Page 11 of Just Friends

“What are you doing out so early?” Rebecca went toward Weasel who did not move to let her pass. His eyes ran up her body and stopped on hers.

“Had an early meeting with the DEA on a joint task force and gotta be in court at nine.”

“DEA? Is that dangerous?”

“Nah, no worries.”

She motioned out the door. "I need to get past you to start the coffee.”

He smiled and moved aside. “What are you prepping today,” he asked as Rebecca passed.

“I have a pot roast with harvest vegetables today,” she replied. Rebecca set up the coffee pot and flipped the switch. “Give it a few minutes.” She crossed the kitchen and set a pan on the burner, threw in the oil, and grabbed the two industrial-sized pressure cookers.

That morning, on her way in, a man dressed as a clown stood on the corner outside the diner. She’d passed before it registered, and she wasn’t sure if the clown looked like the one from the Harvest Festival, and she refused to look back for verification. Should she tell Weasel? It sounded paranoid.

“That sounds good,” he said. “I’ll try to get over here for lunch. Might be earlier today than usual.” He came there often, showing up right before closing.

“I think you’ll like it,” she replied absently. If she mentioned something, that would worry Weasel, and he had more important things on his plate. Besides, why would it be the same clown? She retrieved the roasts from the cooler that she’d seasoned and wrapped up the prior afternoon. The smell of coffee brewing drifted through the kitchen. Rebecca unwrapped the first roast and took a pair of tongs to lower it into the grease to brown. She was holding the meat over the pan, still contemplating the clown, and something went wrong—either it slipped from the utensil, or she let go too soon. She cried out when boiling cooking oil, drenched her blouse and penetrated through the fabric. She sucked in air and froze; the searing pain spread over her breast.

Weasel took her shirt lifting it from her body and pulling it away so not to touch her face. Then she was bent over at the sink and spraying cool water on her chest. He had paper towels dabbing over her. Able to breathe again she caught the towels from him. “Don’t rub,” he said. “You’ll pull the skin off. It’ll hurt.”

How could it possibly hurt worse than this? And there Rebecca stood in her bra. Mercifully, the worst of the splatter hit her above her breasts and below her neck. The undergarment had some oil on it, but hadn’t absorbed in. Thank God for padding. Weasel dabbed her with cold water-soaked paper towels, but the stinging still radiated through her.

“Need to turn the burner off.” She must get it together and make sure the beef got started, or she’d be in a bind come the lunch rush.

“Already did,” he replied. He studied Rebecca’s burned chest, but he had no reaction to the fact that she stood topless. He was a complete professional, and that impressed her.

“I have some burn pads in the first aid kit in my car.” He pivoted and assumed a defensive posture in front of her. She couldn’t look around him. Weasel was one of the few people around who made her 5’10”-self feel short. “Hey, this ain’t a damn show,” he barked at whoever had entered. She stepped to the side to see around his arm; it was Morgan. The sixty-year-old, bald, pudgy grandfather who inherited the Ellis Diner from his father.

“Weasel, that’s Morgan.” He remained motionless. “Morgan Ellis,” she said more forcefully. “My Boss.” This revelation changed nothing. Morgan was a nice, gentle old man. Weasel was pure alpha, and no one had ever used the word harmless to describe him. She groaned. “Weasel, I need you to get my bag of extra clothes from my trunk.” He glanced down at her and nodded.

“Are you all right?” Morgan asked. He stared wide-eyed at Weasel and didn’t dare move.

“I accidentally dropped the roast in hot oil, and it burned through my shirt.” She sighed. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ll get us back on track once I get another shirt.” She pushed Weasel towards the door.

Morgan shook his head and surveilled the mess on the stove. “Get yourself tended to, medically, and I’ll get this cleaned up.”

???

With Rebecca’s keys in hand, Weasel exited the rear door of Ellis Diner to gather what he needed. He’d parked next to her, so he grabbed the medical kit from his and used her key to unlock the trunk of her car. Inside was a pink and gray duffel bag, and when he moved it, a small black soft-sided pistol case in the back caught his eye.

He leaned in and took the case. Rebecca said nothing about owning or carrying a firearm. And she’d kept it in the trunk. Did she have a carry permit? He slid the zipper open to verify what was inside—although he already knew what he was looking at. It contained a nine-millimeter semiautomatic weapon, loaded. He zipped up the carrier and, even though he shouldn’t invade her personal stuff, he opened the duffel. It was only clothing. She had a piece, and what amounted to a go-bag at the ready. The only thing missing was a wad of cash and fake ID’s. Why on earth did she have a weapon in the trunk? What are you afraid of Miss Gilbert?

Weasel entered the diner through the employee entrance and found Rebecca in the bathroom of the break room with the door wide staring at the burns in the mirror. He sat her bag down on the table and closed the door off from the kitchen for privacy. Others had arrived, and now the kitchen had sprung to life with her coworkers preparing for today’s lunch. He held her hand and pulled her from the restroom over to a modest couch in the room’s corner. He took a chair over to sit in front of her and went about inspecting the burns. “Luckily, most of this looks like first degree,” he said. “I’m worried that right there,” he pointed, “might have gotten to second.”

“Are you a doctor too?” she asked.

“Not quite,” he replied. Weasel smiled at her and patched up her burns before asking what he really wanted to know. “I have these burn pads in my kit. They’ll help relieve some of the discomfort and keep it from drying out too fast.”

Rebecca grimaced and shook her head. Her face wore her pain. She wasn’t a good liar and was not adept at concealing her emotions. Not that it meant that she told him the truth. She wouldn’t come clean about what happened with Kyle or about her feelings for him. Maybe feelings weren’t the right word—attraction perhaps? He worked as gingerly as possible to place the burn pads and bandaged them to her chest. When he finished, she picked up her bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

She opened the bathroom door and stared at him as if she thought he’d gone. “Thanks for all of that,” she said and motioned to her chest and out towards the kitchen.

“Why is there a gun in the trunk of your car?” he asked.

She stopped cold and reached up and rubbed her forehead. “It’s not illegal.” She said weakly.

“You have a carry permit?” he asked. He took a step toward her. Not that he cared, he was headed somewhere else with the line of questions.

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