Page 77 of Cruel Cravings

There was a reason I happened upon it, and that must’ve been because I wasn’t supposed to go with Brontë.

We’d come to form our own eccentric relationship. We weren’t friends but we weren’t enemies either. We weren’t lovers despite having sex and sharing in a few kisses. I wasn’t even sure if I could trust him or if I was letting my feelings get in the way.

He has some kind of ability to get through to me. Some silent, telepathic trick where he lowers my defenses and draws me in.

I can’t let him distract me. I have to focus on finding my sister and he won’t even tell me how.

“Excuse me…” I wave my hand at the waitress behind the counter and wait for her to look over. “Can you check on my order? It’s very important. I’m on that bus about to depart?—”

“Your order will be ready in order that it was received.”

She turns her back on me again.

I scowl and then make a snap decision to take matters into my own hands. It’s the kind of spontaneous decision-making I’m known for and that Nurse Big Bird used to say gets me into too much trouble back when I was a patient at the hospital.

If I didn’t get my way, I’d find a way to get my way.

…which usually involved breaking a few rules.

Now is one of those times as I slip down the hall on the side of the diner. Instead of pivoting to one of the restrooms (there are three, one for men, one for women and a family one), I go left into the kitchens.

Nobody notices me at first.

I breeze past the counters as the fry cook and his assistant rush to complete various orders. While they’re plating some chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, I’m stopping at what appears to be the sandwich station to throw together some ingredients.

Turkey. Ham. American cheese. Lettuce and tomato.

I’m squirting a generous amount of mayo on the wheat bread when the assistant finally notices me. He’s carrying a plate of chili cheese fries as he turns around and then jumps back, losing his balance. The plate crashes to the floor and he staggers backward into the counter.

“Who the fuck is this?” the fry cook yells.

“Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute! I already paid for this, by the way!” My hands scramble, wrapping the sloppy sandwich up in some deli paper.

They start toward me, faces red with anger. I duck under them and beeline for the emergency exit on the side.

The fresh evening air caresses me the second I step outside and leave them yelling in my wake. They have way too many orders to worry about someone who snuck a sandwich through (that I already paid for).

I come around the back of the diner with my sights set on the front of the parking lot where the bus is still boarding: the opposite direction of the motel.

The ticket says the bus departs at five-thirty. Minutes before sunset, only to arrive by midnight.

It’s almost full. I pick up the pace, walking faster around the side of the diner.

Not so far now…

I’m closing the gap, adrenaline thumping at the pulse point of my neck.

Brontë appears from behind a dumpster stationed at the side of the building. He steps into my direct path. He’s got the minotaur mask on, his stance like a bull that’s ready to charge.

I stumble to a halt, the sandwich dropping from my hand and splattering on the ground.

FUCKKK!

I take half a step back, my stomach pitting. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like. I told you I was getting something to eat.”

He lets silence answer as he takes a wide step toward me. I take two more back.

“Brontë,” I say slowly. “I’ll scream… if you try anything… I swear that I’ll—STAY BACK!”

---