“I ordered skim milk, not whatever this is,” the third woman complains.
I remake all three drinks, my hands trembling slightly as I feel the eyes of every customer in the shop on me. The second round of drinks meets with the same dissatisfaction. So does the third.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” my manager finally intervenes. “Maybe Amber can help you instead?”
“Oh, we specifically wanted Kayla to serve us,” Sara says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “After all, she’s practically family, isn’t she? Or at least, she was.”
They leave eventually, but not before making sure everyone in the shop knows they were dissatisfied with me, with my service, with my attitude. It’s humiliating, and when my shift ends, my manager pulls me aside.
“Is there something going on between you and those women?” he asks, concern mixing with irritation on his face.
“No,” I lie. “Just difficult customers. It won’t happen again.”
At least I hope it won’t.
But it does happen again. And again. Different women each time, but the same routine. They order, I serve, they complain. Loudly. Publicly. My coworkers have started giving me the side-eye, sighing heavily when they have to pick up the slack. I’ve started trying to duck into the back when I see leather cuts approaching, but somehow they always end up at my register, anyway.
And it’s not just at the coffee shop.
Walking home, I spot a biker parked across the street, watching me from behind dark sunglasses. At the grocery store, I turn down an aisle and nearly collide with a tall, bearded man who stares at me with so much hostility I abandon my half-filled cart. Pumping gas, I look up to see two motorcycles idling at the curb, their riders’ attention unmistakably focused on me.
“They’re just trying to intimidate you,” Morgan says when I tell her about it. “Roman probably put them up to it. He wants you to feel unsafe so you’ll go running back to him for protection.”
But the Roman I knew, for all his faults, wasn’t capable of something like that. He was a liar, yes. A man who kept parts of himself locked away, absolutely. But I didn’t believe he would deliberately frighten me.
My certainty was tested, however, as the days passed and the women continued to come in to harass me and bikers continued to turn up everywhere I went. What if this was Roman’s twisted way of bringing me back? Or maybe it’s the club’s way of punishing me for leaving one of their own. Or it might be something else entirely.
All I know for certain is that I’m afraid. And that makes me even angrier.
I make the decision somewhere between my third double espresso and the end of my morning shift. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m walking the six blocks to Roman’s tattoo shop, anger fueling each step.
The electronic bell chimes as I push through the door. The shop looks and smells exactly the same as it always has, and for a disorienting moment, it feels like nothing has changed, like I could be stopping by on any ordinary work day to bring him lunch, the way I used to.
Then I remember everything has changed.
Roman is hunched over a client’s arm, the buzz of the tattoo gun providing a steady backdrop to the classic rock playing softly from the speakers. He glances up at the sound of the bell, his hands never pausing in their work. The moment he sees me, his entire body goes still for a fraction of a second before he recovers, returning to the line work he’s completing.
“Almost done here,” he calls to me, his voice giving nothing away. But I catch a spark of what might be hope in his eyes. “Take a seat if you want.”
I don’t sit. I stand rigidly by the door, arms crossed, watching him work. Despite everything, I can’t help admiring the steady concentration in his movements, the care he takes with his art. His dark beard is neater than when I last saw him, but the shadows under his eyes have deepened. I’m clearly not the only one having trouble sleeping.
Roman finishes the tattoo, wiping away excess ink and applying a thin layer of ointment before covering it with a bandage. His aftercare instructions are delivered in the same calm, authoritative tone I’ve heard a hundred times before. The client pays in cash, and Roman makes change, thanks her, and reminds her when to remove the bandage. All perfectly normal, except for the way his eyes keep darting to me, as if afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
Finally, the door closes behind the client, leaving us alone in the shop. Roman flips the sign to “Closed” and locks the door, ensuring our privacy.
“Kayla,” he says, my name a prayer on his lips, “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”
His joy at seeing me only fuels my anger. I pace across the small waiting area, unable to stand still with the fury coursing through me.
“Is this how you think you’re going to get me back?” I demand, not bothering with pleasantries. “By terrorizing me? By sending your little club minions to harass me at work? To follow me around town? Do you honestly think making me feel unsafe is going to drive me back into your arms?”
Roman’s brow furrows in confusion, but I’m too wound up to register it.
“Or is this just punishment?” I continue, my voice rising. “The big bad fucking Viper can’t let his woman leave without consequences? Need to teach me a lesson about what happens when someone walks away from the almighty VP of the Devil’s Rejects?”
I’m pacing faster now, hands gesticulating wildly as weeks of fear and frustration pour out. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? That I wouldn’t know those women were from your club? That I wouldn’t notice the men following me everywhere I go? What kind of twisted game is this supposed to be?”
I’m so caught up in my tirade that I don’t immediately notice how Roman’s expression has transformed. The initial confusion has given way to something else entirely; a cold, focused rage I’ve rarely seen directed at anyone, let alone felt aimed at me. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching in his cheek, and his hands have curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.