Seasons of Change by Olivia Stephens Read Free Book Online Page A

back out of the kitchen and heads towards the door again. “No handover tonight?” I ask, knowing that this is highly improbable, but confused as to why Dick would be reaching for the door before the Angels have even shown up.
     
    “Big George is going to deal with it. I have some… other business to attend to,” he says, his voice is squeaky and his forehead as shiny with sweat as always.
     
    I don’t ask him what possible business he could have to attend to at one in the morning, partly because I’m a little shocked that, for the first time, Dick wouldn’t be here when the Angels arrived. As soon as the door closes behind him I rush into the kitchen and find Big George standing by the range with a brown envelope in his hands, staring down at it as if he suspects it might grow a head and bite him.
     
    “What’s going on?” I ask, not liking the expression of fear that I’m seeing on Big George’s face.
     
    “It’s not enough,” the big man replies quietly. “Not enough by half.” I feel myself go cold as he says the words.
     
    “And Dick the dick left you to deal with it?” I ask, disgusted. It turns out people can always surprise you. Even when you think you know how pathetic they are, they can always go one better.
     
    Big George doesn’t say anything. He just nods slowly, clearly thinking about what the heck he’s going to say to the Angels when they arrive and find that they don’t have anywhere near the money that they were expecting.
     
    “What are you going to do?” I ask fearfully.
     
    “I’m going to hand it over,” Big George replies. “It’s the only thing I can do. Whatever happens after that is Dick’s problem,” he says, but he knows as well as I do that the Angels don’t discriminate when it comes to payback.
     
    As if thinking about them has made them appear, the bell on the diner door rings and two bikers walk in, their heavy boots slapping on the floor. Big George and I look at each other for a beat and then he walks out to the front of house and I follow close behind him. I vaguely recognize the men, but I couldn’t put a name to their faces—partly because they’re both tattooed up to the hilt and one has a huge ring coming out of his lip that morphs his mouth into a perpetual sneer.
     
    “Well aren’t you a pretty little thing,” the blonde biker says, and I wonder if the Angels teach that sense of entitlement or if it just comes with the territory.
     
    “What can I get you?” I ask, nonplussed, forcing myself to remain civil. There is no point in getting them fired up when they are about to find out they aren’t going to get what they had come here for.
     
    “Two whiskeys, straight up,” the guy with the shaved head and the hoop in his lip replies without breaking his stare from me, and I try not to shift uncomfortably.
     
    “We don’t serve alcohol here. It’s a diner, not a bar,” I tell them, busying myself with filling some sugar bowls so I don’t have to look at them or the wolfish way they’re staring at me.
     
    “Well I suggest you find some, sugar lips, before we get so thirsty and we do something stupid,” Blondie says, his voice full of menace. I have to bite my tongue to prevent saying anything about nothing being stupider than whatever his friend has done to his face.
     
    “In the back, Aimee, there’s a bottle in the back,” Big George says, looking at me and nodding towards the kitchen. I know he’s just trying to avoid any trouble.
     
    He’s doing the sensible, mature thing, but it riles me beyond my limit that they think they can just turn up and everyone should bow down to them, as if the angel on a crucifix tattoo they all have makes them special or important. It just makes them part of the problem, the problem that is strangling this town.
     
    Without saying anything I turn on my heel and stomp into the kitchen. I know exactly where Big George keeps his secret stash; he’s not a big drinker, but everyone in this