Page 6 of Point of Infinity
“Strong and lethal.”
“Just how I like it.” He raised one eyebrow. It became partially visible over his glasses. “Two cups of coffee.”
“Anything to eat? The pies are decent. He buys them day old from the diner up the street.” I pointed to Murray in the back.
“You really know how to sell the place.” The blond guy grinned and adjusted his glasses.
“Well, I work with what I got.” I shrugged, scribbled on my notepad, and waited for them to respond. After an uncomfortable few seconds, I peeked up and found them both staring, but not at me. The floor vibrated with the rumble fromseveral bikes pulling off the highway and entering the diner’s tiny parking lot.
The place sat maybe twenty people comfortably; no way we could accommodate a gaggle of hungry bikers at ten o’clock at night. We were a highway diner, but most people saw the grease stains on the windows and kept driving.
“Fuck.” The blond guy shrugged out of his black hoodie and stashed it on the seat next to him. “What are they doing here?”
“I told you the asshole has a tracker on you.” The dark-haired one rubbed his chin and unzipped his hoodie to show off his jacket. I’d never seen bikers hide their cuts before.
He slid to the end of the booth. “Just stick to the story and don’t go inventing shit.”
A short, stocky guy in a dark black leather jacket walked through the door. He spotted me and licked his lips. His beady eyes looked me up and down.
“Minnow.” The blond guy rested his arm on the back of the booth like he hadn’t a care in the world. “How did y’all catch up? We told you we didn’t need a ride-along on this one.”
“Well, Tricky.” He ruffled the blond guy’s hair. Tricky pushed his hand away. “Dude. Get over yourself. I spotted you on my way back and phoned Pres.” He shrugged. “We were close, so we thought we’d join you for dinner and drive back together.”
“Y’all finished your business in Philly?” the dark-haired guy asked.
“As finished as it can be.” Minnow chuckled and then leered at me like a lizard about to pounce on its prey. I fought the urge to cover up, although I was clothed from head to toe.
“Patrick. Reid.” A loud, booming voice from outside echoed off the tin walls of the diner. Both guys stiffened. Now I knew where Tricky came from. Patrick was the first to slide out of the booth. Reid peeked over his shoulder in my direction. His steelygray eyes made my stomach flip. He mouthed the word ‘Go’ and jutted his chin toward the back.
I stepped back a couple of feet but stopped. This was my place of employment. A couple of bikers didn’t scare me.
Both guys stepped out into the night air where they’d been summoned.
I gasped and dropped my order pad and pencil. I backed up into the counter. Blinking my eyes, hoping the image of the skull with an entwined infinity symbol morphing into a snake was a mirage or a fucking nightmare.
A sharp pain shot up my hip where it banged on the counter. My gaze traced the familiar symbol, my heart pounding with every loop and line. And then my eyes fell to the bottom of their cut. Sprawled across in battered white lettering.
Infinity Kings.
Bile rose in my throat, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt like jelly. I couldn’t breathe. Here they were, outside my diner, within spitting distance. I thought about my stuff in the van out back, the weapons in the duffle I’d been collecting over the years. The pictures and notebooks of notes and plans and strategies of how I was going to get close to them.
Never did my plan involve them walking into my world. I was supposed to fuck theirs up, not the other way around.
My eyes darted around, identifying everyday items as weapons within my reach. A glass pitcher would take out one or two of them. Unfortunately, the booths and chairs at the counter were bolted to the floor. The missing waitress had left a basket of washed cutlery on the counter. Worn from overuse, they would still do some damage if plunged into a neck. I slid down the counter and palmed two knives from the basket. The bells chimed again. I spun around to find the two men reentering with a third trailing behind them.
He wasn’t as tall as the other two and walked with a limp. He slapped a hand on Patrick’s back. The half visor of his helmet obscured his face.
“Hey, pretty girl.” He gave me a once-over and a head nod. “You own this place?”
“Me. It’s my place.” Murray came waddling from the back.
The guy threw a rolled-up wad of cash in my direction. Murray had reflexes like a cat when it came to money. “Take care of my boys.” He had yet to address Murray. “Beers and burgers for everyone.” He gestured in the air with his glove before setting it on the table and peeling off his helmet. His short reddish-brown hair lay matted against his skull. He pushed it over to the side. And sat with his back toward me. A bald spot had formed on his head. The skin on the back of his neck was pale and thin. He had a weird hump on his left shoulder, or his body was crooked. Patrick took the helmet and set it on the seat behind him. I peeked into Reid’s eyes. His forehead scrunched up, the tension in his jaw palpable.
“Sweetheart.” The older man snapped his fingers in my direction.
Reid opened his mouth, but Patrick nudged him, and they sat down opposite the old man.
“Is she deaf?” He turned with a sneer on his lips. The scar above his left eye looked fresh, but I recognized him instantly. Sitting in front of me, in a random diner on the outskirts of Philadelphia, was Sonny O’Connor. My father.
