Page 45 of Five Brothers

Mariette mutters something in Spanish, and I’m probably glad I don’t understand.

“Where does this go?” the new girl, Summer, asks.

I drop the burger in front of Bud Kyler and take the platter from her in my free hand. “Davey always has the crawfish.” I set it down in front of him and his friend who have stopped here every day this week on their lunch breaks.

He smiles, and I wink.

“You need a refill?”

He nods. “Coke.”

I take his cup, hand it to Summer, and push off, cruising toward the window and skidding left.

“She can move in those skates!” Miguel Padron says.

I race behind the counter, stuff more straws into my apron, and fill a third Coke, grabbing the two others off the soda fountain. “Yeah, they make me faster, Mariette.”

“Let her wear ’em, Mariette!” someone else calls out.

“So she can sue me when she breaks her leg?” my boss spits back.

I drop off the Cokes at table three and twirl around, skatingbackward. “Actually, I’d be suing Macon, since he technically owns the place, and even I’m not that stupid.”

Hands suddenly grab my waist, catching me, and I jolt, looking over my shoulder.

Macon looks down at me, and the heat from his body instantly hits me.

I gulp, just as the screen door flaps closed behind him. I almost crashed into him.

Tingles spread under my skin, and a jolt hits low in my belly. I stop breathing for a second.

He’s never touched me. Not even a handshake or a brush of his shoulder.

I hold back my nervous laugh and turn around. “I have your lunch,” I tell him.

I start for the counter to grab the to-go box under the warmer where I packaged the bun separate from the meat, so it wouldn’t get soggy, but he stops me before I get there.

“I’m not hungry,” he says. He pulls the mail out of the slot on the wall and starts flipping through. “Reheat it for dinner and drop it off when you leave today.”

So he can just throw it away again?

I slip my hands in my pockets. I didn’t think much of it when I noticed all the uneaten food in the garage trash can last week, but he’s taken his lunch only twice while I’ve been working here. The other times it’s left on the worktable in the garage, untouched. He hasn’t joined the guys for dinner, and I haven’t been taking him anything then, either. Nor has anyone else from Mariette’s that I can tell. No idea if he’s eating breakfast. His brothers are big eaters. What’s going on with him?

He scans the envelopes, stuffs them back into the holder, and heads for the kitchen door. I slide out of the way, seeing his eyes briefly look down at the skates before he disappears.

Trace and Army stroll in next, the former shouting, “Food!”

“How you doing?” someone asks them from a table as they pass.

“Hey, man.” Trace shakes a hand.

A round of shouts goes off.

“Hey!

“What’s up?”

“Tomorrow, right?”

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