by Naomi Niles
My fridge was completely empty, so I didn’t even bother to open it. I poured myself a tall glass of water and drank it quickly. Once I was fully hydrated, I slipped on a pair of track pants and a dark green hoodie that was similar to my black one. Before I left the apartment, I checked my account balance on my phone. I was told the first payment for my contract would come in today.
I waited for the page to load, and a second later, I found myself staring at my account balance. I raised my eyebrows in awe. I had never had so much money sitting in my account. It was a surreal feeling to know that I didn’t have to worry about expenses…at least for the moment.
I stared at the page for a minute longer, taking the time to memorize the exact figure. When I’d had my fill of, I closed the page and headed out.
I passed a bunch of different diners on my way to the campus, but for some reason, I found myself at the ugly pink and green diner again. It wasn’t like I ordered anything special – I could have gotten toast and coffee at any old place – but something kept pulling me back to Danny’s. On the heels of that thought, the image of the tall, dark-haired waitress with the siren blue eyes popped into my head.
I was pretty sure I had dreamt about her last night, and it had been dangerously close to a wet dream. Her eyes had preoccupied my thoughts the last couple of days. They were a unique mystical blue that placed her in a different time and era. I liked that about her, I liked that she looked as though she didn’t quite belong. It was how I felt most of the time.
I realized I was being ridiculous. I was constructing a personality around this woman. I was creating a story for her that fit into this weird fantasy I had. It was just my way of occupying my thoughts when I was bored. She wasn’t in the diner when I walked in, but the redheaded waitress was.
She gave me a tentative smile, but that was all. She seemed to have cooled towards me since our exchange on my first day here. I gathered she was the type of woman who liked to have attention right off the bat, and my reservedness had offended her in some way.
A few seconds later, my usual waitress emerged from the kitchen. She was wearing a fitted white shirt that was tucked in at the waist by a flowing yellow wrap around skirt. She had tied her black hair back into a loose knot at the back of her head. A couple of strands of blue-black hair fell loose on either side, framing her heart-shaped face. I could make out the blue of her eyes from where I sat.
I watched the way she moved. She was light and nimble on her feet, tending to twirl around as opposed to a straight turn. There was a certain dance to the way she walked, as though she were humming a song under her breath and was trying to mimic the melody in her movement.
It was the first time I’d seen her bare shoulders and the pale skin of her back. When she turned her back to me, I realized she had a tattoo inked onto her skin just underneath her neck. I was only able to see it because she had her hair tied up. Intricate vines ran up and down a tiny birdcage, and from its center, a little bird was preparing to take flight.
I dropped my gaze as she turned around and started to walk towards me. I had to admit, the tattoo intrigued me and made me wonder if she had others.
“Morning,” she greeted, setting down a plate of toast and a mug of coffee in front of me. “I assumed you’d want the same thing you always get.”
“Thank you,” I nodded.
She smiled and prepared to turn away, when the question burst from my lips. “Do you have any more?”
I didn’t know what made me ask the question. I didn’t even know why I cared so much. All I knew was that I wanted an answer from her. She turned to me slowly, and it was clear that she was surprised, as well as a little confused.
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed the tattoo on the back of your neck,” I explained more fully. “I wondered if you had any more?”
“Oh,” she said. “I have two more.”
My gaze must have been questioning because she gave me a slightly self-conscious smile. “You won’t be able to see them with my clothes on.”
Her cheeks reddened instantly after she spoke, and I couldn’t help but smile at her embarrassment. “What I mean is…”
“I know what you mean,” I nodded.
“Right,” she said, standing awkwardly in front of me.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I asked, stubbornly refusing to let her walk away from me.
She hesitated a moment, and I knew she was a little taken back by my sudden interest in conversation. “I was fifteen,” she replied.
“I was thirteen,” I volunteered.
“Young,” she observed. “Which one was your first?”
“It’s a date,” I replied. “On my back right shoulder.”
“A date?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“I’m sure there’s a story there.”
“There is,” I nodded. “Just like the caged bird on the back of your neck.”
Her blue eyes met mine and an unspoken understanding passed between us. She knew I wasn’t willing to share my story just yet, and I knew she wouldn’t ask for it. By the same token, I knew she wasn’t willing to share her story with me, and I was going to respect that. It was one of those strange moments of clarity that left you feeling a little lighter without knowing the concrete reason why.
She reached up to touch the tattoo I was talking about. Then she dropped her gaze from mine. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said.
“I will,” I replied.
I watched her walk away, staring at the bird on the back of her neck. I was willing to bet anything that the bird represented her. But that left me no closer to figuring out the significance of why it was there in the first place. It bothered me that I wanted to know so badly – it was so uncharacteristic of me to want to know about other people’s lives, especially because it gave other people permission to be curious about mine.
