Page 7 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Nope,” I lie. Someone has bacon, and I’mthisclose to selling a kidney for a bite. “Toast is great.”

I hate toast unless I have strawberry jam.

“Alright, that’ll be out in a jiffy.”

She heads back to the kitchen, and I twist my fingers around in front of me. I don’t have a phone—it’s too easy to track. I left the only book I have back in the room, and besides, I’ve read it probably six times in the last six months.

So . . . with nothing to do, I look around. The diner is old and rundown, but like most places like this, it seems to be a favorite among the local elderly population. That means they have good coffee, something I haven’t had in months because I’m too afraid to use the motel coffee makers. I’ve heard the horror stories about urine.

“Here we are,” June returns, but instead of the toast I had ordered, she sits two plates of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon on the table with two glasses of soda.

I just stare at her when she slips into the booth opposite me.

“Well, aren’t you going to eat?” she asks, reaching for a fork.

God, it smells amazing.

“I ordered toast,” I whisper as if she hasn’t realized what she placed in front of me.

“I know,” she nods. “And I brought it.” She points to the piece of wheat toast on the edge of the plate. “Don’t make me eat alone. I’ll feel like a pig.”

“June, I can’t pay for this.”

She fixes me with a bored stare.

“Robby cooked up scrambled eggs instead of sunny side up,” she rolls her eyes as if Robby fucks up eggs all the time. “That means it’s free. More for us, I guess,” she shrugs and dives into her matching plate.

I really,reallyshouldn’t.

My stomach grumbles again, and June looks at me, clearly judging me.

“Fine,” I grumble, grabbing my fork.

“What’s your name?”

“Casey,” I lie. I’ve used a different name for every city I’ve gone through. My last name was Matilda.

When no one knows who you are, who’s to argue if your name is believable or not?

“No one’s going to take it from you,” she admonishes when I shovel the eggs in my mouth.

God, I could die; they’re so good.

“How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Oh, I had a granola bar yesterday,” I say, not even realizing what I’ve just told her about myself in a single sentence.

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth.

Fuck.

“Girl’s got to eat,” she chastises. “Otherwise, you may as well have just stayed with whoever gave you that scar.” She points to the scar on my forehead, and instantly, I move to cover it with the brim of my hat. She reaches out, pulls my hat back, and inspects the mark. “Fucker got you good, didn’t he?”

I don’t bother to tell her it wasn’t a lover like she’s probably thinking. Just a psychopath who caught me when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Did it hurt?”

“Well, it didn’t feel good.”

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