Chapter 19
Gabe
At midnight we depart for Denver. Under the cloak of darkness we manage to get away without anyone following us. Mindy delivered some of that leftover cowboy chili to our cabin, along with some biscuits and Wyoming cowboy cookies. Izzie hardly said a word during the meal. I hate that the paparazzi ruined her enjoyment of this place. She was finally showing more of the real Izzie, not the glamorous Izzie facade she puts up for the public.
We stop at a car rental place, surprisingly open until two in the morning, and drop off the limo, trading it for a nondescript black SUV. The General has arranged for one of the Grayson Security team to pick up the limo since the rental car guy didn’t want to deal with it. I double check the new license plate to make sure it won’t tip us off. The mixture of letters and numbers doesn’t spell anything and isn’t memorable.
Izzie sleeps while I drive, which is a blessing since we’re both still avoiding discussion of the kiss. Mindy provided me with an extra-large takeout cup of coffee, so I should be able to stay awake.
Since there’s no scenery to study in the dark, I ruminate over that impulsive kiss. The miles roll by as I kick myself for my moment of weakness. Emotions were running high after the wild horse chase. But why did I kiss her? A thank you and possibly a hug would have been sufficient. There’s also the matter of the almost-kiss interrupted by her ravenous fans. My attraction to Izzie is becoming a liability I can’t afford. I need to focus on my job and not her luscious lips.
Should I recuse myself as her bodyguard now that I’ve breached the line between client and employee? Technically I’m in Izzie’s employment. Can I remain objective when I’m starting to have feelings for her? I need to come clean with the General when we get to Denver and get his perspective, although I already suspect what he’ll tell me to do.
“What time is it?” Izzie says with a yawn.
“Five twenty-six,” I say after a quick glance at the dashboard clock.
“Is anyone following us?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. Trading vehicles was a smart decision,” I reply.
She sits up straighter in the passenger seat, stretches her arms over her head, and then adjusts the seatbelt. “Do you need a break from driving? Are you hungry?”
Right after the words leave her mouth, her stomach growls. She winces and throws me an embarrassed look.
Chuckling, I tease, “Sounds like you’re the one who’s hungry.” My stomach decides to get in on the action by emitting a rather loud embarrassing growl of its own.
“Oh my!” Izzie says while her shoulders shake.
“We’ll stop at the next hole-in-the-wall diner we find,” I say. Hole-in-the-wall places seem to be our specialty.
She laughs. “Sounds good.”
~*~
The Chicken or the Egg is advertised on a splashy billboard a few miles later. Izzie spots the sign. “Let’s try that place! They offer the Tastiest Breakfast in the West.”
What is it with these businesses touting themselves as the best in the West?
“Okay, what exit number do I take?” We’re not exactly near any towns, but people have to eat somewhere, so hopefully this diner is a hidden gem.
“It said exit in five miles,” she replies.
Five miles later, the exit has no town listed and no sign for The Chicken or the Egg, just an exit number. I recheck the odometer to make sure it’s been five miles, then take the ramp.
“Should we turn right or left?” I say at the intersection. Both ways look deserted, and no sign touts which direction to go for the eating spot.
Izzie bites her lip, contemplating my question. “Right?”
I shrug and turn, neither direction looking particularly promising. We fly down the two-lane road past a herd of cattle grazing in a field. A few miles later, we spot a farmer plowing a field, but he’s too far away to ask for directions. The upside is that I’m completely certain no one is following us.
“How far should we go before turning around?” Izzie asks. Her head swivels, surveying the deserted prairie and a tumbleweed bouncing down the road. “Maybe that was an old billboard and the place went under,” she adds.
“I’ll go another couple miles, but then let’s get back on the highway. I’m not sure we’ll ever find it,” I say. “It might have even been the other way. But I don’t want to drive forever looking for it.” I stifle a yawn. I may need to ask Izzie to take a turn driving.
Less than a mile later, a ramshackle building comes into view. A flashing sign in the window declares “Tastiest Breakfast in the West.” Two older-model rusty pickups and a dirty jeep sit in the gravel parking lot.
“This must be it. Um, shall we stop?” I ask. Despite my hunger, I’m not sure I still want to try this place. Weeds fill the cracked sidewalk, a section of roof has been repaired with a piece of plywood, and I guarantee the building has not been painted since 1950.
Izzie peers intently out the windshield as the SUV rolls to a stop beside one of the pickups. “It doesn’t look too bad,” she says. That’s an incredibly generous statement. She must be extremely hungry.
Can one get food poisoning from scrambled eggs and toast?
Reluctantly we both emerge from the vehicle. This place looks worse than Sofia’s gas station by several degrees of grunginess. I try not to think of all the bacteria hiding out on the door handle when I open the door.
The dimly lit interior appears to be only marginally better than the exterior. I suspect the lighting is poor in order to hide the dirt and grime. Izzie sticks close to my side as we slide into a cracked booth—the sign at the front having told us to “seat yourself.” Several strips of duct tape hold the fake leather seats together.
“Maybe we can order something pre-packaged,” Izzie whispers behind her hand.
A grizzled old man emerges from the back holding two small glasses of ice water. He strides over to our table and plunks down the glasses. “Morning! You folks want any coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Izzie says, turning over one of the ceramic mugs already sitting on the table as the man trots off to retrieve the coffee carafe sitting on the warming plate on the other side of the room. She quickly wipes the mug with her napkin before the man returns. I roll my eyes at her dedication to sanitation, then decide these mugs could have been sitting here for days, so I do the same. The man fills our cups as I inhale the delicious scent of fresh coffee. The coffee is probably hot enough to kill any bad stuff lurking in the mugs, but better safe than sorry
“What can I get ya?”
