All The Ugly Things (Love and Lies Duet Book 1)

by Stacey Lynn

  But I could do this. For Josh. For Candace for believing in me. And most of all, for me, because six years ago I was forced into making a decision that would haunt me forever, but now—

  Now, I could live for me.

  2

  Lilly

  Ten Months Later

  Judith Falkner was a terrifying woman, and I’d spent six years in prison, so that was saying something. Heavyset and round, she had onyx eyes and hair to match. Harsh features with her painted-on eyebrows and blood-red lipstick, the first day I stepped into her diner, Judith’s, at the recommendation of Ellen, my knees knocked together so hard I was certain she heard them. I was positive she could smell my fear.

  It amazed me to this day how her diner could make a decent turnover when she was borderline rude to the customers, took no shit from anyone—not even her husband Chaz who did the cooking—and after six months of working here, I’d yet to see her smile.

  The diner wasn’t the first place I worked after getting set up with my parole officer. I was lucky that Ellen seemed to really care about finding a good fit because the first few jobs were pretty ugly. Luckily, she seemed to understand the reason why they didn’t work out wasn’t because of me or my job performance, but other circumstances and she hadn’t quit trying to find me somewhere I’d be comfortable.

  Judith gave me a job when getting a job was nearly impossible, and for that, I’d spent the last six months trying to get on her good side. Last week, I was pretty sure I almost saw a hint of a smile. Maybe.

  Progress.

  She came toward me where I was setting up my area behind the diner’s countertop bar where in between customers, I tried to study. “Have a good night, Judith. Pies look incredible as always.”

  She untied her apron and flung it into the laundry bin where our uniforms went every night. “They better. Been doin’ this long enough.”

  She huffed and poured a fresh cup of coffee into a travel mug. I was certain caffeine fueled her body instead of blood.

  I grinned down at my accounting notebook. “Drive safe and get some rest.”

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Don’t do anything stupid tonight.” She slammed her hand against the metal swinging doors, jolting the two customers we had at two different tables out of their late-night musings, and left.

  I grinned at the customers and then checked to see if their coffee was topped up before I skirted back behind the bar.

  We served greasy, fatty food few people other than truckers, bikers, and drunks wanted. Right off I-80, most of the customers were truckers looking for a late-night fix before they got back on the road overnight, or a thick meal that clung to their bones before they slept. The strip club up the street brought in interesting characters in the earliest morning hours.

  When Judith hired me, she explained all this and asked if I could hack it.

  “I spent six years in prison, ma’am. I can handle a few drunks and boob grabs.”

  “Hmph. We’ll see.” She tossed me an apron and asked my measurements for a uniform — putrid green with a white collar, it buttoned up and flared out above my knees like we were extras in the movie Grease—the original one. I started two days later.

  Outside the occasional lewd comment, and as suspected, boob and ass grabs, working the graveyard shift wasn’t all bad. Some nights, it was the best thing for me.

  The nights were hardest since getting released. During the day, I could keep busy, go for walks and attend the nearby community college to finally finish a degree. They had an inmate prison partnership with the women’s prison I attended, which meant my schooling cost a minimal amount, most of it funded through the state. They believed prisoners who got degrees were less likely to reoffend and end up back behind chain-link fences and drab gray walls.

  I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance for most. Too many women had too long of histories. Hell, I was in prison with a grandma, mom, and daughter all at once. Three generations, a life they couldn’t escape even when they tried. For some, a degree didn’t do jack when they left prison and ended up right back in old neighborhoods.

  But me?

  I had nothing else to do with my time except at least try to get a decent job. Something where I could work hard, nine to five, upgrade my rundown studio apartment to a one-bedroom, and then spend the next however many years I had, enjoying my freedom.

  I’d once had elusive, far-reaching dreams. Plans. Goals.

  Those changed the night Josh died.

  During the day I could stay busy enough so I didn’t think about anything else but what was right in front of me. It was the silence of the night that ate at me, where my mind couldn’t still. It took years in prison to learn how to forget about what I had before, what was taken from me—what I took from myself.

  It was harder with the taste of freedom on my tongue and the feel of it in my fingertips. When I could lie down in a bed that was only slightly thicker than my cell mattress, where I could wrap myself in a fuzzy, warm blanket from the Dollar General and stare at the stars and imagine I was right back in my bedroom in my parents’ house, with Josh down the hall and at least the pretense of happiness within the walls of our home.

  That illusion shattered in a glorious mess of steel and glass and blood, and I was still paying the price.

  So yeah, I didn’t mind the night shift and the occasional lewd comments from truckers or drunks who thought a waitress at a diner would do the same things the dancers at the strip club offered. Chaz, with his biceps as big as tree trunks and his face as mean as a starving lion, handled them quickly and kept me safe.

  It was skirting nine-thirty when a customer came in. I was head down in my accounting, numbers and concepts blurring together. Math I could do. Hell, science I could do. Who knew what happened when accounting was placed in front of me, but everything went sideways as I studied, restudied, crumbled papers into wastebaskets, and tried again.

  The beep of his key fob alerted me to his arrival right before the jarring bell dinged above the door when he walked in.

