Page 22 of The Finish Line

“Two things,” I mumble, lifting the screen to type the last of my email. “I would like a club sandwich, fries, and your phone number.”

“You are such a bastard.”

“Your bastard,” I remind her, unlocking my phone and pushing it across the counter. “And he can order all the fucking eggs and coffee he wants here, but he doesn’t get to look at you like that.”

She stalks off through the double doors of the kitchen. Seconds later, a petite blonde with a head full of messy curls saunters toward me. It’s then I know Cecelia’s back there hiding.

“Has Cecelia got you?” she asks in a sickly-sweet voice.

“By the balls,” I mutter, shooting off the email.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve ordered, thank you. But—” I lean over and engage her—“please make sure she’s not back there with a box of rat poison.” She laughs like it’s hysterical and leans over, giving me an eyeful of cleavage that I opt out of.

“Now, why would she do a thing like that?”

“Ex-boyfriend.” I wrinkle my nose. “She’s not my biggest fan.”

Her jaw slackens. “You’re the bastard?”

“In the flesh. So, you know about me?”

Good.

She narrows her eyes. She knows enough.

Not good.

“Oh, I’ll make sure we take really good care of you.”

And I’m no longer eating here.

*

“You from out of town?”

Perched on the stool, I peck at the keyboard on my Mac next to my untouched club. The question was raised by an old-timer who’s spent the majority of the time since his arrival scrutinizing me. Cecelia’s been mostly avoiding me since our earlier exchange. When she realized I wasn’t leaving, she had no choice but to resume her shift. She pauses her fifteenth wipe of the counter, her circles in three, no doubt just to fuck with me, in wait of my response.

“Just moved here,” I reply over the top of my screen. Though much older than me, he’s got near-perfect posture, a thick silver mane, and appears meticulously groomed. Ex-military.

“Moved from where?”

“Not far.”

“What for?”

“I guess you could say I just switched careers.”

“What were you doing?” the man asks, his tone a little louder than socially appropriate, no doubt due to some hearing loss.

“Lot of this and that. Mostly, I was in service.”

Cecelia snorts.

“Military?” he yells across the bar. “Ah, I got you. I served in ’Nam. So, is this your first week back as a civilian?”

Cecelia watches me, and I smirk. “Exactly.”

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