Page 3 of Love Me Dangerous

“Can I get a table in the back?” I nod at the empty one at the end of the long row that will allow me a full view of both the diner and the parking lot. It’s also next to the restroom.

She plucks a thick plastic menu from the slot by the cashier podium with the same hand holding the coffee pot and spins away, her steps fast.

I follow her down a walkway between the low booths lining the window and the counter where diners are seated on stools that face the kitchen. A cook in a white apron is in constant motion at the flat grill, and waitstaff breeze through for more coffee or to plate up their orders.

My waitress pauses only briefly to deliver the plate of food in her left hand to a man sitting alone, then hurries to the table I picked out. She sets down the menu as I slip off my pack and slide into the seat.

“Coffee?” She turns over the thick ceramic mug upside down on a paper coaster in front of me.

I barely nod before she fills it to the rim.

“I’ll give you a minute.” She spins away.

Being around this many people is risky, but I calm my nerves by cradling the heavy cup warmed by the coffee. Inhale the rich scents of cooking food. Appreciate the soft padding of the bench seat and the chance to rest, even if only for a little while.

After a quick scan of the menu, I decide to splurge on eggs over easyon sourdough with hash browns. The bacon is tempting, but it’s an extra four dollars.

I slide out my sketchbook and flip to a blank page. In school, I didn’t have much use for art. But it helps pass the time. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep tabs on the parking lot. Cars coming and going. People walking from gas pumps to the convenience store. Truckers having a smoke.

“What’ll it be?” my waitress asks, her gaze sweeping over my sketch before meeting my eyes. If she’s surprised at the image taking shape, it doesn’t show on her face.

I give her my order, and while she tops up my coffee, I ask, “Do the lines at the border get long?”

Her mouth crimps into a thoughtful grimace. “Fridays and weekends, it’ll back up to the bridge, especially in summer. You here for the concert?”

I don’t answer, but I get the feeling she wasn’t expecting one. When she bustles off, I get a view down the open corridor to the convenience store and the group of people filtering in—a mix of guys and young women.

My neck prickles. It’s the two groups from last night, including the young woman in the white sundress, and her friends. The guys are there, too—four in total. I must have missed one of them last night.

I return to my sketch but can’t ignore my curiosity about the group mingling inside the convenience store. If they’re here together, what I broke up last night wasn’t a random encounter.

When my waitress slides the giant oval plate in front of me, I glance up to thank her, but a figure in the convenience store archway catches my attention. It’s the young woman. Today, she’s wearing faded jeans and a blue tank top, her honey-brown hair loose about her pretty face. Last night in the dark, I didn’t notice her blue eyes and long lashes, or the rosy-pink shade of her lips.

My waitress leans in to refill my coffee, cutting off my view. When she hurries away, the entryway is vacant.

Hunger pangs needle my stomach, but I force myself to eat slowly. Savor the crunch of the toasted sourdough soaked in the egg yolk and the hearty texture of the hash browns. When my plate is bare, I’m stillhungry, but I’m used to it. I gulp down some water, then remember I still need to tend to the business of stashing my pay.

A horse trailer pulls into the parking lot, the truck’s door blazed with a logo. Probably a rodeo rider or a breeder. It gives me an idea.

After tucking the orange wedges I was saving for dessert into my napkin, I slip from my booth and shoulder my pack. Inside the bathroom, I choose the farthest stall down.

Public bathrooms are a lifeline for anyone transient. I’ve never had to sleep in one, but I’ve come close. Inside the stall, I hang up my pack and take out my cash, then parcel it out. Forty bucks in the side zipper pouch. A hundred in the hidden sleeve inside, two hundred in the secret hollow I carved out of my shoe’s insole, and two twenties in my pocket.

Someday, I’ll be safe enough that these extra steps won’t be necessary. I’ll be able to fill my days with honest work and fall asleep without worrying about who might be waking me up.

I’m just zipping up after taking a leak when someone else enters the bathroom. I hold back from flushing, which will make my presence obvious. But my wait for them to do their business and leave drags on, so I peek through the crack in the door just as a guy unfolds a pill from a square of foil and slips it between his teeth. From the sink, he scoops water into his mouth and tosses his head back to swallow. In the mirror, his tense expression calms as he finger-combs his hair. I recognize him—he’s the missing guy from last night’s group.

He wipes his hands with a towel and shoots the wadded-up paper into the trash bin like it’s a fadeaway jump shot. With a snort of satisfaction, he strides for the door.

When he’s gone, I flush and shoulder my pack. I wash my hands and scrub my face at the sink, then use paper towels to dry. Outside the restroom, my table’s been cleared. The waitress is busy with another table, so I walk to the cashier. In the parking lot, the horse trailer is still there. So are the two groups from last night's show, socializing between a couple of cars, one of them a restored CJ-7.

“Um, I need to pay,” I say to the woman at the cashier stand wiping down a stack of menus.

She frowns. “Didn’t Darleen drop off your check?”

I glance at my table, butit’s been reset. “No.”

My waitress breezes by carrying a load of empty plates. “She paid it.” She nods toward the group outside. “And a nice tip, too. Thank her for me, will you, hon?”

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