Page 39 of Red Rooster

7

Turned out the bank opened at eight-thirty, and by nine they were seated across from one another in a window booth at Mosby’s Diner, steaming plates of ham and eggs in front of them, two-hundred dollars richer. Rooster had awakened starving that morning, and shoveled his food in with only a token stab at table manners. By contrast, Red only picked at hers, tired eyes downcast, hand limp on her fork.

“Eat,” he prodded, nudging her plate toward her.

One corner of her mouth lifted, a sad attempt at a smile. “I feel kinda sick.”

“That’s ‘cause you need to eat.”

She speared a wiggly clump of egg with her fork and looked at it dubiously. Her gaze slid to the laminated menu cards in their rack behind the salt and pepper shakers. “They have chocolate chip waffles,” she said, voice all innocence, and bit down on her lower lip in that way that meant she was trying, badly, to contain a smile.

Unlike her, Rooster had gotten very good at holding back smiles in these sorts of situations, content to enjoy the little blossom of warmth in his chest. “That shit’s just sugar.” He tried to sound stern. Which was a waste, because she’d never once been put off by that.

She looked up pleadingly through her lashes, green eyes catching light from the window, dazzling as gemstones. “I’ll eat the eggs, too. Promise.”

Rooster feigned a deep sigh and flagged down the waitress.

Red beamed at him, and it was the kind of smile that toppled kingdoms. God knew it had toppled him a long time ago.

~*~

Red loved diners. The blended smells of savory and sweet, thick curls of steam licking off the massive flat-tops behind the counter. She loved the clink of plates and cutlery, the outdated country music on the radio, the rustle of newspapers and controlled shouts of the kitchen staff as they worked at a lightning pace to get everyone’s food out. She loved the gleam of morning sunlight on the chrome of the stools, the glass of the bakery cases, the fake-maple syrup pouring down onto her waffles. She especially loved diners in the morning, when the world was waking up, when sitting in a booth felt like being a part of something bigger, like being involved in the mundane dramas of some small town where everyone’s biggest worry was finding a seat for the Friday night football games.

Across from her, Rooster choked down the last bite of his breakfast, pushed his plate away, and turned his gaze to the window and the street beyond, little line sprouting between his brows. On guard, as ever. Gone was the sleepy, pain-free man who’d tucked her into his side last night, and back was the Marine in the middle of a warzone, at least three guns on his person.

Red loved diners, but she hated what they did to Rooster.

“These are really good,” she said, chiming the tines of her fork against her plate. “You want some?”

“Nah, you eat them.” His gaze slid to her, briefly, sparking warm a moment, giving that divot in his brow a second’s respite, before he returned to his vigil. “I know how much you like your chocolate.”

And what do you like?she wanted to ask. He took scrupulous care of his guns. He drank bourbon – sometimes enough to get maudlin. He always ordered his Whoppers with cheese, and sometimes, through closed hotel bathroom doors, she heard him groan in a grateful way when he stepped into a hot shower.

But unless he was smiling, his mouth was tight with stress, even in sleep sometimes. He didn’t ever seem to enjoy anything, not the way people did in movies and TV shows, laughing and playing and spending “guys’ nights” in front of football games with all their friends. Rooster had friends – he had Deshawn, anyway – but they never saw each other, only talked on prepaid cellphones sometimes.

Rooster didn’t have a wife, or even a girlfriend, a woman to kiss, and hold, and take to bed, and make gasp. She thought he probably needed that. Didn’t everyone? She didn’t know for sure, but was starting to be curious. Sometimes she felt…

Well, she didn’t know. But shewondered, sometimes.

A vanload of children in soccer uniforms and knee socks came bursting into the diner, all talking excitedly, blocking the door and drawing eyes.

Red grabbed her coffee mug and slid out of the booth.

Rooster’s gaze snapped around immediately, watchful frown deepening into an expression a lot like panic.

Before he could ask, she smiled and waved her mug at him. “Just gonna get a refill.”

He scowled. “She’ll come around and do that.”

Red gestured to the counter. “It’s two steps. Be right back. Promise.”

It took an effort not to laugh at his face – the awful, overdramatic, twisted-up frown – and she turned, took the as-promised two steps to the counter, and climbed onto an empty stool.

The waitress on the other side spotted her empty mug and held up a finger. “Just a sec, hon.”

“It’s fine.” Red sent her a smile and settled in to wait. The sugar of waffles and chocolate was helping, but truth be told she wasn’t back to full strength yet. She didn’t normally perform and then ease Rooster’s pain in the same night; it had sapped her, truly.

She took note of the men seated on either side of her: one was young and blond, her age, maybe, having an omelet and a Coke, paging through a hefty textbook and smearing the pages with grease. The other, on her left, was someone who reminded her, at least a little, of Rooster. Mid-thirties, powerful build that wasn’t well hidden under his windbreaker and busted jeans. He wore a ballcap, but what she could see of his hair was dark and clipped military short. A little scar curled down from the corner of his near eye, pink and shiny, still almost fresh.Military, his bearing screamed, and she’d know – she’d spent the last five years sharing Slim-Jims and hotel beds with a Marine.

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