  Like always, he nodded his head in my direction. My gaze stayed on him as he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper full head of hair. He was tall, the kind of guy you knew still tried to take care of himself as best he can. And it worked, because even though he was probably close to my father’s age, he was still handsome in the way you knew when he was in his late twenties. He had it going on. He dripped money in an easy manner that told me life had been easy for him, successful, and that he smiled and laughed a lot.

  “Good evening, Lilly,” he said, and went straight to what I now called his chair at the other end of the bar opposite me.

  He didn’t fit here, didn’t belong, and yet for the last few months, he came in once or twice a week, at first three, now less. Sometimes only every other week. Once he noticed my name tag and started calling me my name, I memorized his from his credit card.

  “Need a menu tonight, Mr. Valentine?”

  “No, but you can call me David like I’ve asked you to do the last thirty times I’ve come in here.”

  No way. I didn’t trust this guy.

  From the Lexus out front to the cut of his suit, the style of his hair, and the shine of his shoes, this man dripped wealth, almost equal to the family who raised me.

  He was a puzzle piece I didn’t quite like, and I learned early in prison to keep an eye on anyone who didn’t fit. He definitely didn’t fit in a rundown diner with chipped Formica countertops and peeling, cracked vinyl booths. I’d asked Judith if he was some long-time regular or something.

  She never saw him before. Not until he started coming in one late night in July, which I remembered because it was the night of my twenty-fifth birthday.

  He was always polite. He talked some, not a lot and nothing deep. He ate a slice of pie, sipped his decaf coffee, left a twenty-dollar tip, and then left, beeping his locks before he reached his vehicle.

  Once he was seated, he laid out his iPad on top of files. The same thing h
e always did. Reading glasses to the side, keys tucked into his pocket. “What kind of pie did Judith whip up today?”

  Despite Judith’s gruff demeanor with her customers, I figured Judith’s survived as long as it had due to the pies alone. In the tiny closet she called an office, she had over two dozen award ribbons for her pies from the Iowa State Fair. The last one was given to her twenty years ago, the first thirty-five. I always wanted to ask her why she either stopped submitting her pies for the competition, or why she stopped winning. Initiating a conversation with Judith was about as pleasant as slamming your fist into a cement wall. Besides, I doubted she’d answer. Talking wasn’t her thing. People weren’t either. Baking, however, she rocked at it.

  “Lemon meringue, apple, pecan, and French silk.”

  His eyes twinkled. He had a kind smile with sad eyes. It was the sadness I liked about him. The smile unnerved me, so I rarely looked at him when he did. While I rattled off the list, I grabbed a small bowl with creamers and a coffee cup for him.

  “Apple pie would be excellent.”

  “I assumed.” I tried to give him the same matching, kind grin, but it always felt forced and awkward. “Be right back with it.”

  “No rush, Lilly. I’m not in a hurry.”

  He said it every time. But what else did I have to do? The two single tabletops were still at their tables, both refused more coffee so I’d brought them ice water. It wasn’t like the place was hopping. Mr. Valentine always came in during the lull between the dinner crowd and the bar-closing late-night patrons.

  I grabbed the coffee pot from its holder and filled his mug while he reached for his iPad and glasses. He worked when he came in, studied graphs on his iPad or spreadsheets in his files. He wore glasses when he read on the iPad, kept them nearby when he studied paper.

  Tonight, when I brought him his pie, he was scrolling through a bright screen on his iPad, looking up mechanics.

  “Something wrong with your car?”

  It was potentially the first question I’d ever asked him. Despite learning my name, we didn’t really talk all that often and I rarely made small talk with my customers. Asking questions, even the few regulars, meant eventually I’d have questions asked of me, and I could guarantee they were ones I wouldn’t want to answer. If he was surprised by it, he didn’t show it.

  “Maybe. Looking to see if there was a place open before I headed home. Doesn’t look like it, though. Long shot anyway at this time of night, I suppose.”

  “What is it?”

  “Smelled funny and made some strange clunking noise on the way here.”

  He drove a Lexus SUV, not new, not old though. Old enough it was probably outside the extended warranty. Although, since he probably had enough money to fix anything that could go wrong, he wouldn’t have purchased that anyway.

  Based on his description, I could have diagnosed it with eighty percent certainty without looking beneath the hood. This was something I should leave well enough alone. He could afford a tow truck to get him where he needed to go and then a taxi ride home.

  Still, something, perhaps the sadness in his eyes I connected with, spurred me forward.

  “I can take a look at it.”

  “You?” That time, his eyes widened.

  All inmates had to learn a skill. Mine was auto mechanics. Only because we could work in a garage. On warm days we could open the bay doors. It gave me more outdoor time. Turned out I was good at it. Better than sweating bullets in the laundry room or kitchen. It was even better than working in the prison’s hair salon area. That felt too close to dreams I had as a little girl and once I went to prison, all those dreams died.

  “I can take a look at it while you’re eating.”

  He blinked. Hesitated. I got it.

  I was a washed-up nobody at a nowhere diner where for some reason he liked to stop in, probably on his way home from a long day of making millions.

