“I am just waiting,” Tyler answered while lacing his fingers together on the tabletop.
“For whom are you waiting?” Pamela asked with growing impatience.
“I am waiting for my dad,” he replied after a brief hesitation.
“And where is he?” she demanded.
“He is coming,” Tyler said, although his voice wavered slightly at the edges.
Pamela gestured toward the entrance and said, “You can wait outside because I cannot allow you to occupy a booth without ordering.”
A subtle hush settled over the room as utensils scraped softly against plates and the soda fountain hummed, and no one intervened. Tyler slid from the booth with deliberate care and said, “I am sorry,” in a way that suggested the apology had been practiced many times before.
At that precise moment the door chimed, and a man stepped inside with measured calm. He wore a black leather vest over a charcoal T shirt, and patches were stitched across the back and chest, including an American flag, an emblem reading Iron Guardians MC, and a smaller patch that simply said Veteran in white letters. His arms were muscular and weathered, decorated with faded tattoos of coordinates, an eagle, and a name inked near his wrist. His beard was streaked with gray, and when he removed his sunglasses his eyes revealed a steady composure that suggested long familiarity with hardship. His name was Raymond Callahan.
Raymond surveyed the scene without haste, then walked across the tile floor and slid into the booth Tyler had just vacated. Pamela blinked and said, “Sir, I am addressing something here.”
“It appears so,” Raymond answered evenly.
Outside, a low rumble vibrated against the windows as motorcycles rolled into the parking lot one by one, their engines deep and resonant before cutting off almost in unison. Several riders dismounted and remained near their bikes without crowding the doorway, their presence noticeable yet restrained.
