by Devon Ashley
“Fine.” But his eyes were focused on the pass-through. “Who’s that?” he asked curiously.
I didn’t bother turning to look. “Nick. New cook. You want your usual?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered.
Something seemed off about him. Normally, Joe was all smiles and ready to talk my ear off, but tonight he was uncharacteristically aloof, seemingly more interested in what Nick was doing than bother with me. Hallelujah.
Nick had Joe’s food ready within minutes, and Joe too, seemed surprised by the plate before him. Of all days for Joe to be quiet on his own, because Nick’s food was so good they all hushed up long enough to devour it. I gave him a few minutes, all the while cleaning the area behind the counter. I could hear Nick running some dishes through the wash, and when he finished, he came up front to quietly ask me if everything was alright.
“Yeah, fine.” His body blocked my view of Joe, and he was close enough for me smell the fresh rosemary lingering on his hands. “I told you, he’s harmless.”
I wrote up Joe’s total from memory, then walked his ticket over to him and cleared his plate. He sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, eyes staring across the restaurant at nothing.
“Joe? You okay?”
He shifted in his seat a bit, then drank the last of his beer. “So are ya’ finally gonna be ready to date now that pretty boy’s working in the kitchen?”
Pretty boy? Hardly.
“No,” I stated firmly. “I’m not interested in dating right now. Anyone. Especially not someone I have to work with every night.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered rudely. He pulled a ten from his wallet and I stepped aside as he jerked out of the booth and stormed out the front door. Okay then… Guess I wasn’t getting a tip tonight.
The rest of my shift went by quickly enough, as I spent a lot of my time between customers cleaning the floors and restocking the shelves underneath the counter. With an hour to go, Nick stood beside me as I stacked clean glasses onto the shelves. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
Looking up from my spot on the floor, I replied, “I’m not hungry, but thanks.”
“It’s a ten hour shift and you haven’t even taken a break yet.”
“That’s because the moment I stop, I’ll crash.”
He squatted, bringing our heads closer to eye level. “You should still eat something.”
There was something beautiful about his eyes, like translucent sea glass tinted vivid green. And the way they gazed openly at me was a little distracting. Quite honestly, I’m not sure how I formed the words, “I’ll make myself something when I get home.”
“Liar,” he accused calmly.
Surprised that he saw through my fib, I blabbered, “How would you know?”
“Because if you knew how to cook, you’d be back there making yourself something to eat.”
“I told you, I’m not hungry,” I repeated firmly, but my stomach took that very moment to rat me out. Traitor.
His head tilted. He knew I was lying again. “Megan.”
I silently sighed my defeat. “Okay, fine,” I stammered. “I’m hungry. It’s just…Look, don’t tell Paul, but I lost interest in the food here a long time ago.”
He was silent for a moment, and I tried not to smile at the seriousness of his face, because I think that’s what he was going for. Finally, he replied, “Fair enough,” and returned to the back.
Ten minutes later, I was on my knees trying to organize the to-go containers that always seemed to be a mess. I swear they had invisible legs that sprouted and moved about each day just to screw with me.
“Order up!” Nick called.
Curious, I jumped to my feet thinking I was completely oblivious to a customer, but there was no one seated in the restaurant. “What’s this?” I asked. Nick was standing opposite the pass-through, a plate of food between us.
“Something off the menu. Fried chicken club sandwich with honey-mustard dipping sauce.” When I didn’t take it right away, he encouraged, “Try it. You’ll like it.”
Like everything else he cooked, it looked incredibly delicious. I dipped a sandwich triangle into the sauce and took a bite. “Oh, wow.” Covering my mouth as I chewed, I added “This is good!”
A natural smile crossed his face as I moaned in pleasure. “See? Always trust your chef.” He whipped a towel over his shoulder and disappeared from view, leaving me to devour the food on my own.
Not long after, we shut down the restaurant and stepped out the back to head home. Nick immediately asked, “Where’s your car?”
