Page 53 of Freshmeet
“Huh.” He smiled and took a sip of his coffee.
“You need anything else?” I asked, wiping the counter.
He looked down at his farmer‘s breakfast and shook his head. “Nope. I’m all set.”
I nodded, then walked through the swinging door to the kitchen. “I’m taking a break before the next rush.”
Sammy waved me off, her eyes locked on her favorite soap opera playing on her phone.
Smiling, I pushed back into the restaurant and grabbed my bag from under the counter. The guy in the hoodie didn‘t look up from his hash browns as I passed him and went out the front door.
It was muggy as hell, and my jeans immediately clung to my thighs. Rummaging through my purse, I found my vape pen and sighed.
There’s nothing a little weed can‘t fix.
I took a pull and leaned against the back wall near the dumpster. Cars sped down Highway 63 on their way up to Iowa. Kirksville was the last stop of civilization before you hit the state border.
Civilization, right.
A two-mile stretch of stores and restaurants, with more payday loans and pawn shops than one town needed, and a Superstore that ruled over the Dollar Discount next door, could hardly be called a bustling metropolis. But what did I know? I’d never been more than a hundred miles outside of Kirksville.
Taking another hit, I held the smoke in a bit too long and ended up coughing it out.
A group of college kids walked out laughing and piled into a brand-new SUV. Something eased inside me. I preferred serving locals and the truckers that came through. They would chat and laugh, making the late nights fly by.
Most students looked right through me as I busted my ass to get them their meals.
I’d heard the McCormick brothers were going to college. Who knew it would only take an acceptance letter for Connor to turn into one of them?
Checking my phone, I sighed. My break was over, and the semis would be rolling in soon for their early-bird specials. I shoved off the wall and shuffled toward the door. As I rounded the corner, I was snatched back by my ponytail.
“What the?—”
A hand covered my mouth, and I was dragged back behind the restaurant. I flailed, desperate to get away, but couldn‘t get a hold of anything. Throwing my elbow back, my attacker grunted, their hold tightening on my face.
“Stop,” he growled, holding a large hunting knife where I could see it.
I stilled, my eyes widening in fear.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice muffled. Turning, he shoved my head into the dumpster.
“Please,” I whimpered, my fingers curling around the top of the open dumpster.
The man tsked, dragging the tip of the knife down my cheek.
“I’ll do anything,” I begged, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but it was no use. A worn baseball cap kept it hidden.
He chuckled, twisting me, slamming my back into the brick wall. Wedged between the dumpster and the restaurant, I was completely hidden behind his body. From the new position, I shoved at his shoulders, but it was no use. He was too big, too strong.
“Hold still,” he demanded, his hand going to my throat.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and the summer heat and fear drenched me in sweat. Frozen, I stared into his absent face, willing him to have mercy. My hands gripped his shirt, pleading with him.
I can‘t die.
An excruciating pain pierced my side, and I realized he had stabbed me. I cried out, and he threw his hand over my mouth and nose, his face moving so close that the bill of his hat hit my forehead.
“Get a room,” someone yelled from the parking lot. Then there was laughter and the sound of doors shutting.
