A Dream of Summer (Bleeding Angels MC Book 3)

by Stephens, Olivia

  “No, Crys, I’m not mad. But I will be if you make me drop this crate on the floor!” I warn jokingly.

  Crystal releases me instantly. “Right, sorry. But could you let it go for a sec, anyway? You should really leave the makeup to the professionals.” She looks pointedly at my cheek and the shoddy makeup job I’m sure I’ve done on it.

  I actually manage to crack a smile and it feels like it’s the first one in about a hundred years. “I guess I was in a little bit of a rush,” I admit sheepishly and do as Crystal asked, setting the crate down on the floor.

  “Well, if the idea was that people wouldn’t notice that bruise and just see the terrible makeup job then—mission accomplished!” She nods for me to take a seat on the crate and whips out the various bottles and brushes that she somehow manages to keep in her uniform at all times. She dabs and blends and I only flinch once as she goes over a particularly sensitive spot at the corner of my lip. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Jake got you good. I never thought he was that kind of guy.” Crystal sounds more than a little disappointed.

  “Jake? Why would you think that Jake did this?” I jerk my head back so that I can look at Crystal properly.

  “Well, I figured, he found out about you lying and that he, you know…” Crystal trails off as she realizes how wrong she was.

  “Jake would never hurt me.” My voice is firm and I don’t allow myself to wonder if I can still be so sure of that. “It was that piece of crap, Ryan, that did this. Only a coward hits a woman, and that’s exactly what he is.” I have to clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking as I utter his name, and I resolve not to say it again until I can do so without freaking out.

  “Well, either way, he got you good.” Crystal goes back to concentrating on my cheek, but without even mentioning it, she grabs hold of my shaking hands and just holds them until the trembling stops. “Well, you’re all done. It’s not the Mona Lisa but it’s pretty darn close,” she says, sounding pleased as punch with her handiwork.

  “Thanks, Crystal,” I reply, and we both know that I’m talking about more than just the makeover.

  “That’s what friends are for, right?” She smiles and winks at me, motioning for me to lift one end of the crate while she takes the other. “Sometimes four hands are better than two. Or something like that.” She briefly looks confused.

  “Or something like that.” I smile at her—that’s two smiles in the last ten minutes. Crystal’s on a roll.

  I walk into the diner, and I know I’m probably only imagining it, but it feels like all eyes turn directly to me and look at me with pity. “Poor girl,” they’re probably thinking. She’s lost her young man and now she doesn’t know what to do. Poor little slut. I look up quickly, surveying the customers at their tables, digging into their breakfasts. No one is looking at me. No one cares. I bet no one even knows yet what happened. They will do soon enough though, I think to myself.

  “Aimee, that you?” Big George’s voice comes booming out from the kitchen. I wonder how he knows when I haven’t even said anything yet.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I yell back, nudging Crystal awake as a customer signals for a refill.

  “Come on through here for a second.” It’s clear in George’s tone that his words aren’t a request.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and lock eyes with myself. I know that George isn’t going to miss the makeup on my cheek or the look in my eyes. I prepare myself for the questions I know he’s going to have.

  I walk briskly into the kitchen and stand at enough of a distance that I think I may have a chance of George not seeing what it is that I’m trying to hide.

  “What can I do you for, Big G?” I ask, trying to affect a breeziness that I don’t feel.

  George doesn’t turn his attention away from the grill, as per usual. “Why’d you come in through the back door?” He gets straight to the point, no pussy-footing around, once again as per usual.

  “No reason.” I shrug although he can’t see me, and wince at how bad I seem to be at lying. It’s a shame you couldn’t have been as bad at this yesterday, the little voice in my head pipes up, and I try to squish her under my heel.

  “I called you; where were you? It was important.” George sounds put out, irritated even. It’s not a tone that I’m used to hearing in his voice.

  My mind rushes back to my cell phone, which is sitting in my pocket, full of any number of calls and messages that I’ve missed. I’ve only looked at it to see if there was a message from the one person that I was hoping to hear from—Jake. So far there was nothing. I hadn’t even noticed the calls from George, but I guess last night I’d had bigger things to worry about.

  “Sorry, I was… busy.” I cross my arms, wondering why I’ve been brought in here like a naughty school kid. “What was so important?”

  Finally, George turns around from the grill and holds up a card with a few words scrawled on it. “The Feds came in last night. They were asking after you. I tried to call you to come down here. They were real keen to talk to you and— What the hell happened to your face?” George takes a few steps towards me and before I can stop him he’s lifting my chin with his big hand, inspecting my cheek.

  “Umm, George, this is kind of uncomfortable,” I tell him as he stretches my neck up as far as it’ll go while he continues to look over the bruise.

  “What happened?” His voice doesn’t brook any opposition and I know for a fact that he’s not going to let me get away with not telling him the full story.

