I adjusted my silverware, lining up the ends of the handles perfectly. After unfolding my newspaper and placing it on the center of the table, I moved the condiment basket against the partition wall that separated the booths.
Jacky handed me my cup of coffee. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”
“Good morning. Yes, please.”
She flicked her pen against the notepad she held and then looked at me. “I don’t know why I even ask. Have you ever had a scrambled egg?”
I shook my head.
“Poached?”
I continued shaking.
“Over easy?”
I looked at her and grinned. “I have not.”
“You have not,” she said mockingly. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Our Denver omelet is fabulous. So are the huevos rancheros.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I’m missing. I’ll stick with what works, though.”
“You’re an odd duck, mister.”
“There are very few things in life I can control, and this is one of them. I enjoy the predictability of it.”
She shook her head playfully. “You must. But you should try something new sometime.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said with a smile. “Because that’ll never happen.”
“Never say never.”
I shrugged. “I know me.”
She grinned and turned away. “It’ll be up in a few.”
Jacky was in her early thirties, blonde, petite, and quite attractive. She had one daughter, Charlee, who was thirteen. During the school year, Charlee remained in the diner until 8:00, and then walked two blocks to school. For the two-and-a-half months of summer, she stayed until her mother finished her shift.
Seeing Charlee was the highlight of my visit. She was thin, and tall for her age, most of which came from her awkwardly long legs. Her olive skin, blue eyes, and curly blonde hair gave her an adorable presence. Her personality, unquenchable curiosity, and snarky attitude completed the package. Seated in the booth across from me with her legs stretched out along the length of the bench, her nose was buried in a book.
“Still reading To Kill a Mockingbird?” I asked.
With her index finger marking her place, she raised the book. “I finished it. I’m starting over again.”
During the summer, she read a book in a matter of a day or two. I found it impressive that her focus was reading, and not texting or spending her days competing for attention on social media.
“You must have liked it.” I grinned and gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Your thoughts?”
“I wish my name was Scout.”
“That’s what you’ve arrived at after reading it?” I coughed a sarcastic laugh. “You wish your name was Scout?”
She wadded her hair into a mess of a bun, pulled her knees to her chest, and shot me a playful glare. “Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. That was one point I was going to make. Her nickname was awesome. I’ve never had a nickname, and I thought it was cool. As far as the book goes?” She twisted her mouth to the side, gazed down at her worn sneakers, and after a moment, looked up. “In summary, it’s a book about how to live life.”
The book was a favorite of mine. I found her response interesting, and wanted more. “Why do you say that?”
“Have you read the book?”
I cleared my throat. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” I said, citing a quote from the book.
Her eyes went wide. “I want to climb into your skin and walk around in it.”
I scrunched up my face. “Okay, that sounds creepy.”
“It’s from the book. It’s a metaphor.” She let out an audible sigh and set the book aside. “Compassion is based on sympathy. It’s difficult to be sympathetic without fully understanding what a person is going through. To walk in their skin is to develop an understanding of who they are. That’s all.”
“Believe me. You wouldn’t like it in my skin.”
“I would,” she said excitedly. “I want to figure you out.”
Her questioning often resembled an interrogation. If it were anyone else, I would raise my guard and promptly object. With Charlee, I felt obligated to feed her adolescent curiosity.
After checking my silverware, I looked at her. “Figure me out?”
She wrung her hands together and nodded eagerly. “I want to figure out what you’re hiding from.”
An adult hidden inside a teen’s body, she was thirteen going on thirty. I’d been shot at, stabbed, choked damned near to death, and beaten senseless, yet her simple curious nature caused sweat to bead on my brow.
I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my palm, and then arched an eyebrow. “Who says I’m hiding from anything?”
“You’re hiding from something. Nobody drives from Oceanside to Vista every day to eat at a dirty old dive like this. Not unless they don’t want to be seen. You’re hiding, I know it.”
She read too many books, most of which were intended for intellectual adults. I dismissed her line of questioning, and gave a response I hoped would put an end to her prying. There were some things she simply didn’t need to know.
“I like the peace and quiet of a small diner, the presence of a snarky teen, and the predictability of the eggs.”
She opened her book and gazed into it. “You’re full of crap.”
Jacky stepped between us. The interruption was welcomed. I exhaled, met her gaze, and grinned.
She smiled in return and set the plate on the edge of the table. “Three, over medium, dry wheat toast, and three pieces of turkey bacon. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Let him eat, Charlee.”
Charlee responded with a mock military salute as she walked away.
“You don’t salute indoors unless you’re under arms,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that mean?”
I folded the newspaper, set it aside, and moved the plate to the center of the table. “Unless you’re armed, you don’t salute indoors.”
“According to who?”
I cut one of the eggs in two with my fork. “According to those in the know.”
“Were you a soldier?” she asked excitedly.
