15. Esperr
ESPERR
My stomach growls again, and it’s loud enough this time that it almost feels accusatory, like my body is personally offended by everything that’s happened tonight.
The sound fills the cab for half a second before the hum of the engine swallows it, but the damage is already done.
There’s no ignoring it, and there’s no way Zyran didn’t hear it.
This is the fourth time since dumping Dean’s body at the pig farm that my stomach has growled.
I press my hand lightly against my stomach, exhaling through my nose, equal parts amused and horrified by the absurdity of it. Out of all the reactions I could be having right now—shock, nausea, panic, hell, maybe even crying. Instead I’m hungry.
Like really hungry.
The road stretches out in front of us, dark and mostly empty, broken only by the occasional streetlight flashing across the windshield. My cheek throbs in a slow, steady pulse, but even that feels distant compared to the hollow ache in my stomach.
Someone might think I’m dying with the way my stomach cramps.
I glance sideways at him, watching the way his hands rest on the wheel, relaxed, and?—
Another growl rumbles through me.
I groan softly and drop my head back against the seat. “If I pass out, just know it’s not because of the murder. It's because I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, barely, but I still catch it.
“Well, that would be inconvenient,” he mutters, trying to hide the smirk playing on his lips.
“Incredibly,” I agree, tucking a piece of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail earlier and I have yet to fix. “Very embarrassing way to go, honestly. Imagine surviving one traumatic event just to be taken out by low blood sugar.”
Zyran huffs out a quiet breath that might sound a bit like a laugh but then flicks on his blinker without saying much more.
I don’t think much of it at first, my mind still half-stuck on the images of the rope, tarp, and dark fields that I will definitely not be thinking about later when I try to sleep in about twelve hours after my shift at the coffee shop ends.
But then the truck slows, turning into a small parking lot, with a neon sign bleeding through the windshield.
I sit up immediately, and for a second I just stare at the building, my mouth watering with the idea of pancakes, coffee, and so much syrup that it’s almost questionable. My stomach growls again, louder this time, and I let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh.
“Please tell me they have pancakes,” I murmur, already reaching for the door handle before he can even park the truck.
“Slow down,” Zyran laughs, but I’m already throwing the door open and jumping out.
The cold air hits my face the second my feet hit the ground, carrying the faint smell of grease and coffee. I groan, gravel crunching under my shoes as I round the hood of the truck, waiting for him without really thinking about it.
I’ve run past this diner many times before but never stopped—it’s a little worn, like the kind that’s been open forever and probably will be.
Zyran steps around the hood, falling into step beside me, and for a second I’m hyperaware of him, of the quiet steadiness that hasn’t left him all night.
The bell above the door gives a tired jingle as Zyran pushes it open for me, warmth wrapping around us immediately.
Behind the counter, a waitress looks up, giving us a quick once over. “Morning,” she says, grabbing two menus without having to ask how many. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”
I glance at him, then at the rows of booths and tables in the middle, most of them empty except for a couple of lone customers hunched over coffee mugs.
My eyes drift automatically to the far corner booth, half tucked away from the windows and shadowed just enough to feel private without being hidden—just like the spot in the coffee shop that he always sits in.
I started walking toward it without asking if it was okay with him. My reflection catches briefly in the window, and I cringe when I see the outline of the bruise.
Thankfully no one looks up as we pass them and slide into the booth across from each other. My stomach growls again, quieter this time, and as much as I hope he didn’t hear it, that hope is quickly squashed when I peer up through my lashes.
I open my mouth to say something witty, hopefully something cool, but I’m saved by the waitress who appears just then. She sets down two mugs, pouring coffee to the brim while setting down two menus.
“Besides coffee, is there anything else to drink?’ she asks, taking a step back.
“Just coffee for me,” I say immediately, voice a little rougher than I intend.
She nods, glancing at him for his order, completely oblivious to the fact that less than an hour ago we were standing over a dead body feeding it to pigs.
“Two waters,” he mumbles, barely looking her way. She leaves without another word and the quiet settles back in.
