by Jc Emery
“Just observing,” he says. The way he emphasizes the word observe leaves little room for doubt that he overheard what I just said. I’d prefer to keep what happened at the high school limited to the people who already know about it, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.
He bends at the waist and brings his face so close to mine that I can feel his breath wafting over my skin. I raise an eyebrow in silent question. The smile spreads on his face and he says, “Come by later. I’ll give you something juicy to wrap your mouth around.”
My eyes widen and horror fills my heart. I’m barely processing what he’s said when I hear Mindy gasp. I can only imagine the look on her face. Above and beyond being inappropriate, he’s being a dick.
“You’re an asshole,” I snap. He’s already absorbed the words by the time I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have said them at all. But it’s too late, and I can only take so much taunting.
“Dad,” Cheyenne says quietly. She’s started to fidget and is hopping from foot to foot. At the very least, she’s uncomfortable as well. He puts his hand up in the air to silence her, but all it does it motivate her to dramatically huff and spin around and walk toward the front door.
“For whatever reason, you seem to be making it your personal mission to torment me, and I’m not going to put up with it,” I say, my voice rising with every word.
“I’m not into torture. Bondage, maybe, but not torture,” he says. A shiver slides down my back. Suddenly, I realize how warm it in in the restaurant.
“Well, I’m not into either,” I say. “Now, will you please leave?”
“I just thought I’d stop by and give you the opportunity to rethink the grievance you filed at the high school,” he says. Of course, now he decides to get involved. Let’s ignore the fact that the last few months he’d been completely unreachable regarding his daughter and her education, but this grievance would get his attention because it will be filed against him with the school board. As a district employee, I have the right to file a complaint against anyone treating me poorly. And I did. There’s not too much the school district can really do because he’s a parent, but it’s better than nothing.
“Mr. Grady, the only thing I’m rethinking right now is my choice of seating,” I say and narrow my eyes. He stands and raps his knuckles on the table top twice and brushes against my shoulder as he walks away. My eyes fall to the table and stay there until I hear the opening and shutting of the door.
“Holy cow,” Mindy breathes and slaps her hand at the edge of the table. “What the heck was that?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Liar. You acted like you’d never seen him before,” she says.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, cutting her off. She must sense how entirely frustrating that scene was for me because she lets it go and changes the topic to something less awful.
The next hour goes by quickly as we order, then eat our Hawaiian pizza and drink our diet sodas. There’s not much to say. It’s mostly a sleepy job in a sleepy town. Not a whole lot happens in the office I work in, save for the occasional delinquent who’s called in to see the principal.
“I’d rather talk about your job. It’s bound to be a lot more interesting than mine,” I say then finish the last few bites of my slice.
“It’s really not,” she says. “I serve coffee and sometimes food. I clean counters and try to chat up customers for better tips.”
“Aunt Claire’s been telling my mom all about how much you like it there,” I say. “She goes on and on and on. So there must be more to it than just that.” It takes Mindy a few moments and me asking her a number of questions in different ways before I finally get something out of her.
“There is this one customer who keeps coming in. He’s tall and handsome and he is so well dressed. I don’t know what kind of job he has, but he comes into the shop at all times of day and always in a suit,” she says. Just like I knew she would, once she gets started, it’s hard to get her to stop. “Sometimes he orders his cappuccino and sits in the corner reading the newspaper for like an hour or so, like he’s got nothing better to do. And sometimes he just gets his coffee and goes. He’s either totally uninterested or shy, but either way, I hope if I just keep being friendly, he’ll warm up.”
“If he doesn’t, it just means he’s lame,” I say with a smile. “You make a killer cappuccino and anybody worth your time will appreciate your mad caffeine skills.”
“You have a serious problem with coffee, you know that?” she asks.
“Pretty much,” I admit.
As much as unknown variables make me nervous when it comes to Mindy, I am happy for her that she’s keeping her eyes open. Her life can’t have begun and ended with Heath.