“I can walk,” I said weakly, my legs suddenly locked with fear as I scanned the dark alley. I didn’t like the darkness, or being alone while in it. Every night, Paul had always driven me home. Why hadn’t I thought of that yet? As much as I hated the night, I should’ve realized that before now. And even though it took less than ten minutes to walk home, I really didn’t want to walk it.
Nick flashed me a disapproving look. “That’s not safe,” he said slowly. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
Normally, I would think twice about getting into a car with a guy I just met. But I also knew Paul thought of me like a daughter in some ways, and I believed him when he said Nick checked out. Still, my legs were a bit shaky climbing inside, but in truth, they had done that the first time Paul gave me a ride too. Nick drove me the half mile to my apartment without incident and bid me goodnight. And I hated to admit it, but his smile warmed my heart a little, despite the hardened shell I kept around it for protection.
After a few days, Nick and I fell into a routine at work. We talked about little things and favorite things, but steered clear of the really personal topics. Like parents. He didn’t seem too keen on discussing his or mine, which was a relief, as it was still a painful subject on my end. And after every shift, he was kind enough to drive me home. I liked him. He was easy to be around, and it almost felt like we’d known each other forever.
When I came in Saturday night, Darla was all in a huff over something, cursing phrases only a backwoods redneck could fully understand. Asking me to cover her station for a few minutes, she disappeared into the office with a disgruntled Paul. When she emerged once again, I asked her if she was alright.
“Megan, sometimes I just wanna throttle that man’s neck until he’s as red as a freakin’ hot rod!”
I pinched my lips to keep from laughing as her face reddened enough to compete with her frizzy strawberry-blonde hair. Jokingly, I asked, “Is it time for Paul to return to the night shift already?”
“Might be!” she snapped, but she really meant no ill-will towards me.
Continuing the tease, I said, “Well, you managed to share schedules for a whole six days. You had a good run.” I even patted her shoulder condescendingly.
She glared at me with evil eyes, her heavy eyeliner really adding to the effect. “You little bitch,” she replied slowly, humor smothering every word. “You remember what it’s like to live in a house with him!”
“I do.”
“You spent two months in that guest room of ours.”
“I did. I remember.” Being similar heights made it easy to wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her tight. “But Darla, you’ve got a good man there. Not too many people would be kind to a girl that showed up homeless and penniless. Not like Paul. He’s a good man.”
Begrudgingly, she let loose the growl rumbling in her throat. “He is, isn’t he?” I nodded, and she reluctantly said, “Oh, all right. I’ll be right back. Again.”
She disappeared behind the office door, yelling, “Oh, hush up a minute, you old fart!” before closing it behind her.
My chest vibrated with quiet laughter, but stopped the moment I realized Nick was watching me through the pass-through, grinning at my display. Then he simply winked as if to say good job and disappeared from view.
The night went by as any other, but a swarm of customers hit us after eight. Apparently, word had gotten
around that the diner had a new hottie of a cook and the teenage crowd couldn’t resist coming in to check it out for themselves. Every single table had questions for me. How old was he? Was he single? Did he really have a tattoo of a serpent slithering down his cock? Uh…twenty-one, think so, and Ew!
I playfully gave him a hard time for all the attention he’d drawn, but he shook off its ridiculousness with an eye roll – right after cringing and saying ouch over the tattoo part.
With only two tables in the diner, and them already eating, I took a few minutes to clear the counter of dirty dishes. When I came into the kitchen to dump the bin beside the dishwasher, I caught Nick standing before our employee bulletin board. Standing there with his legs spread apart and his arms crossed around his chest, I noted that it wasn’t the placard explaining his employee rights and responsibilities that he was so focused in on. It was the flyer for that missing Claire girl.
“Weird, huh?” I probed, bringing it up before he could.
“I’m assuming this isn’t you, unless you’re hanging it as a joke for some reason.”
