2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Tallahassee
My life was destroyed by a lie. A fictitious tale concocted by a spiteful, vengeful man whose greed and craving for attention have no limits. It left me cynical and jaded, locked in a prison of someone else’s making. And because of it, I spent years on the run.
Sometimes I fantasize about going back in time to the day I met the man who altered the course of my life. Wishing I’d hit traffic. Turned left instead of right. Arrived early or was running late. Anything. Any tiny twist of fate that would’ve meant I never met him.
For a long time, I mourned the life I lost. The one I worked so hard for. The life I should’ve been living instead of hiding in the shadows of my own self-imposed witness protection program.
No one tells you how lonely and stifling life on the run is. Always lying about who you are and where you come from. Constantly looking over your shoulder. Moving from one place to another, unable to put down roots.
I’m living in obscurity, on the fringe of society. I flit in and out of people’s lives. I don’t have friends. I don’t let myself get close to anybody. Outside of my family, I trust no one. I know all too well betrayal could be right around the corner.
It feels like forever since I’ve been able to rely on anyone.
So long that I’ve lost the ability to interact with people on anything more than a superficial level.
Isolation has been my companion for so long I’ve forgotten how to live without it.
Even if I could trust someone, there’s always a chance I’ll have to pack up and relocate again, disappearing without a word.
But I can’t spend the rest of my life running.
So, after three years of living like a wanted fugitive, two months ago I returned to Coronado, determined not to let my past control me, no matter how painful facing it might be. Hoping against all hope that enough time has passed for me to be unrecognizable and irrelevant.
Coming home has been an adjustment. There are too many memories. Some bad. Some worse.
After giving myself some time to adapt, two weeks ago I started working as a waitress at McQueen’s under the alias Jane.
My brother is Nash McQueen. Yes, that Nash McQueen, star center for the Los Angeles Reapers hockey team.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to play forever, he built McQueen’s as part of his retirement plan.
In the year and a half since it opened, it’s become a two-story sensation for both locals and tourists.
The restaurant has a vibe all its own. It sits on the upper level, accessed by a beautiful, sweeping grand staircase and wide stained-glass doors.
There’s a bar along one wall and high-back booths lining the others with tables in a variety of sizes evenly spaced throughout the center of the large dining room.
A wall of specialty glass tempers the raucous sounds from the bar and game room that occupy the ground floor.
The restaurant is Michelin-starred but has a relaxed ambiance.
Fine dining meets sports bar. We serve gourmet entrées alongside fun appetizers and pub food favorites.
We offer twelve wines by the glass, seventy-three varieties of beer from around the world, and have an extensive wine cellar for bottle service.
With delicious food and a great atmosphere, McQueen’s has been wildly popular since the day it opened.
The consequences of my past left me with lingering anxiety and a phobia of crowds.
An ironic combination for someone working in a popular, and often jam-packed, sports bar and restaurant.
But I quickly learned that even if the bar gets rowdy, the bar top creates a layer of protection between me and the customers.
The same can’t be said for the game room downstairs. Even with its size, it feels too confining and congested, making me feel exposed, vulnerable, and claustrophobic.
Thankfully, management is excellent at accommodating any employee who has restrictions for certain work conditions, so I’m lucky I’m not required to work in there.
I’m in the employee locker room preparing for tonight’s shift in the restaurant.
For three years I lived my life trying not to be noticed, moving through the world like a shadow.
Other than a little mascara, I don’t wear makeup.
My hair stays in a plain ponytail or single braid.
Simple. Inconspicuous. Trying to blend in.
I might make more tips if I put some effort into my appearance and flirted with my male customers, but that would defeat the purpose of trying to be invisible. I’d rather know I was safe than earn a few extra bucks.
Regardless of my efforts, I still get propositioned on almost every shift.
It bothers me and always makes me wonder if I’ve been recognized.
But I’ve become an expert at ignoring and deflecting inappropriate and unwanted advances.
I’m skilled at convincing anyone who thinks they recognize me that I’m not her. It’s only an unfortunate resemblance.
When I enter the dining room to start my shift, my feet screech to a halt.