We end the night on a positive note and the final words we speak to one another are after we’ve replaced the light bulb in my bedroom and get into our pajamas. Mindy draws me into a tight hug and says, “I’m so glad you’re home. I thought I lost you.”
“I love you, Minds,” I whisper and give her a firm squeeze.
We let go and as she’s walking away, she shouts over her shoulder, “Love you, too, but we’re still going to talk about Grady later!”
Chapter 5
IT’S AMAZING HOW you can spend so much time away from a place yet feel like you’ve never really left it. At least, that’s how it feels being in this space. Nothing’s changed here in decades. The furniture is made of aged wood whose varnish wore off well before I was born, and the walls are so dingy that the original paint color is no longer recognizable due to age and lack of upkeep. Like everything about this town, a dirty gray hue settles over the entire room.
High heels click against the linoleum floor hard and fast in their approach. I look up from my desk in front of the principal’s office to see Margot, Fort Bragg High School’s Senior Secretary, and my supervisor, rushing through the hallway and then flinging herself into her desk chair in front of me. Margot can’t be any younger than forty, but she’s got a wily spirit and bright red hair. As far as bosses go, she’s pretty awesome, and on occasion she’s been able to make my job close to interesting.
Margot shoves her purse in her right desk drawer and then spins around and places her hands on the edge of my desk. “Where’s Mr. Beck?”
With a quick look behind me to make sure Mr. Beck’s office door is still closed, I lean in toward Margot and whisper, “In his office. I think he’s napping. He’s been there all day.”
“Whew,” she says and blows out a breath of relief. In the few months that I’ve been here, I’ve noticed that Margot has a thing for long lunches. Today is no exception, and while I don’t really care what she does with her time, one of us has to be here at all times in case a student needs us, so her long lunches delay mine, and today she’s so late that I’m starting to get grouchy with hunger.
A swarm of giggles sound in the hallway and then burst into the office. Four girls, all seniors, I think, stride toward Margot’s desk and bat their eyelashes at her. I’ve seen this before, but this time, I recognize one of the girls—Cheyenne Grady. She is the absolute last student I want to see right now. Her father and I have never had a good meeting, and though she hasn’t given me trouble lately, I still can’t believe she called me a bitch. She’s of average height for her age and average weight—meaning skinny and young and perfect—and has dark brown hair that’s tinged just slightly with red highlights. If she’s wearing any makeup, I can’t tell. She stands on the far edge of the group and taps her fingers on Margot’s desk.
A short, chubby blonde girl hands Margot a note and says, “We need the golf cart to help the football team clean up on the field.” Margot eyes the note for a moment and then sighs. Her shoulders slump and roll as she turns back toward me.
“Mr. Dale is always letting these girls out of class to help the football team.” The look on her face is anything but surprised. Mr. Dale’s a pushover, that’s for sure, and this isn’t the first time thes
e girls have come in with a note proclaiming to need the golf cart to help the football team. It sounds like B.S. to me, but Margot’s my supervisor and I’m not about to tell her how to do her job. “Go get lunch,” she says with a wave. “Where ya going anyway?”
“No clue,” I say. “Any suggestions?” I open my bottom left drawer and pull out my purse. The tapping of Cheyenne’s fingernail quickens before she clears her throat.
“You should try The 101 Club,” Cheyenne says. She moves around Margot’s desk and zeroes in on the candy jar I keep in the corner of my desk. She pulls out a lollipop and unwraps it, then sticks it in the side of her cheek. “My dad loves the place. He eats lunch there like every day. He’s probably there now. I only get to go once in a while, but they’ve got killer burgers. Dad only lets me go on family days because at night it’s more bar than grill, but you should totally go. Oh, and get a milkshake while you’re there, too.”