  “If I tell you, will you let go of my face?” I ask, and the big man gives me a look to show that he’s not amused, not even a little bit. “Can I see what the Feds left or are you going to make me beg?” I hold out my hand for the card that George is still holding in his.

  “It’s all yours, Aimee. No begging required.” He passes me the card, and on it are just three words scribbled down in handwriting that’s bad enough to belong to a doctor.

  The Truck Drivers

  I turn the card over in my hands to see if there’s anything else, but that’s it—three words that don’t tell me anything.

  “That’s it?” I ask, holding up the card as if it were a piece of trash, which is essentially what it is. “Are you kidding me?” My frustration levels are rising quickly and the fact that the Feds would leave such a ridiculous coded calling card is enough to make me want to punch something.

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” Big George holds his hands up like I’m sticking him up, using the offending card as a pistol.

  “No phone number, no email address, no freakin’ Facebook page, nothing?” My voice is getting louder and higher and I know I have to calm myself down if I don’t want the entire diner to hear our conversation.

  “I’m guessing, being the Feds, they prefer to keep things on the down-low.” George nods wisely as if he’s explaining something earth-shattering to me. “They probably try to avoid giving out business cards with the FBI logo and their real names, email addresses, and Twitter names when they’re undercover.”

  “Thanks, Big G, your sarcasm is really appreciated right now. Well, did they say anything?” I ask desperately. The only plan that I’d had was to find the Feds and to get them to help me. Now I find out that not only have I missed them, but I’m also back to square one with no way of getting in touch with them. What if they don’t show for another month? Then what do I do?

  “They told me to make damn sure you were here for the graveyard shift tonight.” George smiles at me as he sees my eyes widen.

  “They’re going to be here tonight? They’re coming back?” I could jump for joy if all the muscles in my body weren’t still screaming from the physical and emotional exertions of the day before. “You couldn’t have started off with that little pearl of information?” I almost shriek, feeling a sense of relief flood through me.

  “You know I like to watch you squirm, Aimee. Everything you think is plastered across your face; you’re just to
o easy to wind up.” George smiles gently, but then his expression hardens as he catches sight of my camouflaged face. “I thought you and your young man were getting busy, which is why you never called me back, so I thought I’d give you a bit of a hard time. But now I see that’s not the case.”

  Automatically, I look down as if that’s going to hide what he’s already seen.

  “You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. But if you want to tell me, I’d be more than happy to knock the son of a bitch that hit you into next week.” George’s hands have worked themselves into fists. I can almost picture angry, cartoonish steam coming out of his nose.

  “Thanks, Big G. But that’s alright, I’m okay,” I assure him. “And don’t worry—that son of a bitch is mine. I want to be the one that teaches him that it’s not polite to hit a lady.”

  “Aimee, don’t take this the wrong way. You’re a pretty girl and Crystal’s done a great job on that shiner of yours, but you’re not looking so good. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on? Does Jake know what you’ve been getting yourself into?” The smell of burning fills the air and I look over to the grill—George has burned the waffles for the first time since I’ve known him. “Hot damn,” he grumbles under his breath as he scrapes them off the heat.

  It may sound bizarre, but that was the biggest indication of how much George cares. Taking his mind off of the grill and having something burn is pretty much a cardinal sin for him. I keep my face composed as George lets out any number of expletives while he fans away the smoke he’s created and puts on two fresh waffles.

  “I’m listening, Aimee. Don’t avoid the question. Does Jake know about whatever it is that you’re doing?” George sounds like a disapproving father and I suppose that he’s the closest thing that I have to a father figure. I think that my dad would approve of Big G. I reckon he’s the kind of guy my father might have kicked back and had a beer with.

  “Jake’s gone.” They are two simple words, but they’re harder than they should be to say.

  “What do you mean, gone?” My news is enough to take George’s attention yet again away from the grill.

  “Gone as in no longer here with me. He’s with the Angels.” I speak through gritted teeth but it doesn’t make the words any less true.

  “But… I thought… It’s not time yet, is it?” George looks about as confused as I feel.

  “It’s a long story, G, but that’s the punchline. It’s not the end, though; I’m going to get him back.” George is the fourth person I’ve said this to, and I grow more confident each time.

  “Aimee—” George holds up his hand and I know what he’s planning on saying.

  “I know, I know, it’s dangerous, and it’s going to be hard, and more to the point, how the hell am I even going to manage it?” I wave my hands in the air to signify the enormity of the task. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.” I cock my head, waiting for the inevitable disagreement from George as he points out all the reasons why I’m not going to succeed in what I’m planning.

  But that’s not what he does and I suppose I should have known better than to expect that of him.

  “Lo difícil se hace. Lo imposible se intenta.” He says it almost reverently and I get the impression, that they’re not just another way of saying that this isn’t something I can do.

