“Let’s go,” the man behind Harold barks. “Some of us have fucking places to be.”
I arch a brow, meeting the gaze of the man and telling him to fuck off with my eyes before turning back to Harold with a smile.
“You take as much time as you need, Harold, and while you figure out what you want, I’m going to warm up your Danish.”
Relief floods his face, and my heart aches for him as I turn to warm up the one thing Harold always gets when he comes in—a cheese Danish.
When Harold was first diagnosed, I wasn’t sure how quickly we would start to see the side effects of his disease, but in the last few weeks, he’s had a harder time finding his words or remembering why he got up from his table and walked over to the napkin station. Sometimes I think about how fast it seems like he’s slipping away, and it scares the hell out of me. I know I have no real claim to the man, but he feels like family, and I don’t like the idea of losing anyone I care about.
Once his Danish is warmed up, I pull the plate from the oven and carry it over to the register. “You got something picked out, Harold?”
“Uh . . . I . . .” His brows knit together, and he searches my face, looking for guidance, and I know he forgot that he was supposed to be choosing a drink.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man behind him groans. “Move it the fuck along, asshole.”
Harold is getting flustered, his hand shaking and his face turning red, and an ache begins to pulse in my chest. It’s so hard to watch him lose pieces of himself, and I know if Maisy were still here, she would be caring for him and helping him through each day. But Harold is all alone. I think about him sometimes, cooped up in his house just a few blocks away, scared and lonely, and I vow to myself that I’ll make more of an effort to stop in and see him from time to time just to make sure he’s doing okay.
“Just fucking order something,” the man behind Harold hisses, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. Every part of me wants to cuss out this dickwad, but somehow, I restrain myself. Harold’s hand is resting on the counter in front of him, and I reach over, covering it with my own.
“Why don’t you go have a seat, Harold, and I’ll whip up a couple new things for you to try.”
He shakes his head, his warm brown eyes still looking bewildered. “Oh, I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . .”
“It’s okay,” I assure him, patting his wrinkled hand with a smile. “I know what you like.”
There is a pause, and I wait with bated breath to find out if I can get this situation resolved, but then Harold straightens his shoulders and flashes me an appreciative smile.
“I would like that, Hermoine. Thank you.”
I let out a sigh of relief and hand him his Danish. “Of course. Why don’t you head on over to your usual table, and I’ll be there shortly?”
He nods, turning away from me, and I take a moment to close my eyes and take a breath. That could’ve turned out so badly if Harold’s confusion had made him lash out at me or any of my other customers, and my heart aches at the thought that it may not be too much longer before I don’t see the old man gracing my establishment anymore.
As I open my eyes again, the rude customer that was behind Harold steps up to the register and scans the menu. It’s rich that he was endlessly bitching about the time Harold was “wasting” when the asshole didn’t even know what he wanted either. As he studies the menu, I do the same to him.
It’s clear from the cut on his back that he’s a biker, and while I know my fair share of bikers, I’ve never seen him before. Besides, the bikers I do know would never be so callous to an old man who was clearly struggling, so that alone tells me that the man in front of me isn’t worth knowing. There’s an emblem on one side of his cut with the image of a devil stitched on it, and on the other side is the name, Geno, peeking out behind a long, gray beard.
He looks like your stereotypical biker and nothing like the men of the Deathstalkers MC, who come in regularly for coffee or pastries. Where they are all on the younger side and fit, the man in front of me looks dirty and has a bit of a belly. Old, faded tattoos decorated his leathered skin, and I can’t help but feel like he’s the type of guy that would make you cross the street if he was walking toward you.
“I just want a coffee, black.”
He’s got to be joking.
One good thing about being the owner of this place is that when a customer like this comes in and harasses people I care about, I can tell them to fuck right off without any repercussions.
“Actually, you can leave.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he arches a single gray brow. “What?”
“I have the right to refuse service to anyone,” I say, pointing to the sign on my right that says just that as I pin him with a glare. “So, you can leave.”
“I want a coffee,” he replies like he expects me to jump to attention and do his bidding, and I fist my hand at my side as I shake my head.
“Then go somewhere else and get it ‘cause it’s not going to happen here.”
The man grits his teeth. “You little bitch. I want a goddamn coffee, and I want it now.”
“Too fucking bad,” I seethe, trying not to raise my voice and disturb my other patrons too much, but this bastard is pushing me past my limits. “Get out before I call the cops.”
His gaze bounces between me and the front door, gauging his options before he hisses a curse under his breath and slowly backs away from me. His eyes are hard and cruel as he glares at me, slowly stepping backward toward the front door.
“You’re going to regret this, you cunt.”
I shake my head, releasing my fist. “No, I won’t, actually.”
He stops in the middle of my dining room and just stares at me for several seconds, and as I chance a quick peek around the room, everyone is watching us, hanging on every single word. The only small relief is that no one has their phones out, recording the confrontation. Finally, Geno nods his head as a slow smile stretches across his face. It’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach drop, and I wonder if I spoke a touch too soon when I told him I wouldn’t regret kicking him out.
Turning, he marches over to the front door and, at the last minute, grabs a chair from one of the tables before marching out of the shop with it.
What the fuck?
He’s stealing a single chair as retribution?
Honestly, I expected more.
As soon as Geno is outside, he goes to the window closest to the door and lifts the chair above his head with that same sinister grin on his face. I realize his intention just before he hurls it at the window. It shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere. Shrieks fill the room as the two tables closest to the window scatter back away from the debris, and a harsh cold wind rushes in through the space where the glass used to be.
I look up and lock eyes with Geno as he stands on the other side of the broken window, the jagged pieces of glass that are left are framing his face as he stares at me with that sick little smile. I hold my breath, as does everyone else in the shop, waiting to see if he’s going to retaliate further, but he just winks before turning and walking away like he didn’t just vandalize my property.
What a fucking asshole.