“I was not.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I was a sailor.”
“You were on a ship?”
“I didn’t spend much time on a ship, no.”
“Isn’t that what sailors do? Sail?”
“I wasn’t a typical sailor, so I didn’t do typical things.”
“You’re evasive sometimes.”
I swallowed my food, and then took a sip of coffee. “Evasive? That’s a big word for a thirteen-year-old.”
She peered over the top of her open book. “I’m not a typical thirteen-year-old, so I don’t say typical things.”
I cut the next egg in two. “You’re certainly not, and you certainly don’t.”
She acted like she was reading, but it was obvious she was thinking. When she wasn’t speaking it seemed she was always contemplating her next barrage of questions. The toe of her faded sneaker tapping against seat cushion gave warning of her intention to attack me as soon as I took my last bite.
At the moment I finished my breakfast, she lowered the book.
“Are you done?” she asked.
I nodded toward my plate.
She set the book aside and slid to the edge of the booth. “When you first started coming in here, I thought you were going to ask my mom out on a date. After a year and a half, I’ve decided that’s not going to happen. You’re either not interested in her, or you’re here for other reasons.”
I had no sexual interest in her mother. In an effort to preserve my relationship with Charlee – and her mother – I gave the only response I felt I could.
“I’m in a relationship.”
It wasn’t completely true. In fact, it was a lie. On
ly because my efforts had yet to produce any meaningful results. Hell, the only one I found interesting enough to approach had recently run from my house screaming like her head was on fire.
“Figures,” she said, her voice conveying slight disappointment. “All the good guys are.”
Her gaze dropped to her feet. After a moment, she shot me an inquisitive look. “So, why are you here?”
My eyes thinned. I shifted my gaze toward the kitchen and considered my response.
The remote diner was the only place I’d found where good and evil didn’t reside. Only innocence existed, and I found comfort in relaxing into the pillow-like support it provided. My daily visit had become an important part of my recovery process. In one hour’s time, I cleansed myself of the previous day’s atrocities.
Regardless of Charlee’s desire to know more about me, I wasn’t comfortable explaining the intricacies of my life to a thirteen-year-old. Having the intellect of an adult didn’t dismiss the fact that there were some things I simply didn’t want her to know.
Her curious eyes and overactive foot poked at my conscience.
I took a sip of coffee and offered a simple response. “I’m not sure.”
“Like I said earlier. You’re full of crap.”
My eyebrows raised. “Duly noted.”
“I like you anyway, though.”
“I like you, too.”
I finished my coffee, gazed into the empty cup for a moment, and then stood. After tossing $30.00 onto the table, I folded my newspaper and tucked it under my arm.
“The book is about good and evil,” I said. “Right and wrong. It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. Tom Robinson was the mockingbird.”
Using her thumb and forefinger, she made a pistol with her left hand, and saluted me with her right. “Have a good day, Atticus.”
I gave a sharp nod and brushed the wrinkles from my pants. “See you tomorrow, Scout.”
Chapter Three
Taryn
We were high school sweethearts. I was the homecoming queen, and he was the king. Although we never became legally married, we’d lived together long enough that it seemed so. Then, after eight years of togetherness, he came home from work and dropped a bomb.
The bomb.
He had a mistress. A pregnant mistress. The child she carried was their second.
Our relationship, in its entirety, was a lie.
My heart ached. So much that I couldn’t breathe. Or sleep. Or eat. A downward spiral ensued. The darkness I fell into had no bottom. For the first year that followed, my life was a disaster. I popped Xanax like I was eating popcorn at the movie theater.
I washed them down with tequila.
Days escaped me. Weeks. A month. And then, another. I came to my senses one night at the intersection of 9th and Choctaw, surrounded by pieces of two demolished automobiles and four shattered lives. Remarkably, short of a few memorable cuts and a sore knee, I was unharmed. Physically, anyway.
I often wish that wasn’t the case.
Three people that I loved ever so dearly were gone from my life, and there was no getting them back. I knew I needed to distance myself from the constant reminder that lingered over me in that small town. It seemed everywhere I went, someone was saying, I’m so sorry. So, with the trunk of my 10-year-old Acura filled with clothes, and my head filled with the dream of becoming an actress, I moved to California.
If the state were less populated, I would have landed an acting job. The 39 million people I had to compete with, however, left me feeling rather unqualified.
For four years, I settled with being a cheerleader for the San Diego Chargers football team. It was like acting, but with far less clothing. And money. The job wasn’t at all what I expected, paying only $75 per home game. It was a stepping stone to living life in Hollywood. I was sure of it.
Years passed, but Hollywood never came. During that time, my real job was a bartender. The winter I lost the cheerleading job, I realized bartending wasn’t for me. Working in a bar was the equivalent of having a heroin addict working in the pharmacy of a methadone clinic.