I ate my toast and tried to stop imagining caged birds with blue eyes, but I kept seeing sunshine yellow in my peripheral vision and the bird popped into my head all over again. When I stepped up to the counter to pay, Brittany was cutting a piece of pie for a customer in the corner booth.
She accepted my money with a nod and a smile. Then I walked out of the diner without saying another word to her. I walked to the training campus, using the miles as a warm up before I entered the ring. Ryan was already prepped and waiting when I entered the massive training space. We started sparring with one another, just practicing moves and working on different approaches. The point was not to fight; the point was to strategize.
“So, you done anything fun while you’ve been here?” Ryan asked.
Almost a week had gone by, and Ryan was still persistently talkative. He never seemed to mind that he did all the talking, while I gave him the shortest possible answers I could think of. He just kept flinging questions at me, as though he were determined to crack through the silent wall I had built up.
“I’ve been busy.”
Ryan laughed, even though I had been completely serious. “Obviously, but what do you do when you finish training?”
“I go home and sleep.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” he said, sounding surprised.
“What?”
“Nothing… It’s just, I expected you to be more of the adventurous type.”
“This is my adventure,” I defended myself. “Right here in this ring.”
“No offense, man, but that’s pathetic.”
I managed to suppress my smile at the last minute. “I told you I was serious about the MMA.”
“So am I,” Ryan argued. “But I still find the time to have a little fun every now and again.”
“Fun?”
“Yes, fun,” he said firmly. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Maybe you should try having some one of these days. It might actually make you smile more.”
As Ryan dropped his defensive position, I took advantage of his di
straction and hit him in the face. “Fuck,” he groaned, doubling back and falling against the ropes of the ring.
“See?” I said. “I am having fun.”
Ryan shook off the punch and rolled his eyes at me. “We’re only training for half the day tomorrow,” he said. “Why don’t you let me show you around town? I’ve been here longer than you have and I know some good places.”
“Uh…what kind of places?” I asked skeptically.
“Just some chilled out bars with a nice young crowd,” Ryan replied. “Lots of hot girls.”
“I’m not interested,” I said immediately.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not here to meet people,” I said.
“Man, you like to play hard to get, don’t you?” Ryan joked.
I rolled my eyes. “Are we training or talking?”
“Come on, man,” he said. “We’re going to spend the next couple of months training together. We might as well try and form something resembling a friendship. I’m sure it’ll help us out in the long run.”
I dropped my stance and looked at him carefully. “You’re not going to let up until I say yes, are you?”
“My plan is to wear you down.”
I sighed heavily. “Fine then,” I conceded at last.
“You’ll come out with me tomorrow night after practice?” Ryan asked, as though he wanted my full verbal consent.
“You’re not giving me much choice.”
“Fuck, yeah!” he said, punching the air with his fist. “You’re not going to regret this.”
I rolled my eyes at him and stepped out of the ring just as Steven walked in with a short, skinny man with an unfortunate goatee.
“Burbank,” Steven called. “Get over here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I walked over to the two of them, eyeing the shorter man carefully. He was definitely not a fighter, but the sly, critical way he was looking me over told me he had experience in the business of the MMA.
“This is Wendell Jones,” Steven introduced. “He’s your promoter and he’s got some fucking great news for you.”
“Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“I’ve set up a fight for you,” Wendell said in a reedy nasal voice. “It’s going to be in January.”
“January?” I repeated. “That’s awhile away.”
“Trust me, you’re going to need the time,” Wendell said firmly. “You’ve been matched up with a pro fighter.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Whom am I going up against?”
Wendell gave me a smile. “Kendrick Conner.”
I knew the name well and realized Wendell was right. I would need every month in between now and the fight to get ready for it. Conner was no joke. He was a serious fighter with a killer technique. He was only a couple of years older than I was, but he’d been in the MMA a hell of a lot longer. I would need to bring my A game if I wanted even the slightest chance of beating him.
“You confident, Burbank?” Steven asked.
I squared my jaw. “I guarantee you this…in January, I will be.”
Chapter Eight
Brittany
“Did my eyes deceive me or was Mr. Hot Hoodie actually making conversation?” Lacey pounced on me the moment I joined her behind the breakfast counter.
“We both know you have twenty-twenty vision,” I smiled.
“Well?” she demanded. “What did he say?”
“Nothing much,” I said evasively.
She glared at me. “You’re being purposefully annoying.”
“Yes, I am,” I nodded. “And, it’s so much fun.”
“Oh, come on,” Lacey insisted. “Spill… I have to get Mr. Keegan’s order out to him soon.”
I snuck a quick glance in Talen’s direction, but he was looking down at his toast. “He asked me about my tattoo,” I told her.
“The one on the back of your neck?” Lacey asked.
“Yup.”
“Hmm…” she said, her expression changing instantly. She was smiling now, and there was a coy knowing about her smile. It was as though she were privy to a secret I had missed out on.