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat warm my fingertips, and finally look up at him.
“So,” I start, tilting my head slightly, curiosity slipping in where adrenaline used to be, “how many places are we talking about you knowing?”
He doesn’t answer me right away, just watches me from across the table, like he’s deciding how much to give and how much to keep.
“That depends,” he finally says, raising a brow. “Are you planning on making this a habit?”
I huff out a quiet breath, fingers tightening slightly around my mug. “God, I hope not.” And it’s true, I hope there’s not another body I have to get rid of. One is more than enough, especially with my past life. I should probably be more alarmed by that, but instead… I feel steady.
It should feel wrong. I mean, I’m sitting across from a man I barely know, in a booth that smells like coffee and grease, casually asking him about places to dump a body like we’re discussing weekend plans.
“Well, let’s hope you don’t need a repeat lesson,” he says, pulling out of my head.
I nod. “Yeah,” I murmur, staring down into the dark swirl of coffee. “Once was plenty.”
The mug is suddenly almost too warm in my hands, heat seeping into my fingers, into my palms, anchoring me here in the booth instead of back in that cold, dark field or alley.
I trace the rim of the mug with my thumb, watching the surface ripple slightly with the movement. “Let’s just say…hypothetically, this wasn’t my first close call,” I shrug, hoping he’ll think I’m talking about parking tickets or even bad dates instead of violence and bodies.
His eyes sharpen, with a slight twitch in his eye. “Hypothetically,” he repeats.
I nod, wishing I could take the words back. “Yeah, hypothetically. I… it’s just, I might know a thing or two about not panicking when things go sideways… and a little about cleaning up messes.”
I should really stop talking.
Even if I choose my words carefully, I should probably just shut up and talk about the weather, a book, or anything else honestly. And the entire time, I can’t look up at him, choosing to focus on the steam curling up from my coffee like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Because for some reason when I look at him, I want to spill my guts. And I know I can’t exactly say, hey, this isn’t new for me. That I've been in worse situations and helped deal with things that would make most people vomit just thinking about them.
So I blow out a breath, trying to soften and switch gears.
“My family moved around a lot,” I continue, and it’s not a lie.
Not a hundred percent, anyway. “You learn how to adapt, how to… uh, not freeze when things get ugly.” I finally glance up at him, offering a small, almost apologetic smile.
“Doesn’t mean I had some master plan tonight,” I quickly added, and then regretted it again.
“I was very much winging it in the alley.”
That part is true. I didn’t expect him to be there; I didn’t expect anyone to be there.
My finger tightens around the mug. “But I didn’t actually need a full lesson,” I blurted out. “I mean, I watch a lot of true crime, and I just… well, I wasn’t going to say anything out loud while you were tying knots and hauling dead weight around for me…no pun intended.”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or assessing, or maybe it’s both. Sometimes I feel like I get a good enough read on him, and then other times, I question if I’m just being dumb and have no idea.
The waitress appears at our table before I can overthink it any further, two glasses of water balanced easily in one hand.
“Ready to order, or do you guys need another minute?” she asks, already reaching for her pen and notepad.
“I’m good,” I say, glancing at him, who nods that he’s also ready. “Can I get a stack of pancakes and hashbrowns?”
The words come out a little too fast, too eager, and I clear my throat quietly like that might make it less obvious.
“And–”
“I’m sorry, uh, extra butter too, please,” I add, cringing when I realize I interrupted her.
She smiles, nodding, and scribbling it down before looking at Zyran.
“Breakfast skillet,” he says simply and reaches for the water.
She jots it down, giving us another tired but polite smile and collecting the menus. “Be right up,” she mumbles before heading back towards the kitchen.
I reach for my water, the glass cool against my fingers, and take a long drink, welcoming the cold feeling that grounds me in a completely different way.
When I set it back down, I realize I’m still watching him, and it’s not in a subtle way either.
My eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint tension that seems to live permanently in his shoulders.
Even when he’s sitting still; it’s the way he holds himself, like he’s always aware of everything happening around him even in a nearly empty diner at four in the morning.