She’s, his voice caught slightly. She’s not doing well. Oh, I’m sure, Brennan laughed.
The old sick family member excuse, classic. Something in Lisa snapped. Maybe it was the memory of her father in his hospital bed, or maybe it was just the basic human decency her parents had taught her.
Either way, she’d had enough. That’s it, she said. Her voice cutting through the tension.
You’re done harassing my customers, Brennan. The diner went silent. No one spoke to officer Brennan that way, especially not about how he handled suspicious individuals.
Excuse me? Brennan turned his attention to Lisa, eyes narrowing. You heard me. He came in for a meal.
He’s been nothing but polite and you’re treating him like a criminal. You don’t know who you’re defending, Lisa, Taylor warned. I’m defending a customer in my diner, and unless you have an actual reason to suspect him of something besides his clothing, I’d appreciate if you’d let him eat in peace.
Brennan stood up, towering over Lisa. Your dad would be real disappointed to see you taking sides against the law, Lisa. That was a low blow and everyone knew it.
Frank Parker had been friends with half the police force before his stroke. My dad taught me to judge people by how they act, not what they wear, Lisa replied, her voice steady despite her racing heart. And right now, you’re the one acting badly in my diner.
The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Several customers shifted uncomfortably. Mrs. Henderson, the retired librarian, suddenly became very interested in her pie.
Dave Wilson, who’d gone to high school with Lisa, stared down at his coffee cup. I think I’ll take my food to go, the biker said quietly, reaching for his wallet. No, Lisa said firmly, your money’s no good here today.
The meal’s on me. The biker looked at her with surprise, genuine gratitude flashing across his face. Brennan’s face flushed deep red.
You’re making a mistake, Lisa. This town has a way of remembering who its friends are. The threat wasn’t subtle.
In a small town like Millfield, being on the wrong side of the police could be bad for business. Lisa’s hands were trembling now, but she kept her chin up. Are you going to order something, or are you just here to intimidate my customers? For a moment, she thought Brennan might do something truly stupid.
Instead, he threw a few dollars on the counter. Lost my appetite. Let’s go, Taylor.
As they left, the bell jingling angrily behind them, conversation slowly resumed throughout the diner. Lisa turned to the biker, who was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. I’m sorry about that, she said.
He shook his head slowly. Don’t be. Not many people would have done what you just did.
He paused, studying her face. Name’s Ray. Ray Mercer.
Lisa Parker. Thank you, Lisa Parker. He ate quickly after that, and when he finished, he left a $20 bill on the counter despite her protests.
For your dad, he said simply before heading out the door. Lisa tried to put the incident behind her, but the stares from the other customers told her it wouldn’t be that simple. By closing time, she’d overheard enough whispered conversations to know the story was spreading through town like wildfire.
That night, as she sat by her father’s bedside at the Millfield Care Center, she told him about her day. I don’t know if I did the right thing, Dad, she said, even though his stroke had left him unable to respond. But I couldn’t just stand by.
Her father’s eyes seemed to hold approval, but maybe that was just what she wanted to see. The next morning, Lisa arrived at the diner early as usual. What wasn’t usual was the closed-until-further-notice sign someone had taped to her window overnight.
Beneath it, scrawled in red marker, No Biker Lovers in Millfield. Lisa ripped the sign down, her hands shaking with anger. Inside, nothing seemed disturbed, but the message was clear enough.
The breakfast rush was noticeably lighter than normal. By lunchtime, it was obvious that word had spread. The diner that usually buzzed with conversation and clinking silverware was eerily quiet, with only a handful of regulars braving the apparent boycott.
Old Mrs. Henderson came in for her usual tuna sandwich, patting Lisa’s hand sympathetically. This will blow over, dear. Small towns have short memories when they want to.
Dave Wilson and his wife came by too, deliberately sitting at the window table, where they could be seen from the street. Hell with them, Dave said, louder than necessary. Best coffee in town is still the best coffee in town.
But these small gestures of support weren’t enough. Lisa did the math in her head. Another week like this, and she wouldn’t make rent.
Around two o’clock, with the diner empty, Lisa allowed herself a rare moment of despair. She leaned against the counter, fighting back tears. The diner wasn’t just a business.
It was her father’s legacy, the place where she’d grown up learning to count change and wipe tables. Now it might all disappear, because she’d stood up for a stranger. The familiar jingle of the bell interrupted her thoughts.
Lisa quickly wiped her eyes, putting on her professional smile. A man in his 50s stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. The only hint of his affiliation was a small Hells Angels pin on his leather jacket.
Behind him was a woman about the same age, her long gray hair pulled back in a neat braid. Lisa Parker? The man asked. Lisa nodded, suddenly nervous.
I’m Thomas Mercer, Ray’s brother. He stepped forward, extending his hand. This is my wife, Sarah.
Lisa shook their hands, confusion evident on her face. Ray told us what you did for him yesterday, Sarah explained. He would have come himself, but he’s still at the hospital with Jesse.