Brittany's POV

“You’re here early today!” Maris remarks as I step behind the counter to clock in. Her tone carries surprise, paired with a curious glance my way.

“Yeah, Jorah asked me to come in a bit earlier when I was leaving last night,” I explain casually.

Her brow furrows as she processes this. “Wait—didn’t you work a double yesterday? And closed?”

Here it comes.

“Brit, you didn’t clock out until after 1 AM, and now you’re back already?!” The accusation in her voice makes it sound like I volunteered for this insanity.

Perfect. She obviously realizes it took ages for me to wrap up last night because I had to handle everything myself. Jorah was supposedly on shift to help close but spent most of his time laughing and chatting with the cook, who should’ve been helping me too. No shock there—that’s their usual drill.

“I agreed to come in early. It’s no big deal,” I tell her plainly, trying to prevent further interrogation.

She doesn’t buy it. “No big deal?” she repeats with disbelief. “Brit, it’s seven in the morning! And don’t you have to close again tonight—?”

“Maris. It’s fine,” I interrupt firmly, turning to face her. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got bills. I can handle it.”

It’s half-true. Sure, I need the paycheck, but it’s not what keeps me here. Jorah pays me off the books, which suits me just fine. No paper trail. Plus, I can scrape together cash every day—essential for someone like me.

Someone who might need to disappear again.

Maris, however, mutters under her breath, “You’re going to crash and burn eventually.”

I let her comment slide. There’s no point in fighting about it when we have customers to take care of. Even Maris, as worried as she might be, wouldn’t cope well short-staffed if I bailed now. Running a diner with just two waitresses is hard enough.

The morning rush keeps us both busy, thankfully. It’s almost a blessing—the work distracts me, keeps me sharp, and makes the hours fly. By the time we hit the slower midday lull, I’m already preparing silverware and refilling ketchup bottles. That’s when Maris sidles up beside me, leaning casually against the counter.

“You know, it’s already almost eight o’clock,” she says with a tired sigh.

I glance at the wall clock, then narrow my eyes at her. “Weren’t you supposed to leave at four? Where’s Aisby? Wasn’t she taking over for you?”

Maris shrugs nonchalantly while reaching to help organize the ketchup rack. “Guess she called in to let Jorah know she’d be late. Something about car trouble. He drove off to pick her up.”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out.

Yeah, right. "Car trouble." More like she and Jorah needed another excuse to sneak off together. You see, Jorah is married—not happily (which isn’t shocking, since his wife is a nightmare)—but married nonetheless.

Lorin, Jorah’s wife, comes in here about once a week to wreak havoc. She’s the kind of woman who insults the staff, criticizes the food, and ends up screaming in Jorah’s office for hours. I try to stay out of their mess, but honestly, I don’t know why they’re still together.

That doesn’t stop Jorah from stringing along half the women in town. Aisby, though, is the only one foolish enough to also work here. Her ‘relationship’ with Jorah means she gets whatever she wants, while Maris and I handle the fallout. The drama drives off most of the other employees, leaving us slammed almost all the time. I’d be shocked Jorah hasn’t been sued yet... if I wasn’t so paranoid about keeping my own head down.

“Reckon her boyfriend knows she’s screwing our boss?” Maris muses out loud, her voice dripping with curiosity.

I snort as I focus back on my task. That’s Maris for you—sharp-tongued but undeniably entertaining. If I were in a position to trust anyone, she’d probably be my first pick for a friend.

“I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend,” I reply lightly. “I thought she had, like, half a dozen, and they were all in on it.”

Maris chokes out a laugh, guffawing so loud that even our lone customer, grumpy old Jace, glances over disapprovingly from his coffee. Not that it takes much to irritate him—he’s got a permanent scowl and never tips more than pocket change.

“Oh my God, you’re killing me!” Maris wheezes, playfully nudging my arm. She quickly gets back to work, muttering under her breath about how outrageous Aisby’s love life is.

Apparently, one of Aisby’s guys is connected to a motorcycle club in the next town over. That bit of news makes me stiffen instinctively, though I struggle to keep it from showing.

A local MC? I’ve never noticed anyone from a club around here, but then again, I don’t stray from the diner or the grocery store much. Still, even knowing it exists makes me edgy. I’ve had too many close calls to ignore how dangerous that could be.

Back when things were good—before my life flipped upside down—the club I grew up around was a safe haven. They treated me like family, at least until betrayal shattered everything. But that wasn’t the club’s fault; the blame lay strictly with the liars I’d once trusted.

I shove the memories aside. Dwelling on the past never helps. And honestly, unless the local MC has ties to The Inferno’s Demon Riders, I should be fine. Even if they did, I doubt anyone would recognize me this far out.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Maris keeps talking, commenting on how "fine" Aisby’s boyfriend is, but my mind drifts. I think about the people from my past—the faces, the voices, their dismissive remarks. Those harsh words are still branded into me, even years later.

Nobody ever wanted me there—not my mom, not my stepsister, not my so-called friends. Not even the man I married. I wonder sometimes if anyone’s kindness was ever genuine or if it was all lies, just part of some twisted plan to keep me out of the way.

“Brit? Are you even listening to me?” Maris snaps, pulling me back to the present.

I shake off my swirling thoughts and summon a weak smile. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

“Understandable,” she says knowingly. “You must be completely wiped.”

Of life? Absolutely.

“Anyway,” she continues, reenergized, “we should hang out tomorrow night after work. Let’s grab a couple of drinks!”

I hesitate, sensing her hopeful energy as she leans in closer. “I don’t know, Maris…”

“Oh, come on! Just one night! Please?” She practically begs, her playful pout working overtime.

Her enthusiasm makes it hard to keep saying no. “I’ll think about it,” I reply.

She squeals like I’ve given in completely. Maybe I’ll actually go this time, just to avoid crushing her spirits. After all, one drink can’t hurt, right?

What’s the worst that could happen?