A year and $12,000 in student loans later, I became a licensed cosmetologist.
In other words, I was a hairstylist.
A 34-year-old single hairstylist.
I was sweeping a pile of golden blond hair into a pile when Stefanie walked past me. She was brunette, ten years younger than me, and cute. The kind of cute that earned her long awkward stares from men. Her face was that of a seventeen-year-old, but she had the body of a 24-year-old goddess. Her never ending nervous energy allowed her to work 8 hours a day, party for 12, and sleep 4.
I envied her.
She set a cup of coffee on the counter behind her work station. “Sorry I had to bail.” She glanced over her shoulder as she unlocked her cabinets. “How long did you stay?”
I dumped the hair in the trash and turned to face her. “Till close. You’re not going to believe this, but--”
“Believe what?”
“What happened.”
She spun around. “What?”
The lingering smell of her coffee almost caused me to hurl up my breakfast. “Cover that nasty thing up, or throw it in the trash. I’ll tell you when it’s gone.”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Hurry up. It’s going to make me barf.”
She finished the drink and started to toss it in the trash can we shared.
“Throw it in Carmella’s trash. I’m serious. You know I hate smelling that stuff.”
She rolled her eyes, tossed it in Carmella’s trash, and then returned. “Okay. What happened?”
“Okay. So, it’s almost closing time, and this guy had been checking me out. I started giving him the eye. You know, letting him know that I knew he was looking. Then, when I was going to the bathroom, he said something. He was so hot. Short dark hair, and these eyes.” I leaned the broom against my chair and let out a long breath. “They were like a shark’s eyes. Kind of grayish, and crazy sexy. He had this presence. It was weird. When he was talking, I just stared at his eyes like a complete idiot.”
She flopped into her chair and began swiveling back and forth. “What happened? Did you hook up with him?”
“Kind of,” I said. “But not really.”
“Sucked his dick in the parking lot, didn’t you?”
I hadn’t, but I wasn’t beyond doing so. In my overeager attempts to land a mate, I’d found myself in some questionable sexual situations.
I pressed my hands to my hips and did my best to act appalled by her comment. “No.”
“What happened?”
“He invited me over for drinks. He had this place on the beach.” I stretched my arms wide. “Like, a massive place. A mansion. The whole back side of it was glass--”
“Did it have an outdoor deck and pool and stuff?” she asked excitedly.
I searched my drunken memory bank and came up with nothing, but responded in the affirmative anyway. It wasn’t like any of the details were going to matter.
“Big deck, and a huge pool, why?”
She continued swiveling. “Tell me you boned on the deck while listening to the ocean.”
“I’d love to. Seriously. But that’s not what happened.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened?”
“If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you. Stop interrupting.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“The place was like a hospital,” I said. “Spotless.”
Her face contorted. “What place?”
“His house.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was spotless.”
“His house?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okaaaay.” She leaned forward. “I thought we were talking about--”
“No. Like creepy spotless. Everything was white. White cabinets, white walls, white furniture. What wasn’t white, was glass. There wasn’t one picture on the walls. Not. A. Single. One.”
“Sounds like he was a clean freak.”
“He was a murderer,” I said authoritatively.
She planted her feet. Her spinning chair came to a screeching halt. “A murderer?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Her eyes shot wide. “What?” she whispered harshly. “A murderer?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
She relaxed and then shot me a sideways look. “I thought you were being serious.”
“I am. Kind of. I think I was so drunk I just flipped out with all the cleanliness. When I woke up this morning, I felt like an idiot.”
She shook her head in disbelief, and then looked at me. “So, you didn’t do anything?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
I slumped my shoulders. “Nothing.”
“A super-hot gray-eyed guy who had a mansion on the beach, and you didn’t do anything?”
I couldn’t tell her that I took off running while he was mixing a drink. I opted to provide a modified version of the truth.
“I just left.”
“You left? He’s all sexy and wanting to bone, and you just said, sorry, your place is too clean, I’m leaving?”
It all seemed foolish now that it was over, but at the time, I was sure he was planning to tie me up and skin me alive.
Despite my desire to keep what happened a semi-secret, somehow, the truth slipped out.
“He was mixing a drink in the kitchen, and I flipped out. I thought he was a serial killer, so I took off.”
“Took off? Like, how?”
“Grabbed my purse and ran out the front door. I may or may not have been screaming.”
“Seriously? That’s ridiculous. Even for you.”
I looked away. It really was ridiculous. Embarrassed by my drunken departure, I met her gaze and offered an apologetic response. “Yeah.”
She slid off the edge of the chair and shot me a long look of contempt. After folding her arms over her chest, she shook her head lightly. “And you wonder why you’re single.”
“I’ve got an overactive imagination,” I said. “It’s Netflix. I’ve got to stop binging on the cop shows. I’m drawn to detectives. They fascinate me.”
F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7) Page 121