  “Sorry, Big G, my Spanish is a little rusty. You mind translating for me?” I’m vaguely aware of Crystal hovering by the door to the kitchen, probably desperate to tell us that customers are waiting for their orders and she’s about to go on a break.

  “It’s an old saying: ‘Difficult things we do. Impossible things, we try.” He shrugs his shoulders.

  “Thanks, Big George,” I whisper as I look at my feet. They mean more to me than he could possibly imagine. They mean that he believes in me, that he believes I can do what I’m setting out to accomplish.

  “If you two have finished whatever you’re doing that’s holding up all the orders, we’ve still got customers to feed,” Crystal bursts out, looking exasperated and completely unamused.

  “Sorry, Crys, why don’t you go on your break? I’ll deal with this.” I nod encouragingly at her and she looks grateful enough to cry before she disappears back out onto the floor of the diner.

  “I guess I should go and at least pretend to work here,” I joke, heading towards the door, still feeling a little warm inside from George’s words.

  “Yeah, stop distracting me from the grill.” His words are gruff but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Oh and Aimee...”

  “I know Big G, I know. ‘Be careful.’” I do my best imitation of his deep baritone, but the emotion I’m feeling makes my voice crack. George still has the heart to laugh.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The morning shift passes in a blur and when the breakfast diners have headed out and Crystal along with them, I find jobs for myself to do. If the sugar is even an inch empty from the top, I re-fill it. I clean the counters until they shine—or at least they shine as much as the old Formica can. I feel a little like I can’t stop and can’t stand still or everything is going to catch up with me.

  I keep checking my cell, the slightest noise makes me snatch it up in case I’ve missed the message that I’m waiting for, hoping for, from Jake. The three words I’d sent him in the early hours of the morning remain unanswered. Are you ok? x

  I’d wrestled with what to ask. I’d wanted to tell him a million things. That I love him. That I miss him. That I’m sorry. That I need him. That I wish he was with me. That I wish I had a chance to explain, to tell him what happened, to tell him my side of the story. But instead I decided on the one thing that I wanted to know above all others. I wanted to know how he was doing. I still want to know. Is he safe? Is he hurt? What are they making him do?

  The morning rush gives way to the lunchtime crowd. Vanessa has called in sick so I’m on my own in the diner and it suits me just fine. The busier I am is the less time I have to worry about Jake, the less time I have to turn over all the possibilities in my had over what it means that I haven’t heard from him. As the hours go by, I figure that ultimately there are only two options: Either the Angels aren’t letting him talk to me, or he simply doesn’t want to.

  “Aimee, why don’t you take five?” George suggests when I go in to collect the last lunch order of the day.

  “No, I’m good.” I wave away his concern as I pick up the steaming plate of food. My stomach rolls at the smell of it.

  “You don’t look good. When was the last time you ate?” George looks me up and down, tilting his head critically.

  “I don’t know—maybe yesterday, maybe the day before.” The truth is that I don’t really remember. It’s such a simple thing, but I have no idea when the last time was. I’ve been running on black coffee so far and I can feel from the twitching muscles in my legs that I’m getting to the point where there’s more caffeine in my system than there is blood.

  “Take this to the customer, and then come straight back here, you hear me?” It’s not a question. George is already busying himself behind the grill; I’ve been dismissed.

  I do as instructed, and when I get back to the kitchen there’s a plate of food waiting for me. But my stomach twists and lurches at the thought of it.

  “Thanks, boss. But I don’t think that I can eat anything right now.” I stare at the plate as if it might rear up and bite me.

  “You look like you’re about to fall down. You need food.” When George sees that this approach isn’t working, he changes tactics. “Do you think you’re going to be able to help Jake if you can barely stand up? Now eat.” He nearly shoves the plate at me to the point where if I don’t take it, it’s going to end up all over me.

  I start picking at the open-faced sandwich that George has made me, and after one mouthful I start shoveling the food in as if I haven’t eaten in months. George grunts a contented sound as he watches me polish off
the plate and drink an entire glass of milk that he’s poured out for me.

  As soon as I’ve swallowed the last glug, George takes the glass from me and jerks his head towards the store room. “Now take a nap, you look like shit.”

  “But what about service?” We’re at least a couple of hours away from the diner re-opening for early bird dinner, but the truth is, I’m nervous that if I go to sleep now I won’t be able to get up again.

  “You’re not on the next shift. You’re working the graveyard. Now, don’t argue with me. You’ve been serving the customers with a face like a sad Monday morning. That’s not you, Aimee. You’re the girl that knows all about the lives of all the customers, the girl that calls them by their first names and asks about their family. You smile at them. But you’re not that girl today.”

  “I’m sorry.” I can feel myself getting choked up, but I swallow the temptation down. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just need a bit of a rest.” As I say the words I know how hollow they sound, but they’re better than the truth—the truth that I don’t know if I’m going to be that girl that George was describing ever again.