Page 78 of Feeding Hope
They kicked the rest of the bags to the ground, stomping on them, the crumpled paper and scattered food sliding across the tiles. Constance’s jaw tightened. Every instinct in her screamedat her to intervene, but she stayed rooted to the spot, studying them. There was a twisted satisfaction in their cruelty, a hunger for domination she couldn’t ignore. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
The smell of crushed fruit and torn bread filled the air, mingling with the tension that made the room feel smaller, tighter, like it could snap at any second.
Constance’s stomach tightened as she stepped forward. “You think this is funny?” Her voice was low, sharp, carrying a steel that made even grown men hesitate.
The taller one sneered. “Funny? No. Business. You know the deal. Protection money.”
Her jaw tightened. “Protection?” she repeated, incredulous. “From you? You don’t protect anyone. You destroy what you touch.”
The shorter one laughed, a rough, bitter sound. “Cute. You really think you can tell us what to do?”
“I don’t think,” Constance said, her gaze hard, unwavering. “Iknow.” She let the words hang. She could feel the tension crackling in the small room—the smell of sweat and crushed food mixing with the fluorescent glare overhead. “You step in here again, or try to pull this stunt anywhere near my place… I promise you, it won’t just be words next time.”
The taller man’s smirk faltered slightly. He glanced at his companion, who shifted nervously, and the bravado that had filled the room a moment ago began to fade. Constance’s posture was calm, but every muscle in her body was coiled, ready. She wasn’t bluffing, and they could feel it.
“Just… watch yourself, lady,” the taller one muttered finally, shoving a hand through his hair. “We’ll be back for that money.”
“Idiots, this is a nonprofit, we don’t make money here.” She saw the shocked look on their faces.Priceless.
They backed toward the door, uneasy now, their confidence cracking. The bell jingled behind them as they left, a stark punctuation to the threat they’d tried to make real.
Constance exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop just slightly. She looked down at the mess, the torn sandwiches, smashed fruit, crumpled paper bags and shook her head. Her lips twitched into a smirk. “Unbelievable.”
Locking the doors she faced the ladies that showed up every day to help. “Let’s get this cleaned up and close up.”
What else was there for them to do with all the meals smashed on the floor. She couldn’t even take it to the park. Her hand brushed the card in her back pocket—a reminder that therewasanother option if this escalated. But for now… she had stood her ground.
She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen later when she left? Would they be waiting like so many other nights? Ready to harass her.
Chapter Three.
Jinx stepped into the clubhouse, the familiar scent of leather, motor oil, and cigarette smoke wrapping around him like an old coat. At the bar, Frost sat leaned back, quiet as always, nodding to the sweetie behind the counter as she poured him his whiskey—his drink of choice.
Twyla stood behind the bar, her spiky black hair framing her face. She had dark brown eyes that were always sharp and alert. Years of her being one of the chapters chickee’s, she knew how to keep the boys entertained.
There was nothing wrong with the girl he thought as he walked towards the bar. Jinx watched as she moved around the bar making sure, she gave Frost a show of her nice ass and shapely legs.
She’d honed her moves, making sure she came across with the kind of casual confidence that drew the glances without asking for them.
As she bent over to grab a beer from the cooler, her dark eyes flicked up at Jinx. A faint smirk tugged at her lips, just enough to say she noticed him noticing—but she didn’t linger.
Frost didn’t even glance her way. Controlled. Observant. He didn’t speak unless it mattered, and when he did, people listened. But Jinx caught the tiniest shift in his posture—a subtle tightening of his shoulders, the faintest flicker in his light eyes—enough to know that Frost had noticed Twyla’s smirk. He didn’tcomment, didn’t react, but his awareness added another layer to the quiet tension in the room.
Over the past year, Jinx noticed Frost had been hanging around the Broke Bastards West Texas chapter more and more, watching from the edges. Observing the chapter, the people, the way things moved. He thought Frost might be considering a change in status, maybe pushing to become a full chapter member, instead of a nomad.
And he thought about Constance and the food bank back in town. Maybe the chapter could help her out. A thought came to his mind. If he talked to Undertaker and Maddog maybe the Prez and the VP would agree to help Constance out. He’d pitch Frost for security. The saying two birds one stone came to mind.
He was sure Frost could handle the enforcement side without turning the place into a war zone. That was the tricky part—protecting someone without making the people you were trying to help feel trapped under your shadow.
If Undertaker and Maddog approved, Jinx thought, they might be able to give the place a fighting chance. Maybe—just maybe—they could give Constance a chance to run her operation without fear hanging over it like a storm cloud. He’d have to bring it up at church, lay it out. And if they weren’t willing to help the people in their own neighborhood, who were they there to protect?
Sliding onto the bar stool, Jinx nodded at Frost, who lifted his glass in a quiet acknowledgment.
“Seen you around a lot lately,” Jinx said, testing the waters, pointing out that Frost had been hanging back, observing.
Frost raised a brow. “Got nowhere else to be,” he said simply.
Jinx smiled faintly. “Twyla, can I get a beer, darlin’?” he asked, nodding to her as she bent over once more.
