Page 6 of Moros

“Don’t over-think it.” Boss tapped my knee affectionately. “There are worse things in the world than having lunch with a pretty woman.”

“I didn’t say she was pretty.”

Boss arched a brow while shrugging then standing with a groan. He did what he always did after he’d been sitting for too long—arched his body backward, before lacing his fingers high above his head to stretch his spine.

Physically, we didn’t leave our deployments the same. We were older and while I chose to use my degree to start working on motorcycles for a living, Boss stayed in the action—became a cop.

“I should go.” Boss told me while putting out his cigar. “Thanks for the beers and the company, but my Uber is almost here. Maybe get some rest and think about it.”

I would offer to give him a ride, but we’d been drinking.

After a hug, I walked him inside to gather his things.

His ride arrived and I escorted him to it. We bumped fists and I stood back to watch as he climbed into the vehicle. Before it disappeared down the street and away from the cul-de-sac, I had the license plate memorized even though Boss had set his account to notify me each time he got into an Uber.

Old habit, I supposed.

Once he was gone, I checked the time. It was just after ten at night—Dude should still be awake, so I called.

“You’re a hard man to get a hold of.” Dude spoke into the receiver.

I guess he figured who was calling based on the fact my number showed up as unknown on his phone.

Another little habit from a lifetime ago.

“What did you tell her about me?” I asked.

“That we were still looking.” Dude replied. “That you were technically a ghost. I don’t know why you’re hiding—she just wants to see the face of the man who saved her.”

“This face?”

Dude sighed.

“Moros, you can’t hide from the opposite sex forever.”

“I’m sure going to give it a try.” I frowned. “And I’m not hiding. I just—I know my limits. Just tell her she doesn’t need to thank me—that I did what anyone else would have done.”

“Bullshit.”

I rubbed a hand over my face.

“At least think about it, okay?” Dude pushed. “I’m going to send you some info on her. And before you make a decision, know she’s stubborn.”

“Just fucking great.”

I hung up and within a few minutes, the information Dude promised was sent. I went inside and sat in the living room skimming through it. By the time I was finished, I dressed in all black, grabbed my helmet and a few other things and climbed onto my Harley.

The diner was falling apart.

Someone exited and slammed the door a little too hard and it fell off the top hinges.

And overweight man who looked like he should have a cigarette hanging out a corner of his mouth to go with his grease covered apron, a t-shirt and tattered khakis came out to fix it then disappeared back into the semi-busy establishment.

In one of the front windows, a red neon signed tried to burn it into my cornea that they sold the b st c eesebur ers around.

I wasn’t sure why they didn’t just change the bulbs in the sign?—

It was making me feel as if I was suffering from OCD and that my brain was glitching trying to read the damn thing.

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