23
HARPER
A few hours later, we were in the Double B Diner, waiting to meet the president of a motorcycle gang. I was tucked in beside Reed, his arm slung over the back of the booth, his fingers grazing my shoulder. No one sat across from us, and with his size, I could barely see anyone else in the diner around him.
“You said this place is owned by a motorcycle gang?” I asked, looking around. There was nothing about the restaurant that made me think that. It was a typical vintage diner that had been built decades ago, probably when the highway was built. Central entry, booths lining the walls all the way around. Counter seating around the center. We were tucked in the back corner. The table’s surface was orange laminate, and there was a small jukebox on the wall next to the sugar packet
