Page 13 of Deacon

I look up. Andy stands at the corner, four bags hanging from his hands. He’s a tall, wiry man with white hair. Today, he’s wrapped up in a thick coat, the collar poking up to his jawline.

“Hell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, just cold. You go on to the truck, and I’ll grab a coffee.”

“Get me one,” he says, skirting around me.

He heads to the back parking lot. I give myself a short pep talk and cross the side street, alighting at the curb on the opposite side. When I circle around to the front window of the café, the crowd has died down. I pull open the door and step into the cramped space.

It’s just Tracy standing behind the counter. We’ve spoken at city meetings plenty of times before. She’s a kind woman of about sixty who owns a handful of businesses downtown. The café is her baby, so she spends most of her time here. It surprises me she hired someone to help.

There’s a man waiting ahead. He wants to shoot the shit with Tracy. He keeps talking about the weather, and it’s really fucking grating on me, but I stand as patiently as I can until he heads out the door.

Tracy looks up, tucking a strand of reddish hair behind her ear. “Look who the devil dragged in,” she says.

I lean on the counter. “I know a coffee is two dollars, but how much is information?”

Her brows push together. She goes to fill a paper cup with black coffee.

“What do you want to know?”

“You hired somebody,” I point out. “Make that two coffees. I got Andy in the truck.”

She nods. “I did, from the new family who moved here from Kentucky. What about it?”

“I want to know about her,” I say firmly.

Tracy sets my cup down, brow raised. “No.”

“What?”

“No,” she says. “You’re a bit of a whore. And a menace.”

“Tracy,” I say, giving her my best pleading eyes. “That hurts.”

She presses her lips together and crosses her arms. I’m losing her, I can tell.

“I just want to ask. I won’t touch,” I promise.

I’m lying. I’d like to touch that girl, maybe convince her to let me take her out and spend some time touching her in my truck.

Or take her home.

That trips me up. I never take women home. Ever. I prefer to fornicate in neutral locations, like the bathrooms of bars or sex clubs. The realization that I’d like to take this girl to my home, bring her up to my bed, after a single look at her is unsettling.

This isn’t normal for me. My eyes drop, and everything comes to a screeching halt. There’s a ribbon on the countertop. Fern-green, one side velvet. The shade is so familiar, but I can’t place where I know it from.

“Deacon?”

I bring my focus back to Tracy. She’s watching me with a pitying expression.

“What’s her name?” I press.

Her lips thin. “Freya Hatfield.”

Her face swims into my mind. It’s the perfect name for a girl like her—soft but strong. A little wild.

“I know she’s pretty, Deacon,” she says, “but she’s been through a lot. I don’t want you making it worse. I like her. She’s real sweet, the customers love her. I’m hoping she can be trained to run the shop on her own a few days a week.”

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