Emily felt a pang, not pity—this man wouldn’t want that—but a quiet understanding. Not a Hell’s Angel in that moment, but a father carrying a heavy burden.
— I’ll get your order in right away, she said gently. Toast and eggs okay? Fastest thing we’ve got. Six minutes, max.
He nodded, a flicker of relief softening his posture, perhaps grateful she hadn’t pressed for more.
As Emily turned to the kitchen, she felt the weight of the other customers’ stares. Mrs. Carter was whispering to Mrs. Thompson, their heads close like conspirators. The Wilson brothers shot hard glares. Sarah was still engrossed in her table-wiping. Small towns held grudges, and the Hell’s Angels carried a reputation heavier than their bikes.
Twenty-five years ago, a gang of bikers had torn through Pineville, smashing windows at Harper’s Market after a dispute. Whether they were Angels or another crew, no one cared—bikers were all the same in Pineville’s memory.
The bell jingled again, and two local police officers, Officer Daniels and Officer Brooks, stepped inside. Regulars, usually easygoing, though Emily always found Daniels’ swagger grating. They zeroed in on the biker, and Daniels nudged Brooks with a smirk.
They sauntered to the counter, deliberately flanking the man.
— Well, look at this, Daniels said loudly, his tone dripping with disdain. Don’t see your type around Pineville often. Just passing through, I hope.
The biker kept his eyes on his coffee.
— Just here for some food, officer.
Emily returned with a steaming plate of eggs and toast, setting it before him.
— Anything else I can get you?
Before he could respond, Daniels cut in.
— How about you check this guy’s ID, Emily? Make sure he’s not one of those Angels we’ve got alerts on.
The biker reached slowly for his pocket, but Daniels’ hand twitched toward his holster.
— Easy now.
Emily’s temper flared.
— He’s a paying customer, Daniels. Just like you.
Daniels smirked.
— Not like me. His kind bring trouble—drugs, fights, you name it.
— My kind? The biker looked up, his voice still calm but edged with steel. You don’t know a damn thing about me, officer.
Daniels leaned closer.
— I know that patch. I know what it stands for.
The biker opened his mouth, but Brooks interrupted.
— Maybe we should run your plates, see what pops up.
The other patrons were watching now, some nodding in approval, others shifting uncomfortably. The biker set his fork down.
— Look, I’m just trying to eat before I head to St. Mary’s to see my daughter. She’s… His voice cracked. She’s not doing great.
Daniels laughed, sharp and mocking.
— Oh, the old ‘sick family’ excuse. Classic.
Something snapped in Emily. Maybe it was the memory of her father, frail in his hospital bed, or the simple decency her parents had instilled in her.
— That’s enough, she said, her voice slicing through the tension.
The diner fell silent. No one spoke to Officer Daniels like that, especially not about his handling of “troublemakers.”
— Excuse me? Daniels turned to her, eyes narrowing.
— You heard me. He came here for a meal. He’s been nothing but polite, and you’re treating him like a criminal.
Brooks spoke up.
— You don’t know who you’re defending, Emily.
— I’m defending a customer in my diner. Unless you’ve got a real reason to suspect him of something besides his jacket, let him eat in peace.
Daniels stood, looming over her.
— Your dad would be ashamed to see you siding against the law, Emily.
The jab stung. John Johnson had been tight with half the police force before his stroke.
— My dad taught me to judge people by their actions, not their clothes, Emily shot back, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. And right now, you’re the one acting like a jerk in my diner.
The air was thick with tension. Mrs. Thompson stared at her pie, and Jake Miller, Emily’s high school friend, studied his coffee cup.
— I’ll take my food to go, the biker said quietly, reaching for his wallet.
— No, Emily said firmly. Your meal’s on the house today.
The biker looked at her, surprise and gratitude flickering across his face. Daniels’ face reddened.
— You’re making a big mistake, Emily. This town doesn’t forget who its friends are.
The threat hung heavy. In a place like Pineville, crossing the police could tank a business. Emily’s hands shook, but she held her ground.
— Are you ordering, or just here to bully my customers?
For a moment, she thought Daniels might escalate. Instead, he tossed a few bucks on the counter.
— Lost my appetite. Come on, Brooks.
The bell clanged as they left, the sound sharp in the quiet. Conversation slowly resumed. Emily turned to the biker.
— I’m sorry about that.
He shook his head.
— Don’t be. Not many would’ve done what you did.
He paused, studying her.
— Name’s Mike. Mike Carter.
— Emily Johnson.
— Thank you, Emily Johnson.
He ate quickly, and despite her protests, left a $20 bill on the counter.
— For your dad, he said simply before heading out.
Emily tried to move on, but the whispers among patrons told her the incident wouldn’t fade easily. By closing time, the story had spread through Pineville like a brushfire.
That night, at her father’s bedside in the Pineville Care Home, Emily recounted her day.
— I don’t know if I did the right thing, Dad, she said, though his stroke had silenced him. But I couldn’t just stand by.
His eyes seemed to gleam with pride, or maybe that was her hope talking.
The next morning, Emily arrived at the diner to find a crude sign taped to the window: Closed Until Further Notice. No Biker Sympathizers in Pineville. Scrawled in red marker, the message was clear.