“God, no!” I blurted, disturbed at just the thought. “Her sister came in not too long ago. Poor girl. I think seeing me really did a number on her, you know? Thinking she’d finally found Claire, only to be told otherwise.”
His eyes still hadn’t pulled away from the flyer. “Sounds heartbreaking,” he replied sadly.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I didn’t want the flyer displayed outside for obvious reasons.” I knew it would make me an instant celebrity. Head down. Stay off the radar.
“Can’t blame you.” He finally walked away then, lightly patting the back of my shoulder as he passed, heading towards the grill to continue cleaning.
Joe dropped in at his usual time and ordered the same boring meal. He was clearly jealous of Nick and the time we got to spend working together. He’d given me the cold shoulder all week, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why he continued to come around if it truly bothered him. Especially since he had to know Nick intentionally came out to keep me company when he came around. I privately rolled my eyes over the two, but I’d take Nick’s attention over Joe’s any day. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt a sense of safety when Nick was around.
By eleven, the diner had died down. I was sorry to say it, but I really didn’t care to work Friday and Saturday nights after midnight. Never in all my shifts did those nights not fail to produce some type of drunk coming in after hitting up the bar down the road, and tonight was no exception.
I didn’t recognize the three men, so I could only guess they were traveling through or visiting someone for the weekend. They ranged between early thirties to early forties, topped their heads off with grungy baseball caps and all three of them were due to shave their five o’clock shadow two weeks ago.
I groaned when they sat down at the four-top, loud and obnoxious all the way, blurting profanities left and right. I turned my back to them and pulled my hair back in a knotted mess. Making sure to get off a necessary preempted eye roll, I made my way towards them with a forced smile. This was exactly why I wore loose-fit clothing and praised myself for my lack of make-up.
I passed them menus, ignoring the suggestive leers that came from two of them, and asked them what they’d like to drink. Beers, of course…
“Sorry,” I replied, “We lost our liquor license, so we no longer carry those. How about a round of coffees?”
“How about a round of you?”
Oh, how original, I smirked internally.
I ignored him as the one with the blue baseball cap began to complain about our lack of alcohol, but his neighboring companion waved him off, pulling a flask from his jacket pocket. “No worries, fellas. We’ll just make them Irish.”
I rolled my eyes as I walked away. Shit. I should’ve just given them the damn beers. I poured the coffees, muttering curse words all the way.
“Hey,” Nick said through the pass-through. Guess my mutters weren’t as quiet as I thought. “If you don’t want to serve them, just kick them out.”
“Yeah,” I retorted, “like they’re going to leave because a nineteen-year-old, one-hundred-and-ten pound girl told them to.” He grimaced when I turned my back on him, heading back to the dumbasses at table eight. I had intentionally filled the cups to the rim, so naturally, they tipped them to make room for the booze, allowing the coffee to dribble onto their saucers.
Once I took their orders and turned to leave, I felt a flimsy pinch to the bottom cheek of my ass. Score one for the baggy jeans for prohibiting something more. But still, it pissed me off that he felt he had the right to do anything of the kind.
“HEY!” I snapped angrily, whipping around, smacking the hand that still lingered with such intensity that the crack overpowered every sound in the diner. The three men got a huge kick out of that and turned their attention to one another to laugh hysterically.
I was debating about dumping the ass-grabber’s coffee in his lap when I heard Nick command, “Out,” harshly behind me.
The three men jerked in their seats, but it was the ass-grabber that threw his hands up defensively, crying, “WHOA! Shit, man!”
Fighting the sudden tension in my neck, I forced my head to spin sideways. The moment I caught sight of the black cylinder out the corner of my eye, my heart jumped and I sprung to the side. Nick was in a hunter’s stance, the shotgun aimed at the head of his prey.
