Chapter 2
“ T hanks, Robby.” I lift the plates of pancakes and scrambled eggs from the pass-through and fill my tray with table two’s breakfast order.
The aroma of bacon sizzling away on the grill wafts through, and my stomach tightens. It’s been non-stop since I got in this morning at seven, and my stomach is getting angrier by the moment.
Usually, on Saturday mornings after closing the Dive Bar the night before, I’d be working on four hours of sleep. I’m not that lucky today.
That stupid scribbled note kept me up all night. When I got home, I searched my apartment three times before I finally convinced myself no one was hiding under the pull- out bed. The rest of the night, I stared at the ceiling, reminding myself that there is no way anyone could find me.
“Can I get more coffee when you get a chance?” The woman at table two pushes her empty mug toward me after I pass out the plates of buttery pancakes, fluffy scrambled eggs, and greasy, salty hash browns.
I really need to eat something soon.
“Of course. Be right back with it.” When I turn to head back to the kitchen, I bump into someone. Or maybe something, because it’s basically like walking into a wall. I bounce back a step and grab the table to keep from falling on my ass.
Big hands grab my arms, steadying me.
“Crap. Sorry, hun.” Marybeth, the hostess this morning, chimes in. “We were just passing through.”
I glance up at the massive man standing in front of me, but he steps around me and follows Marybeth to the last booth in the row by the windows before I can get a good look at him.
“Coming through.” Wendy scoots by, carrying a pot of decaf and a Danish muffin.
Coffee. Right. After I top off the coffees at all my tables, I pop into the kitchen.
“Robby, tell me you have some bacon I can have.” I lean against the counter while he works the grill.
“Karl made you a sandwich.” He jerks his head to the counter behind him where a delicious bacon sandwich is waiting for me. “He could hear your stomach from here.”
I grimace. “Sorry.”
“You need to take better care of yourself.” Robby is a sixty-two-year-old man who acts way grumpier than he has any right to be.
Retired from the Air Force, he works to keep himself busy and out of trouble. He’s been happily married to the same woman for forty years, has five kids, seven grandkids, and they all still live in this small ass town. Far as I can tell, he’s the luckiest son of a bitch here.
“I’m working on it,” I manage before stuffing another bite of thick, salty bacon into my mouth. I can already feel my body forgiving me for the hell I’ve put it through in the last few days.
“Mira, can you grab table seven for me? I have a small emergency.” Wendy flicks her gaze downward, her sign that she’s just gotten her period and needs to take care of it.
“Yeah, sure.” I pop the last bite of bacon sandwich in my mouth. “Thanks for the sandwich, guys.”
I’m still licking bacon grease from my lips when I get to the booth in the corner.
“Good morning. Can I get you some coffee?” I lift the pot I grabbed on the way over in offering.
A set of dark brown eyes meet mine, knocking the wind out of me for a moment. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and his neck…the snake tattoo.
“Coffee would be good, yes.” He taps the side of the mug with his knuckles.
Okay, I just need to keep calm. That note meant nothing. And I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. I’m just a waitress pouring his coffee .
“Do you need more time with the, uh, the menu?” I ask after pouring his coffee.
“Three eggs, over easy, two orders of bacon, and hash browns.” He hands me the menu.
“Toast? White, wheat, sourdough?”
“Wheat is fine.”
“Got it.” I quickly turn from his table and hurry to put in the order and find Wendy. She can have the table back.
“You look like shit.” Barbara, the owner of the diner, stops me at the counter. “Did you even sleep last night?”
“No. Not really.” I run my fingers through my hair, then smooth out the ends that stick up. “Bad night. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry to me; you’re the one burning yourself to the ground.” She frowns.
I sigh. She’s not wrong. “I was going to ask…do you think I can take Monday off? I’ll see if I can get someone to take my shift.”
She swipes a hand through the air. “No need, take the day. We’ll get it covered. And get some sleep.”
“Yeah. That would be good.” I’m about to go in search of Wendy to hand the scary, handsome man back to her, when Robby calls his order out as ready to be delivered.
Wendy is nowhere to be seen.
Damnit.
I keep my head down as I make my way to his table, as though I can hide myself from him.
“Three eggs over easy, two orders of bacon, and hash browns.” I place the plate in front of him. “Can I get you anything else? ”
“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he says, adjusting his plate until the eggs are in front of him.
The statement catches me off guard, because he’s obviously not from around here, either.
“And how does someone from around here look?” I put a little attitude in the question, because I haven’t slept, and it’s this guy’s fault.
He brings his eyes to mine, then taps the side of his nose. “Your nose piercing and your hair…you look more like a city girl.”
“Well. I’m not.” I glance at his coffee mug. Untouched . “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”
“I will, Mira. Thank you.”
For a moment, I freeze. But just for a second, because I can’t let him know he’s getting to me. So, he used my name. Anyone can read it on my name tag. For some reason, I think he’s trying to get under my skin.
“Thanks for getting that table.” Wendy reappears. “I swear, this menopause or perimenopause or whatever the doctor called it is really pissing me off. These periods just show up whenever they feel like it now.”
I pat her shoulder as I grab the coffee pot behind her. “But at least you won’t get a period at all soon, right?”
She huffs a laugh. “Yeah, and then I get to just ride off into old age.”
