“Yes, it’s fine,” I say, sliding into the booth with my back to the door. “I’ll have coffee to start.”

She hands me the menu and hurries off to give me time to scan the artery-clogging choices. Checking my cell phone, I see that I have at least another ten minutes before Sam will show up.

During the week, he sticks to a rigid schedule, usually arriving on his motorcycle for breakfast at the diner at eight. After spending an hour sitting at the counter talking with the local men, he then opens his tattoo shop down the street at nine o’clock sharp.

He’s never late and his daily schedule never varies by much.

I would have expected someone in a motorcycle gang to have a little less of a work ethic. Then again, considering all of the illegal businesses the Steel Infidels are involved in, it is probably worth his time in gold to stick to a schedule.

The ATF suspects that Sam runs shipments of alcohol, cigarettes, and guns out of the back of his shop. The Steel Infidels have been on our watch list for a long time.

I grab my computer out of my bag and boot it up. After quickly checking my emails and typing up a quick check-in note to my boss, I load up the morning edition of the New York Times. I’m halfway through reading the front section when I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Without asking for my permission, Sam slides into the booth across from me with a big grin on his face.

He’s wearing a black t-shirt stretched tight across his muscular chest. The sleeves barely hide the elaborate skull tattoos covering both upper arms. I would love to ask him what they all mean. Another time, perhaps. When he places his elbows on the table and leans forward, I can smell the soap from his shower.

“I wouldn’t have pictured you as a New York Times kind of gal,” he says, pointing to my computer.

I shut my laptop and slide it back into my bag.

“It’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder,” I say.

“Not as rude as taking up a big booth all by yourself. Mind if I join you for breakfast?”

He doesn’t wait for my answer before waving over the waitress.

“Morning, Sam,” she says. “The usual?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers then waves at me. “What are you having, Lila?”

I hand the waitress my menu.

“Just a bowl of oatmeal for me. Do you have almond milk?”

She gives me a quizzical look and shakes her head.

“Sorry honey.”

“Okay. How about coconut milk or rice milk?”

Sam raises his eyebrows and grins at me.

“We don’t have that either,” she answers with an apologetic smile. “Will skim milk do?”

I frown. “No, that’s okay. Orange juice will be fine.”