Despite our earlier interactions, listening to Cheyenne talk, I can see why she seems to have so many friends. I’ve seen her around the school a few times since that night at Sea Salt Pizza, and every time she’s surrounded by girls. She may not always be the center of attention, but she’s clearly a key part of any group she joins. She’s said “hi” to me the times she’s seen me. It’s like the kid got a lobotomy or something because the sullen teen that I encountered during our counseling session has vanished. These days, every word she speaks exudes a sort of friendly confidence that is undeniably attractive in anyone of any age, but most especially a popular teenage girl.
“Thanks for the rec, but I don’t think your father and I should share eateries,” I say as politely as I can. Margot’s head bobs around as she pretends she’s not listening.
“Don’t let him scare you,” she says. “He’s all bark. Besides, you seem to handle yourself just fine. He’s harmless, I promise.”
“On South Main, right?” I ask, giving Cheyenne a soft smile. My stomach is practically leaping out at her and giving her a hug at the mention of a killer burger, but my nerves are convinced that this is a bad idea, which, for some reason, makes it even more attractive.
“Yep,” she says and pulls a cell phone from her pocket. “And if you hurry, you’ll make it to lunch hour with half-priced fries.”
Ever since the night at Sea Salt Pizza, I’ve been thinking about what I’d say to Grady should I run into him again. I was caught off-guard and not on my game because Mindy was there. But now I have an arsenal to unload on him should I have the chance.
“I love cheap fries,” I say with a bit too much excitement. My belly rumbles in agreement, and I stand, thanking Cheyenne and giving Margot a wave. “Be back in an hour.” I head out at warp speed, hoping that I don’t end up pulling a Margot and taking a super long lunch. I don’t have the same luck she does in that my boss—being her—would notice. Once I’m inside my Jeep, I check my lipstick and hair just to make sure I’m not a total disaster. I’d try to tell myself that I don’t want to run into Cheyenne’s dad or anything, but that’d be a total lie. He’s honestly the first guy I’ve seen since I moved back to town that roused even a little bit of interest for me which is actually really sick because he is one of the meanest individuals I’ve ever encountered.
“I’m not this pathetic,” I mumble to myself as I pull up to The 101 Club. I should reconsider and just grab a crappy salad at one of the fast food joints in town. I probably shouldn’t have lunch in a bar, even though Cheyenne mentioned killer burgers, half-priced fries, and milkshakes. No matter how stalkerish I feel about showing up here when I know Grady is likely here, it’s no match to greasy food that makes even a teenage girl swoon.
So I hold my head up high as I put my Jeep in park and climb out. My therapist—which is really just code for my grandpa—tells me all the time that I need to look at my return to Fort Bragg like a fresh start and not an admittance of failure. He’s recommended that I try new things and not let myself fall back into only doing the things and going to the places I used to before I left here for the Bay Area. If I want a different outcome, I need to do something different. So going to a place I’ve never been before is right up my alley. Unfortunately, so is lusting after a major asshole.
I try to shake my nerves off as I walk inside for the first time. Despite Cheyenne’s recommendation, the place is basically empty and sure doesn’t seem like the kind of place that has killer burgers. Still, I give it a shot. There’s something kind of awesome about the place with its mismatched furniture that somehow all goes together and its too-cool-to-give-a-crap-about-décor vibe. Everything but the lights overhead, which are a flashy metal and conical-shaped, running down a long line over the bar, seem to be as old as I am. It’s like The 101 Club doesn’t know what it wants to be – something I can relate to.
In the corner is a pair of elderly men, cooped up and playing chess. They’re angled away from the rest of the room, creating a bit of privacy for themselves. I walk up to the bar and pull myself up on a stool. A middle-aged man rounds the corner from the back room and puts himself behind the bar. He looks me over once and then nods his head and shoves a menu at me.
“Lunch hour’s almost over, so order quick unless you’re here to drink,” he says. My stomach is in knots to the point that I almost do want a drink, but drinking at lunch is never a good idea. Drinking at lunch leads to drinking with the girls after work, and that leads to waking up hung-over. And that’s the thing about drinking. It stresses me out, making me paranoid about what Mindy would say, but the more I drink the less I care. About everything.