“I don’t think you could ever be old.” If it wasn’t for the graying hairline and her constant complaints about her age, you wouldn’t know she was in her late fifties.
“My knees would say differently,” she quips.
“They weren’t bothering you last night.” Karl, her husband and cook, laughs from behind the pass-through as he pushes a plate of pancakes toward us.
“You shush.” She blushes as she grabs the food.
“Mira, you dropped this when you were back here.” Robby slides my nametag across the passthrough counter.
Instantly, I grab at my chest where I could swear I had it pinned, but it’s not there.
“I dropped it when I was eating?” I pick it up.
“Yeah, must have fell off.” He pushes through another plate. “Table three pick up.” He taps the counter with his fingertips and disappears back into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” Wendy asks as I pin the tag back in place.
“What? Oh, nothing.” Nothing at all. I grab the order and deliver it to where it needs to go, trying to find a plausible reason why that man knows my name.
More than likely he heard someone use it. That’s all.
Confident that I’m not losing my mind, and I’m just tired, I put my mind into getting my tables served and out the door.
Just to show I’m not afraid of the man in the corner, I swing by his table to refill his coffee twice. He keeps scrolling his phone, and I let him have his peace and quiet.
When his plate is empty, I head back over, his check already in my hand. I’m not sure what game he’s playing at, but I don’t want to play.
“Can I get you anything else?” I pick up his empty plate .
“How long have you lived here?” he asks instead of answering me.
“Not long.” I answer, lifting my chin. Lots of people move to new towns. He hasn’t caught me in some sort of confession. “Do you want anything else?”
“What made you choose this place?” His eyes roam over me as though he’s trying to find an answer pinned to my clothing.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable talking about my private life with the customers.”
“Hmm.” He nods like he understands but presses on anyway. “You know, back home, there’s a restaurant that makes a roast beef sandwich as big as my arm. They don’t dip it in the juices though like most places, they smother it with red sauce. Then they crisp it up under the broiler with cheese.”
He’s talking about Carlucci’s Pizzeria. There’s only one of them, and it’s on Fifth Avenue. A five-minute walk from the apartment I share with Megan.
“Yeah?” I force my features to stay bland. “I’m sure lots of places do that.”
“Never found it anywhere else; maybe somewhere here does it like that?” He’s poking, trying to find a weak spot.
Pressing the edge of his plate against my body to keep him from seeing my hand trembling, I slide his check onto the table.
“If there’s nothing else, you can pay the cashier at the front.” As I start to walk away, he grabs my wrist .
Not hard enough to pull me toward him, but just enough pressure to relay the message he wants me to stay.
“Do I frighten you?” His voice dips with the question. “You seem rattled.”
Tugging my wrist out of his grip, I step further away from him. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly, just enough that some of the brown of his irises disappear. He looks disappointed in some way.
“You’re fine?” He sounds like my father when I was in high school.
If I told my dad a lie, he’d repeat it back to me, so I could hear how silly it sounded. It was his way of giving me a chance to change my answer.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “You can pay your check up front.”
Before he can snag my wrist again, I spin around on my heel and hightail it away from him.
The hair on the back of my neck is still standing when I drop his dirty dish into the wash-bin in the kitchen. Closing my eyes to block out the bright fluorescent lights of the room, I take several slow breaths.
I don’t know who he is, but that man definitely suspects something about me. He can’t be working for Marco; he didn’t look or sound Italian. His accent was heavier, but it was only slightly there. Like it was fading from years of living here in the states.
He couldn’t be a cop, unless he’s a really good undercover detective. But if that was the case, he wouldn’t be acting so weird.
“Mira!” Marybeth hurries into the kitchen waving cash at me. “That guy just left you a huge tip!”
“What guy?” I ask, hoping by some miracle she’s talking about someone other than the snake tattooed guy in the leather jacket.
“That big one.” She grins and hands me a hundred-dollar bill.
“Did you check that?” Barbara asks, looking over Marybeth’s shoulder. “Make sure it’s real?”
“Of course I did.” Marybeth waves her off.
Wendy gets a look at what we’re talking about and scoffs. “I’m so mad I gave that table to you!”
“You didn’t.” Marybeth turns with a confused look. “I sat him in her section.”
“No. Table seven is in my zone.” Wendy corrects her.
Marybeth frowns. “Oh, well, he specifically asked to sit at one of Mira’s tables. I thought I was putting him in her section.”
Cold washes over me.
“And he said to give this to you, too.” She hands over a small piece of folded-up paper. “Maybe it’s his number?”
“I don’t know; he seems a little old for her.” Barbara frowns. Always the mother hen.
I unfold the paper.
“You ladies gonna get this food out to the tables or what?” Robby steps into our little circle. “What’s going on? ”
“Nothing.” I crumple up the note and toss it in the nearby trash can. “C’mon, let’s get this food out.”
I shove the hundred-dollar bill into my apron pocket and grab the plates for my tables.
Whoever that asshole was, he is not going to spook me.
He’s obviously not here by Marco’s order.
But today’s message is more personalized. Definitely meant for me, no way to think it’s not.
I have two more hours on my shift. I’ll think about that message later.
When we get home, I’ll take you for one of those roast beef sandwiches.