He’s sitting alone at one of our biggest tables, scrolling on his phone. When I catch sight of him, my first reaction is to smile. It’s him. Warlock. The man from the coffee shop.
The one I’ve been thinking about way too much because I’m wildly attracted to him, even if that’s the last thing I want.
I’d managed to persuade myself that my attraction was due to nothing more than my three-year sexual drought.
After I ran out of the coffee shop, I was sure I’d over-exaggerated his good looks in my head.
But seeing him again, he really is the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Sporting dark hair with a short, neatly trimmed beard, he’s tall, broad shouldered, and muscular.
I felt how solid he is when I collided with his impressive chest. But it’s those hypnotic hazel eyes that keep me spellbound.
A dangerous aura surrounds him. He has a face and posture that could extract state secrets with nothing but an intimidating stare.
And yet…in the coffee shop, I didn’t feel threatened by him. I live life convinced I’m always in danger. I haven’t felt safe with anyone since long before my life went to shit. So my experience with Warlock was extremely unsettling.
I still don’t know why I gave him my real name or had that short conversation with him. A blunder I’ve been berating myself for ever since.
The entire encounter was so out of character for me.
He had saved me from falling on my ass, so I’ve been telling myself it was a sense of obligation that caused my odd behavior and not the attraction I feel. But the sparks of electricity from his warm touch were bewildering. Foreign. Intoxicating. Dangerous.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
My reaction scared me. He was a walking, talking red flag in a Navy uniform. All my instincts told me to run from him. So that’s what I did.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here staring at him, lost in thought, but my brain finally kicks in. What’s he doing here at McQueen’s?
How did he find me?
Did he recognize me at the coffee shop? Follow me? Is he a reporter disguised in a Navy uniform to throw me off? I wonder if I’ll ever be able to drop my guard. If there will come a time when I can live a normal life and not be suspicious of anyone who crosses my path.
My heart starts racing. My breath quickens. Dizziness kicks in. I’m familiar with the signs, it’s the beginning of a panic attack. Another recent and unpleasant side effect of my trauma.
Just breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
It’s because of my reputation—the one I didn’t earn—that I don’t trust men. It’s the reason I don’t date and why I question the motives of everyone I meet.
When I came home after my three-year sabbatical and took this job, I knew there was a chance I’d be recognized and wouldn’t be able to talk my way out of it.
That I’d be confronted and forced to defend myself to the assholes who believed the rumors.
But no matter how hard would be, I promised myself I’m done running and hiding from something I didn’t do.
Unfortunately, my body didn’t get the memo.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I consider asking another server to take his table but decide against it. It isn’t a matter of if, but when my past will catch up to me. Time to put on my big girl panties and stand up for myself. Make sure he knows I’m wise to him. Then show him the door and send him on his way.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” I chant.
I can do this.
Inhale.
Exhale.
With my panic subsiding, I take a fortifying breath and move toward his table, wishing that just this one time I was attracted to a man who isn’t a lying, perverted asshole.
My arrival at his table prompts him to glance up from his phone.
“Stalking isn’t attractive.” My words are clipped and delivered with a bite of anger.
His expression shifts to surprise when he sees me. It seems genuine, but I’m not na?ve anymore. I know it could be fake.
Then his face cracks into a wide smile. That smile does something to my insides, but I squash that feeling with a ferocious fist so it doesn’t tempt me.
He’s even more handsome when he’s smiling like that. But I’m too smart to be swayed by a dazzling smile and a chiseled, no-nonsense face. Those days are long gone.
“Tallahassee. It’s you,” he says, setting his phone on the table. “I was worried after the way you took off yesterday.”
I narrow my eyes, ignoring the comment. I know it might be a ploy to get me talking. To get what he wants from me. What he thinks I’ll happily give him.
I notice him take in my crisp, white button-down shirt with the McQueen’s logo, black pants, and the small black apron with pockets. His stunned reaction to seeing me as his waitress seems sincere. But I remind myself not to be misled by what could be nothing more than a practiced response.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting for my friends. Is it weird you’ll be waiting on us?” He surveys the room. “I can move if it’ll make you more comfortable.”