He doesn’t smile, nor does he greet me. I’d think he was being rude, but I get the impression that this is just how he is all the time and it’s nothing personal. I go to thank him, but before I can, he disappears to where he came from. The front half of the menu is filled up with French fries done up in about twenty different ways, and the back side is a variety of burger choices. I look it all over quickly and make my selection and wait for Mr. Personality to return. When he does, he places his hands on the bar, looks me in the eyes, then gives the menu a glance before returning his attention to my face. It takes me a beat too long before I realize that this is his way of taking my order.
“I’ll have the Mendo Burger and Coastal Fries with a vanilla shake,” I say. He jerks his chin in the air, grabs my menu, and turns around. He grabs a clean—at least I hope it’s clean—glass from behind the bar and the soda machine. Pushing a button, he fills the glass and then shoves it toward me.
“No shake. Water,” he grumbles.
“I was told you serve shakes here?” I say in a questioning tone.
“Shakes are for family. I don’t know you.”
I bite my tongue to keep from making a snarky comment. I have no idea what this guy might do to my food before I get a hold of it.
It’s only a few minutes before Mr. Personality returns with a red basket with my burger and fries inside. He sets it down on the bar. No sooner than he does, I hear the telltale sounds of a group of bikes heading toward the bar and grill. I gulp down my worry about being here, in Grady’s space, and pick up my burger. Before I can take a bite, the man before me puts his hand over mine and I place the burger back in the basket, looking up at him in annoyance.
“Time to go, sweetheart,” he says.
“Excuse me?” My voice is flat, beyond annoyed. The rumbling of the bikes grows louder, and I tamp down that nervous worry in the back of my belly. I’m hungry, but I’ll get the burger to go if I have to. I just need food before my unpleasant side takes over.
“Don’t know who you are, don’t care. But now’s not the time to find out. Best for you to go.” He takes the basket from me and tosses it in the garbage behind him. I barely catch sight of the bacon and ranch on top of my Coastal Fries as they sail into the trash.
“Time to go,” he repeats. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I worry it’ll bleed. The very real possibility that one of the nearing bikes could belong to Grady makes me more a
greeable to leave and find another place to eat lunch. With an empty belly and heart heavy with sorrow that I won’t be getting to taste that killer burger that I didn’t even get to sniff before it was brutally taken away, I stand from my stool and collect my purse. Just as I’m turning to leave, two men in black leather vests walk in. Each with patches, and each with their eyes on me. I drag my hands down the front of my pantsuit and smooth the material down. One of the men can’t be any older than early twenties, and the other must be no more than thirty—though both look as though they live hard lives with their faces in the wind, their bellies full of booze, and their veins pumping full of adrenaline.
The bikers are part of the club.
His club.
There is something undeniably attractive about the lure of bad boys—men who live by their own rules and don’t give a damn what you think about them—and they know it, too. Even though I grew up here, with the club always at a short distance, I’ve rarely found myself in the company of more than one of them at a time. Like Grady at Sea Salt Pizza—he wasn’t wearing his vest.
From the corner, the elderly patrons rise and pack up their chess set. The bikers part, and the men sneak between them and disappear out the door.
“Where ya going, babe?” the one on the right says, his voice reminding me of a snake, slithering and creepy. I stop and look up at them both, my eyes bouncing between them. The one on the right has dark features—dark hair, darker skin, dark eyes—and the one on the left has light brown hair with a pleasant summer tan. So different and yet so similar—their stances, their attire, their attitudes—both equally menacing, both equally dangerous. I’ve had my fill of menacing though.
“Leave her alone, dude. You’re gonna scare her,” the one on the left says as his eyes slide up and down my frame. He smirks. I open my mouth to respond before thinking better of it. I move to slide between the two men, but the dark-haired one takes a step sideways, effectively blocking my path.