Page 15 of Lust

“Thanks.” I never talk about my tattoos in interviews, and I’m tempted to cover them again so she doesn’t tattle to whatever magazine taught her my preference for honey in my coffee. But something about her feels genuine, trustworthy. She moves a shoulder of her sweater down to show me the feathered arc of a wing, then leans closer like she’s sharing a secret.

“I was eighteen.” She smiles. “Dated a guy who ran a tattoo parlor. The relationship didn’t last, but tattoos are forever. So,” she nods toward my ink. “What’s your story?”

I stretch my left arm out to show her a ring of black thorns circling my wrist, then flip my hand over and reveal where the thorns enclose a bright red anatomical heart.

“Wow.” Squinting, she leans closer. “That heart practically sparkles. Like a ruby.”

Nodding, I stretch out my right arm. A black line circles my wrist, carved and knotted like wood. On the inside, just over my pulse, the tip of an arrow points into its own feathers.

“That’s thought-provoking.” Her forehead scrunches.

“Cupid shoots his arrow, but it circles back around and aims at the shooter.” I clasp my hands together in front of me. “In the end, wouldn’t a lot of people be better off if they could just fuck themselves?”

Delilah pours coffee into my mug, adds a dash of cream and a big spoonful of honey, then stirs slowly.

“I can think of a lot of people who reallyshouldgo fuck themselves,” she muses, “but wouldn’t that put you out of business?”

I laugh, then glance around to see if anyone heard, but no one’s paying attention to us. That’s when I notice it, though, through the large plate glass window, idling in the parking lot and belching out thick gray exhaust. A jacked up lime green pickup truck.

What are the odds?

“Delilah,” I lean forward, “I’m going to need your help with something.”

She rests her elbow against the back of the booth, and I catch a strong whiff of citrus. A pleasant smell.

“Can I count on your discretion?” I pull a wad of hundred-dollar bills out of my pocket.

To her credit, her eyes don’t widen. She doesn’t gasp at the sight of the cash. She simply nods her head up and down.

I peel a bill off the stack and slide it across the table.

“I have to be sure I can trust you.” I slide another bill after the first. Without looking down, Delilah palms the money and slips it into the pouch in front of her apron.

“There’s more where that came from, obviously.” I fold the money back into my pocket.

Delilah waits, a faint smile playing over her lips.

Through the window, I watch Brent step out of his truck, adjust the front of his pants, kick a plastic bottle against the curb, spit an arc of brown juice onto the ground, and limp toward the entrance to the diner. Just before he moves out of view, a man in a suit appears and walks stiffly beside him.

“What do you need me to do?” Delilah asks.

I look up to see that she’s carefully watching my face.

“When those men come in, I want you to move me near them. Close enough that I can hear.”

She glances quickly over her shoulder.

“No problem, boss.” She pats the pocket of her apron. “I’ll get that order in right away.”

Within minutes, I’m seated with my back to Brent and my breakfast spread out across the table in front of me.

“Thanks fer meetin’ me here, Gio,” Brent slurs. He sounds as drunk as he looks.

“What’s the emergency?” The other man seems impatient. “And why do we have to meet here?”

“I like the view.” Brent can’t possibly be referring to the concrete parking lot or the freeway on-ramp visible just beyond it.

Just then, Delilah walks up to their table.

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