The Dirt on Ninth Grave(8)

 

 



"He certainly does," she said at last.



I grabbed the carafe and headed toward him.



As though on cue, Musketeer Number Two walked in. A rascal named Osh. He was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with shoulder-length hair the color of sunlit ink, though it was perpetually sheltered by the charming tilt of a top hat. He tipped it toward me before taking it off and finding a seat. Never one to sit in the same place twice, he decided to take a seat at the counter and flirt with Francie a bit.



I could hardly blame him. Francie was a cute redhead who liked to paint her nails and take selfies. I would take selfies, too, if I had someone to send them to. I used to send them to Cookie, but she had to ask me to stop when they got a little too risqué for her taste. It was probably for the best.



Osh flashed Francie one of his dazzling smiles, causing her to almost drop the plates she'd just taken from the pass-out window. The little shit.



The first time he came in, he ordered a dark soda. When Cookie asked which one and listed what we had, he shook his head and said, "Any dark soda will do."



From that moment on, we mixed it up for him, gave him a variety of drinks even between refills, a game he seemed to enjoy. Though not as much as flustering the servers.



Francie giggled and rushed past him with her order. At least she was semi-nice to me. Erin, on the other hand, hated me with a fiery passion. According to gossip, she'd asked for extra shifts, but when yours truly showed up, frozen and homeless, Dixie's generosity turned into a hardship for Erin and her husband. I'd basically taken any hope she had of extra shifts, and with it, any hope of friendship.



Garrett's shimmering eyes held me captive as I walked toward him, the silver shards sparkling atop the deep gray of his irises. They were warm and genuine and …  welcome. I shook out of his hold and offered my best dollar ninety-nine smile.



"Anything besides coffee, hon?" I asked as I poured a cup without asking. He always wanted coffee. Hot and black. There was something fascinating about a man who drank his coffee hot and black.



He pulled the cup toward him. "Just water. How you doin' today, Janey?"



"Fantastic as ever. How about you?"



"Can't complain."



A man I didn't recognize spoke from the next booth over. I could feel impatience wafting off him. "Hey, honey," he said, jerking his head up to get my attention. "Can we get some of that over here? Or is that asking too much?" 



A spark of anger erupted in my current customer, but on the outside, Garrett's expression remained impassive. It held no hint of the slightest concern.



Definitely military. Probably special ops.



"Sure thing," I said. The tight-lipped smile I offered the jackass and his friend hid my grinding teeth. I poured two cups as they leered at me, taking in every curve I had to offer. "I'll get you some menus."



Technically, they were in Cookie's section, but I didn't want her to have to deal with them. She'd had a hard enough day. When she started over, I shook my head and nodded toward another couple in her section who looked ready to order.



"I just want a cheeseburger and fries, sweet cheeks," the first one said. "He'll have the same."



Apparently all the guy's friend could do was leer.



"Rare," he continued. "And no rabbit food."



"You got it," I said.



"You gonna write that down?"



"I think I can remember. I have an excellent memory." Ironically, I did. When it came to orders, anyway.



"You get it wrong, and Hershel is not going to be happy."



I could only assume his friend was Hershel. Either that or he referred to himself in the third person, which would make him even more of a douche. But the name embroidered on his oil-stained shirt read MARK.



His friend's shirt had the same logo and read HERSHEL. They worked at the same trucking company. Truckers were usually the nicest lot, but every barrel had its bad apples. Judging from the dark oil stains they shared and the thick odor of diesel wafting off them, they were probably mechanics.



I stepped back over to Garrett. "What'll you have, hon?"



He was seething underneath his GQ exterior but graced me with a smile nonetheless. "I'll have the special."



"Good choice."



I took his menu, trying my best to show him that I was unaffected by the little truckers that could. I couldn't help but notice the knife he had sheathed at his belt. I didn't know what he did exactly, but I knew it had something to do with the law. Not a cop, per se, but something similar.



The last thing I wanted was trouble, however. No one needed to risk his safety for me. No one needed to defend my honor. In all honesty, I wasn't sure I had any. I had forgotten my life for a reason. What if that reason was bad? What if it was unthinkable? Heinous? Evil?