Page 62 of Crossover

His lips pressed into a hard line.

“What?” I demanded.

“Our little stunt at the gas station put us on a bit more of a detour. We’ll meet up with them tomorrow.”

I froze, the complications cascading through my head like dominoes. First and foremost…

“I don’t want to stay away from her that long. She’s in danger because of me, and I want to be with her to try to keep her safe.”

“Red has that covered.”

“But…” But I couldn’t be alone with Grayson for that long.

“Now, come on. Let’s go find food.”

“I’m fine,” I claimed. Although if I were being honest, I did seriously regret not eating last night’s dinner. Maybe that’s why I got so lightheaded when the rotten-toothed rapist jumped me. I could’ve probably fought back a lot better if my muscles had any nutritional support.

“Starving won’t make time accelerate. You need sustenance. Let’s go.”

Crap.

I wish I had access to my phone right now so I could google, What are some excuses a girl can use to get away from her ordered killer?

“You need to eat. We’ll pop into a grocery store or something and come right back.”

Unable to think of another excuse to avoid him, I said, “I need to change my clothes and clean up first.”

Cleaning up didn’t involve soaking my body in water like I wanted; I had to settle for a washcloth and soap cleansing my exposed skin, but at least I had a change of clothes in my go-bag. Given the new complications, Grayson insisted I bring the bag back to the car after changing—just in case.

He was a wall of tense silence during the drive, his piercing eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors, hyper-alert for any hint of a problem. Given the corpse we’d left in the next town over, that threat felt increasingly imminent. We needed to stay off the radar.

The problem was, there were no grocery stores open at this hour, and going to another gas station with possible security cameras was “asking for it,” Grayson said.

Still, when he pulled into the parking lot of a diner, my eyeballs widened in surprise.

“We’ll place a quick to-go order.” Grayson stepped outside and opened my car door for me. “We’ll be in and out.”

But I froze for a second. And it wasn’t just the worry about taking too long that had me hesitating.

“This…this place looks like if we go inside, we might become the dinner on chicken skewers.”

“They don’t have surveillance.” Grayson pointed at various locations around theparking lot—aka a pile of asphalt that someone forgot to level while others must have blasted TNT throughout it to create the craters.

I reluctantly followed him to the front door.

“We should have bought some food at that gas station,” I mused, and once we stepped inside, I also wished we’d snagged some anti-diarrhea medicine.

I mean, as a nurse educated on parasites, the forecast for food poisoning was much higher than I’d normally subscribe to.

And if that’s how I felt, I couldn’t imagine what was going through Grayson’s mind.

Surely, a place like this wasn’t what a rich guy was used to. It was tiny, and the waitresses could not look more bored if their life depended on it—moving about the space with the enthusiasm of sloths on sedatives. Apparently, their lives didn’t depend on customer satisfaction. Rather than white tablecloths and fine wine, this place sported a line cook with a little bell that some sweaty guy in the back rang when an order came up. Instead of an elegant bar, there was a stained counter with red plastic barstools—some of which had rips repaired with duct tape.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Grayson flagged down a waitress, who glared at the interruption. “We need a to-go order.”

The waitress shoved a pencil behind her ear and punched a fist against her hip.

“We don’t do to-go orders, hon. You want to eat? You sit down like everyone else.”

---