  “I won’t steal it.” My cheeks burned, embarrassed I even felt the need to assure him. I shouldn’t have to say it. There once was a point in my life I was trusted implicitly because of who I was… because of who my family was. I barely remembered those days.

  “Didn’t even think that about you. More surprised you’re offering, is all. How about after I eat we go out together and you can show me what you’re doing.”

  He still didn’t trust me. Fine by me. I hadn’t had anyone trust me since…

  Whatever.

  “Sure, Mr. Valentine.”

  “David.” He grinned then, that easy smile and for some reason, it almost made me cry. I turned before he could notice the burn of my cheeks or the rapid blink of my eyes to brush it all away.

  Being deemed untrustworthy was a common occurrence these days. Pretty sure Judith always had Chaz check the till after I left.

  But I didn’t go to jail because I was a thief.

  I went because I killed someone—even if I didn’t actually do the killing.

  I pretended to go back to studying balance sheets, unable to focus on my work with my mind spinning. I crossed a line with him tonight. Did I regret it? Was it too late to take it back? Surely, he’d asked how I learned about engines. Then I’d have to answer… or lie? This was why I didn’t ask questions. This was exactly why I didn’t want to answer them. When he requested his check, I ripped it off the pad and handed it to him, waited while he pulled out his billfold, thick and heavy with cash. And slid out his credit card.

  By the time I rang him out, he’d left a tip tucked beneath his coffee mug and gathered his iPad and files into his arms.

  I followed him out to his SUV, cursing myself. I should have stayed in my lane, ignored him, let him do his thing.

  Probably not too smart to back out and change my mind now, though, at least not without looking like an absolute moron.

  “It might surprise you, or maybe not, but I don’t even have the faintest idea how to open the hood.”

  I’d figured he was the kind of guy who’d never worked on his own car. But to admit that so easily? I blinked, almost impressed he’d admit it. In my experience, men with money like he clearly had would rather go down with a sinking ship than admit weakness.

  “There should be a lever to the bottom left of your steering wheel.”

  I waited at the front while he opened his door, fumbled for far too long before I heard the latch loosen. It took me just seconds to find the locking lever and I pushed it to the side. I had the hood raised and was checking the oil when he met me at the front. Based on the obvious sweet smell he already mentioned, I already figured the problem, but I might as well check it.

  “It’s impressive you know your way around an engine.”

  “Because I’m a girl?”

  I kept my head down. No way was I telling him how I learned how to do basic mechanic work.

  “Apologies if that offends you. Also, because you’re young and still in school.”

  I’d brought out paper towels with me figuring I’d need them, so I wiped off the dipstick. Oil was at a good level and good color.

  Sliding it back into place, I asked, “Do you get regular maintenance on this? It’s only a few years old, right?”

  “Six. And yes, I get maintenance. If I forget, my son usually takes it in so I’m not sure when the last time it was serviced.”

  Of course. He had far too many other more important things in his life to worry about a vehicle he could probably turn in tomorrow in order to buy something brand new.

  He surprised me when he stated, “My bet, at a place like this, there’s a high turnover.”

  “Sure. Probably.” I was bent over his hood, propped up on my tiptoes due to the height of the engine in his SUV. I found the coolant cap and untwisted it. That’s where the smell was coming from, I was almost sure of it. A syrupy tang was in the air that had nothing to do with the pancakes I’d served to a customer earlier.

  “You been here a while.”

  “Few months.” The first couple jobs I had were r
ougher. One in a rundown garage where the male workers liked to crack jokes about my ass while I was in a position similar to this. I lasted two weeks. One of them grabbed my ass and when I told him to knock it off, two other mechanics came up to his side. All three caged me in. Had it not been for the sound of the garage opening, a sign the boss was returning from his lunch break, I don’t know what would have happened. I called Ellen that night and told her if she couldn’t help me find something else I’d be going back to prison for assault.

  Getting out of prison was almost worse than being in it. At least inside, you knew your role. You found a clique and you were relatively protected. Mine was pretty low security but that didn’t mean entirely safe.

  Still, some days I wished for those metal bars and small windows and dreary, gray chipped walls.

  Outside, I was nothing. No one. Just another ex-con who screwed up.

  Except I didn’t. Which made it all the worse.

  “You’re a good worker. Take pride in your job.”

  “I’m a waitress on the late shift at a diner that serves questionable people, present company excluded, of course, but I’m not exactly going places.”

  “What do you do during the day?”

  Why was he so damn curious all of a sudden? My ire spiked and I cleaned off my hands, stepping back and leaving the coolant uncapped.

  “Community college.”

  “So you are motivated to go places?”

  That was enough questions for the night.

  “Coolant,” I said. “You’re low on it. That’s probably the grinding noise, but it’s definitely the smell. Might have a leak in the lines somewhere I can’t see. Think we might actually have some in the storage room if you want me to check. Enough to get you home safe, anyway.”

  “You keep coolant in a diner?”

  “Not all of us have the luxury of triple-A or glamorous vehicles.” I pointed to the emblem at the front of his SUV. He flinched and I almost felt bad for being rude to him. He’d always been kind, at the very least, polite.