“Do you have any toast? Possibly a toasted bagel?” Izzie inquires in a polite voice.
He snorts. “You came all this way for a bagel?” We both shift in our seats as he glares at us. “We’ve got the tastiest breakfast in the West. How about the Outlaws Plate? That’s two eggs cooked to your preference, hash browns, and pancakes.”
Izzie arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to decide.
“Sure, we’ll have two of those. I’ll have my eggs scrambled,” I say.
“And the lady’s eggs?”
“Scrambled as well. Not runny.”
He scribbles on the tiny pad in his hand, as if our order is complicated. “Coming right up!” he says, then disappears into the kitchen. I hear metal pans banging together as someone prepares our order.
The other patrons stare at us while we sip our coffees. Two of the men look like locals, wearing farmer attire. They must be the pickup owners. There’s also a young couple who look like hikers, based on their boots and metal water flasks. Probably the owners of the Jeep.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” one of the old codgers asks us. Izzie and I instantly look up at each other. Her eyes are wide with fear and exhaustion. I probably don’t look much better. Not here. Not again. “You’re that action hero film star, right? What’s his name?” he says to his breakfast partner.
Wait. Did he say “his”?
“Bond. John Bond,” the other man replies.
Relief floods Izzie’s face and she stifles a giggle. They’re talking about me?
“Don’t you mean James Bond?” the female hiker says. “Although he’s too tall to be him. But he does look like the guy who starred in that new Twisters movie.”
She’s comparing me to Glen Powell?
Izzie snorts. My chest swells at the compliment.
The old man’s eyes narrow. “Nope, he don’t look like that guy.”
“Personally, I think he looks a lot like Steven Seagal,” Izzie chimes in. I toss her a look, trying to dissuade her from keeping this conversation going, but she ignores me.
Everyone debates who I look like, the male hiker even throwing out Arnold Schwarzenegger. Isn’t he like in his 80s now? I try not to take offense at that one. After a few minutes, I hold up my hand. “As flattered as I am over all your comparisons, I’m just a nobody. I’ve never starred in a film or TV series.”
“But you should see him drive a limo during a car chase!” Izzie pipes up, adding new fuel to the fire. I throw her a stink-eye, but she pretends to study her fingernails.
“You one of those stunt guys?” the first old guy asks.
“Did you drive for Tom Cruise in one of them Mission Impossible films?” his friend says.
“No, Tom does all his own stunts,” I reply.
“I bet he was a stunt double for Brad Pitt!” Old guy number one exclaims.
“What action movies did Brad Pitt do?” the second guy asks.
Silence falls across the room as everyone ponders that question. Our server strides out from the kitchen carrying two plates. He sets them down with a thud , then pulls out a bottle of ketchup and another smaller bottle of hot sauce from his pocket.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“No thank you,” I reply.
Izzie wipes off her silverware and digs in. The food smells delicious, so hopefully we aren’t puking our guts out an hour down the road.
Thankfully, the interruption ends the discussion about me. I guess my big body stands out in a crowd, so to speak.
I slather my eggs in hot sauce, then take a big bite. The eggs are scrambled to perfection and taste wonderful, although maybe anything would taste good with how hungry I am.
“I’ve never seen you use hot sauce before,” Izzie comments.
Leaning forward, I whisper, “A precaution. It might kill any bad stuff.”
Her eyes widen and she picks up the bottle, sprinkling the red sauce liberally over the entire plate.
We polish off the food in record time. Both old men are still drinking coffee, although their conversation has moved on to the price of soybeans. The hikers left about ten minutes ago.
Our server reappears and slaps the bill down on our table. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head.
We walk to the front to pay at an ancient-looking cash register; the server meets us there. I don’t even see a credit card reader, so this transaction is going to be in cash. Izzie pulls out her wallet and pays, telling him he can keep the excess for his tip.
“Are you that guy in the TV show with the dog?” the man asks before we turn to leave.
I’m clueless as to which show he means, but Izzie pipes up, “Hudson & Rex?”
He snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. He looks just like the guy.”
Izzie’s eyes scan me from head to toe. “I see the resemblance, but my boyfriend is the stunt double for Brad Pitt,” she says.
“Ah! But isn’t Brad a short guy? Your boyfriend is a tall drink of water.”
Good thing I’m not drinking water right now because I totally would have just snorted it out my nose at that comment. I did not expect that from a guy who must be pushing eighty.
“They use camera angles to hide the difference in heights,” Izzie says.
He nods, accepting Izzie’s explanation, and we stroll out the door.
“So, Mr. Fall Guy, do you want me to drive?” Izzie asks.
I nod in relief. “I could use some sleep,” I say, tossing her the keys. We’re in the middle of nowhere, so the chances of bumping into her stalker or another Celebrity Detection Network employee is pretty slim.
About two miles down the road, I say, “Do I really look like any of those actors?”
She shakes her head. “No, but it was so much fun to have them recognize you, not me,” she says with a laugh.
True. This is the first stop where I garnered more attention than her.
“Go to sleep, James. We won’t need your driving expertise until we get to Denver.”
“You mean John” I say with a chuckle, then rest my head against the seat. The minute I close my eyes, I start stewing over that darn kiss again. I’m having the most fun I’ve ever had at a security gig, yet I fear that the General will ask me to bow out. My heart sinks at the thought.