The girl didn’t retreat. Most people, upon walking into a room and seeing ten full-patch Hell’s Angels staring them down, would have turned on their heels and ran. Fear was the natural reaction. It was the healthy reaction.
But this girl… she didn’t run.
She stood her ground, her small chest heaving with shallow breaths. Her eyes scanned the room, bypassing the terrified couple, ignoring the waitress who had frozen with a coffee pot in mid-air. Her gaze swept the diner with a terrifying intensity, searching for something specific.
“Lost,” Tank muttered, his voice a low rumble. “Kid’s lost.”
“Doesn’t look lost,” Smoke said softly. Smoke was the quiet one, a man whose eyes were the color of storm clouds and just as turbulent. “Looks like she’s hunting.”
The girl’s eyes locked onto the corner booth.
She saw them. The leather vests. The patches. The size of them.
And she started walking.
The sound of her sneakers squeaking on the checkered linoleum was the only noise in the diner. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
She walked with a stiffness that spoke of terror held in check by sheer will. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, white-knuckled. As she got closer, the details of her desperation became sharper. Her lips were chapped and dry. There were dark circles under her eyes, bruises of exhaustion that had no business on a child’s face. She looked like she hadn’t eaten a warm meal in days.