“We have the right to refuse service,” he said sternly. “And I’m enforcing that liberty right now.” He cocked the shotgun, making the men jump again. I instinctively removed myself from the path between their table and the front door, placing myself protectively behind Nick. The friends were quick to leave, but the ass-grabber was a little more careful with his moves; slower, as the barrel was still aimed at his head. As he nudged his way through the door, Nick threatened, “Don’t ever come back here again.”
Ass-grabber fled at full speed, stumbling and tripping his way into the back cab of the old pickup truck that tried reversing out of the parking spot without him. Only once they were out of sight did Nick lower the shotgun, lock the door and turn the placard from Open to Closed.
I was suddenly very aware of the intense pounding in my chest, as the boom-boom-boom echoed in my head. My arms crossed over my chest, hands gripping my shoulders, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. I didn’t recognize the face before me, as kindness no longer resided there. Nick’s face was red and irate, his eyes cold and dark and unrecognizable. I pinched my eyes as images began to flash through my head without permission.
Dark eyes on a face too blurry to see.
Fire all around me, the putrid air choking my lungs.
An uninvited hand snaking its way up my bare thigh, and me, powerless to stop it.
That last one lingered, refusing to relieve the mental anguished it imposed.
Acid bubbled and churned in my stomach, and heat rose up from the bottom of my throat. I bolted for the bathroom, crashing through the door, barely making it before my dinner resurfaced. Stomach acid burned the lining of my throat, and another memory flashed before my eyes.
Fire licked across my skin, the red inflammation growing darker and darker in color as the pain attacked my nerves.
I collapsed to the dingy ivory ceramic tile beneath me, my eyes taking turns dripping tears down my cheeks, the imagined pain very real to my damaged skin. I swallowed the saliva in my mouth, a pathetic attempt to wash away the sourness overtaking my senses. I still felt sick to my stomach, but the real threat had passed. Pain burned behind my eyes and I wanted nothing more than to go home and collapse on my bed.
A light knock rapped on the door. “Megan?” Nick asked softly. “Are you alright?”
“I’m okay now,” I answered, pulling on the edge of my sleeves, which had managed to creep up a bit, exposing the permanently damaged skin beneath.
The door must have shut behind me at some point. Its knob slowly turned, then it opened at
a glacial pace – perhaps to give me time to object, which I didn’t. A better version of Nick peeked inside, this one the calm, caring guy I came to adore, the coldness in his demeanor long gone.
“Here.” He passed me a clean wash towel and a glass half filled with red liquid. Gatorade. I couldn’t believe how delicious it tasted, despite how it felt like I was swallowing needles. I drank it all down in ten seconds.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there. I was so focused on those shitheads that I didn’t realize I was upsetting you.”
I set the glass down on the tile and wiped my mouth down, the sourness still burning my throat and chest. “It’s not your fault. Those guys were assholes. I just…” Bad memories, I wanted to say. “…sensitive stomach,” I lied.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Can I take you home?”
“We still have two more hours.”
“No,” he said sternly, “We don’t. Come on. If Paul has a problem with it, he can take it up with me tomorrow.”
I allowed Nick to pull me up, and with my feet planted on the floor in front of his, we were almost close enough to touch. He had like a foot on me, but the way he dipped his head gave me a perfect view of his pale pink lips, soft and supple and demanding attention as he took that moment to hydrate them. We were slow to pull apart, my gaze locking heavily with his. His hand still held mine, and it was warm and comforting, and I didn’t contest when he continued to hold it as he guided me out of the bathroom and into the diner again. But he abandoned the grasp there, and I hated how disappointed I felt.
I grabbed my bag as he moved through the kitchen turning off equipment and lights before locking up. And then it was just like every other night, with him driving me home. Only this time I didn’t thank him for the ride and get out. I just sat there, staring at my front door, seemingly darker than its normal shade of hunter green, as my porch light had finally burned out. Luckily, my neighbor’s light kept my doorstep from being completely absorbed by darkness.
I no longer liked the night. The darkness was where he lied in wait, waiting for it to swallow me whole each night, suffocating my senses with fear.