I’m thrown off-kilter but do my best not to let it show. I don’t want him to know he’s getting to me. “Not a problem.” I gesture to the logo on my shirt. “That’s what I’m here for.”
If he hears the snark in my voice, he ignores it.
So much for getting rid of him. With no other choice, I let out a sigh of resignation and do my job. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Beer. The IPA on tap?”
“Coming right up.”
I spin and walk away. One of my other tables flags me down on my way to fill his order, wanting another pitcher of beer. I grab their empties and make my way to the restaurant bar.
Carrying the pitcher in one hand and Warlock’s beer in the other, I drop off the refills, then approach his table. That’s when I see five, casually dressed men stride through the double stained-glass doors and beeline straight for Warlock. They must be the friends he was talking about.
Is this a setup? Are they all in on it? Or is it a coincidence? I wish there was a way to know for sure.
I set Warlock’s beer in front of him.
“Can we get a pitcher of the IPA, please?” one of them asks as he slides into a chair.
I notice his friend doesn’t pay any extra attention to me.
“Sure.”
I return carrying a tray with the pitcher and five glasses.
“Guys, this is Tallahassee,” Warlock says as I start unloading the beer and glasses onto the table. “Tallahassee, these are my friends. Meet Pony, Hawk, Ricochet, Nitro, and Doc.”
I don’t understand why he’s introducing me to his friends.
It doesn’t fill me with a sense of security about any nefarious intentions Warlock or his companions might have.
I’m not thrilled he’s telling his friends my name, but I have no one to blame but myself for that stupid mistake.
It’s my own fault for slipping and giving him my real name.
There’s a variety of hi, hello, hey, and one chin lift from the biggest one—which is saying a lot since they’re all on the large side—that I’m almost positive came with a grunt.
“Tallahassee. Bet there’s a story there,” one of them says with a grin.
I ignore the comment. “Hey, guys. Nice to meet all of you.” I offer a counterfeit smile, pretending everything is fine and hoping I’m not walking into a trap.
They order a variety of appetizers: three kinds of wings, McQueen’s famous onion rings, sliders, a double order of deluxe nachos, and two of them order steaks with fully loaded baked potatoes. After I leave, I overhear one of them say he forgot to ask for some ranch to dip his wings in.
I’m competitive by nature. It’s part of my DNA.
I want to do a good job, no matter what job I’m doing.
I’m a waitress now, so I’m going to be the best waitress I can be.
I try to make sure none of my customers have to wait or search for me.
I pride myself on anticipating what people need before they ask.
It’s true my brother owns the place, but I’m here to work. I don’t shirk my responsibilities. I’m the first to take extra shifts and cover callouts. I work harder than I have to, committed to proving I’m here because I’m a good server and not due to nepotism.
Being a waitress is hard work. There’s the occasional drunk or rude customer and my feet ache by the end of the night, but when I’m not worrying about my male customers’ intentions, I enjoy it.
The anonymity and routine of the work suits me.
There’s also the added benefit of being able to pull up stakes, go anywhere, and find a job.
When their food is ready, I strategically arrange the plates and bowls onto a large tray, balance it on my shoulder, and with a tray stand in my left hand, I make my way to their table.
I start unloading platters, the two steaks, and distribute several small bowls on the table, including the mystery man’s ranch.
“I brought some dipping sauces, just in case. This one,” I say, holding the dish, “Is hot salsa.” Then I set a large plate they didn’t order on the table.
“I also brought you some potato skins. It’s a brand-new recipe, not yet on the menu.
I thought you might like to try them. No charge of course. ”
“Tallahassee, best server ever!” one of them says. Hawk, I think. Or is he Ricochet?
I smile, feeling a little more relaxed around them. “Can I get you another round?” With six glasses to fill, a pitcher doesn’t go very far.
“Yes, please. That’d be great,” the chin-lifting grunter says.
I collect the empty pitcher. “Do you guys need anything else?”
“No. We’re good,” Warlock tells me. “Thank you.”
I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.
I leave them alone to enjoy their meal. As usual, McQueen’s is busy, but I check on them often enough that they never have to flag me down.
But it’s Warlock who keeps commandeering my attention. Is it my imagination, my deep-seated paranoia, or do his eyes follow me?