison gave a grateful smile, but also a look of “what the fudge is wrong with you?”

For the week I’d been here, Colonel Sanders complained about everything. He sent food back to the kitchen several times and also requested multiple different servers in one sitting.

He had yet to get rid of me when I served him, though.

I tapped the counter, waiting for him to take a sip of the coffee the hostess poured for him as she spouted out the specials. She was shaking with nervousness, her hands trembling and her voice shaking uncontrollably. I waited for him to go off about whether it had too much sugar, or that the beans were burnt, or even, dare I say, made with tap water instead of filtered.

Because that had been brought up several times.

I’d tried being polite. I’d made sure his table was set up the way he liked it, only to be shunned, talked down to, or yelled at because his pancake didn’t sit right on the plate.

---