“What?” I asked, frowning at her.
“He noticed your, tattoo,” Lacey said pointedly.
“Thanks for the update,” I said. “But I’m already aware of that.”
“And, are you also aware of what that means?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to misinterpret it.”
Lacey shook her head at me. “I know things about people, Brit,” she said smugly. “Whereas you go through life being generally clueless, especially when it comes to yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He was obviously checking you out,” she pointed out.
“Or it was just a casual observation that caught his interest,” I said. “He’s been in here every day for the last week, and he only just noticed my tattoo today.”
“Today’s the first day you had your hair up,” Lacey pointed out.
“Okay, fair point,” I said. “But it still doesn’t mean anything. He’s got a body full of tattoos – maybe he’s just interested in them. Maybe that’s what he does for a living, he’s a tattoo artist.”
“Nah,” Lacey said, waving away that suggestion.
“It’s a possibility.”
“He does something dangerous,” she said confidently.
“And you’re basing that on…”
“On the fact that his body is covered in scars and bruises – or did you not notice?”
I frowned. “Actually, I hadn’t.”
“Seriously?”
“I was always focused on…” I trailed off, catching myself before I gave too much away.
“On what?” she asked shrewdly.
“Nothing.”
She smiled. “His rippling pectorals?”
“His face,” I said, giving her a glare. “He has an interesting face.”
“Well, look closely the next time,” she instructed me. “What did he ask about your tattoo?”
“Nothing much, really,” I replied honestly. “The whole conversation revolved around our body art. He told me he was thirteen when he got his first tattoo.”
“Wow, he shared personal information about himself?”
“It was hardly very personal,” I said. “He told me it was a date on his back shoulder, but he didn’t mention the significance of the date.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“He wouldn’t have told me,” I said. “He wasn’t willing to share that much with me. I could tell.”
“But he was the one that initiated conversation?” she asked.
“I suppose… Not that it means anything.”
“Would you like it to mean something?” Lacey asked curiously.
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re trying to get me to overthink.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m just asking a simple question.”
“Don’t you have to take Mr. Keegan’s order out?” I reminded her.
“Damn it,” she swore, disappearing into the kitchen.
Smiling, I started to cut out a piece of pie for Monica just as Talen walked up to the counter to pay for his breakfast. He didn’t say anything; he just slid the money across the counter towards me. I accepted it with a smile and a nod. His deep blue eyes held mine for a moment and then he was gone.
It turned out to be a particularly busy day at the diner. We had a few regulars, but mostly, the customers were unfamiliar walk-ins looking for a kitschy little diner to take the edge off their hunger. Around mid-day, Lacey and I were swamped with customers. We darted around the diner, realizing that we were quickly running out of space. I for one was happy to be so busy. It usually meant more tips at the end of the day.
“Hi, boys,” I said to the middle booth that was occupied by three gangly men who looked to be in their early twenties. “Welcome to Danny’s, what can I get you today?”
“Are
you on the menu?” the guy with the bright red shirt asked, giving me a little wink.
I suppressed a cringe and instead, put on a smile, reminding myself that I had to work hard for tips. “Unfortunately not,” I said, keeping my tone light and friendly. “But I can recommend the pecan pie, it’s to die for.”
“I’d still rather have you,” he said, giving me another unnecessary wink.
“You couldn’t afford me,” I said, opting for the rebuttal that was as cliché as he obviously was.
His friends laughed, and he joined them. I had to fight really hard to keep from rolling my eyes at how juvenile they all sounded. The second table I was waiting on held a young family – two harassed looking parents and their two-year-old twins. I looked up just in time to see the little boy push over the bottle of sauce. Thick red sauce splattered across the table and the boy cooed in delight at his handiwork.
“Uh…give me a second, boys,” I said, excusing myself and rushing over to their table.
“Oh God!” the mother was saying. “Jeremiah, look at his mess.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Could we have another booth?” the father asked, holding his daughter’s hands down so she didn’t dip them into the mess.
“Of course,” I nodded. “The one in the corner is free. Why don’t you go ahead and move, and I’ll bring your meals right over.”
First, I moved their meals and drinks over, then I took down an order from the table with the three idiot road trippers, and then I got to work cleaning down the sauce spill. By the time I was done, the family had finished with their meal and were ready for the check. Hurrying, I brought it over to them and waved them off in their little blue minivan. Then I went back to their table and checked for my tip.
I opened it up to find nothing but the receipt for their meal. “Are you freaking serious?” I said, under my breath.
Breathing deeply, I decided to put all my hopes on the table with the three road trippers. I had to suffer through another half hour of inappropriate – not to mention sexist comments – and in the end all I got out of them was three lousy dollars. The day got progressively worse and by the time my shift was finally up, I had collected a total of seven dollars in tips.