Malcolm (Henchmen MC Next Generation 2)

"I, ah, I think I just threatened him," I admitted, feeling a little dazed, like someone else had taken over my body there for a minute, then hopped right back out, leaving me to deal with the consequences.

"Good for you. Someone needed to threaten him. I mean, he set this place up without any sort of security in mind. Like those damn cameras outside," she said, snorting.

Yeah.

The police had asked about those.

The ones positioned facing the front door, the lot, and the back.

I'd needed to inform them that none of them were actually working. Luis had picked them up at a garage sale for a few bucks and had installed them without actually hooking them up to anything, thinking they would prevent anyone from trying anything.

The only operational camera in the whole building faced the cash register. But it faced the employee, not the customers. Because, apparently, we were the biggest threat to his business.

"Hey why don't you sit and roll some silverware?" Zara suggested. "I still have a bunch of tables. Take it easy for a couple more minutes."

I wasn't going to argue with her. It was going to be a long night of very few breaks. I would take one while I could get it.

I was just finishing rolling the silverware when Don came in. He looked me over and declared, "Did a number on you," with absolutely no sympathy at all as he made his way into the back to get to work.

"Don't mind him," Zara said, shaking her head. "Some people, that is the best they can do. Do you want me to take their drink order before I wrap up my last two tables?" she said to the couple that was making their way inside.

"You're the best, Zara, but I've got it," I assured her, making sure I didn't wince as I got myself moving again.

After that, it was just a blur of fetching food and drinks and doing side work and trying to ignore the curious or sad glances from the customers.

On the plus side, the ones who had seen the news report were a bit more generous with their tips than was normal. And, hey, an extra ten here and there really added up.

"Don't," a deep voice demanded from behind me, making me jump hard, letting out an embarrassing squeal as I tried to whip around. But, apparently, the doctor wasn't exaggerating about the concussion making you lightheaded if you moved too fast, because the whole world went spinny, taking me with it.

"Whoa, okay," the voice said again, and it was starting to sound familiar. "Take it easy," he added, reaching out to grab my forearms, holding me upright, anchoring me. "Better?" he asked as I took a couple slow, deep breaths.

"Yeah. Note to self: I need to turn slowly until this concussion gets better. Thank you," I said, offering Malcolm a smile. "Don't do what?" I asked.

"Don't take out the trash. I'll take it out."

"That's not your job."

"You can't lift your arms over your head, Holly," he reminded me.

He wasn't wrong about that.

I'd tried to reach for something in the storage room and saw stars for a full minute.

I'd told myself I would figure something out when I had a minute to think about it. Maybe some sort of pulley system. Though, admittedly, that could end up hurting almost as much too. But I was resourceful. I could figure something out.

"I can figure it out."

"I don't like the idea of you out there for longer than necessary trying to figure it out. Just leave the bags over here," he said, motioning to a spot beside the register. "I will handle it from there."

"That's really nice, Malcolm. But I'm going to have to figure it out eventually."

"Don't see why."

"Ah, because I'm here six nights a week," I said, shaking my head.

"Takes five minutes to take out the trash," he said with a shrug.

I wasn't sure, but it almost seemed like he was offering to stop by every night to take out the trash until my ribs healed. But, no. People didn't do things like that. Not for practical strangers.

"You can't—"

"Sure I can," he cut me off.

"I'm going to have sore ribs for a couple weeks, and—"

"Funny thing. I've got five minutes a night free for the next couple of weeks."

"Malcolm..."

"Holly..." he repeated, lips quirking up the slightest bit, making me realize he wasn't really a man prone to smiling. Which was a shame. Because it made his deep eyes light up.

"You barely know me," I insisted, pretending to ignore the person snapping at me from the end of the diner. Snapping. He probably wanted his fifth refill in the last fifteen minutes.

"I know you're someone who could use a little help. I can help. What else do I need to know?"

"I—"

"It's okay to accept help," he said, shrugging. "Doesn't mean anything. Doesn't say anything about you either."