Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lettie
The handle on the door to the Olympian Diner felt strange in my hand.
Cold metal against my palm, the worn brass smooth from decades of other hands pushing through.
Every head turned as the bell over the door jingled, but the attention didn’t last. Just a habit in a small town where every open door might bring a friend, a family member, an old lover, or an enemy.
I made my way to the counter and sat down. The vinyl stool creaked under my weight, the red leather cracked and patched with duct tape. I didn’t come in here often, but once in a while I found myself looking for something more than what I had at home.
I loved my life, my work. But even with my mother living with me, the house felt lonely.
I hadn’t noticed it before—not until Cash and Kytten left.
Not until I found myself listening for Mimic’s grunts and Indie’s laugh.
Not until the silence became so heavy I could taste it, thick and bitter on my tongue like old coffee grounds.
It wasn’t just me. Cerberus had been subdued as well.
For the first time since I brought him home, I considered getting him a friend.
When Aspen and Banshee visited, Diesel and Cerberus tore through the gardens chasing each other.
They tussled in the dirt and lay side by side on the porch in the warm sun when they were too tired to move.
“Morning, Lettie.”
“Morning, Miss Betty. Are you serving today?”
Elizabeth Dawson—Betty, as the town called her—was in her sixties.
She owned the diner and usually only ran the register, preferring to talk with customers on their way in and out.
Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her apron stained with coffee and grease, her hands weathered and strong.
“That girl didn’t show up again. I swear, Lettie, this is the fifth time this month.” Betty glanced left and right, then leaned in closer. The smell of her perfume mixed with bacon grease and coffee. “I’m concerned for her.”
That got my attention. Betty was one of the few women in town who knew the truth about what I did.
Four years ago, she had a young woman working for her who needed to be paid under the table.
The girl was jumpy and frantic anytime something dropped, or when the old timers got a little too rambunctious while sharing stories over coffee and muffins.
It took months before she finally opened up to Betty. She was running from her ex-husband. The son of a bitch had been beating her since their honeymoon.
I happened to overhear the conversation on my way to the restroom and pulled the woman aside.
After she told me everything, I made her a necklace similar to the one I wore around my neck.
A small vial of concentrated poison, enough to kill a man three times over if administered correctly.
Enough to give her a fighting chance if he found her.
Or herself if the situation was dire enough.
Together with Betty, we got her out of town. Then I went to see him. It was a weekend trip four towns over, but I found him exactly where she said he’d be.
In the local bar.
I sidled up next to him and offered to buy him a drink. They called it a honey trap. Beautiful women lured men to hotel rooms for one of two things: either they were gathering proof of infidelity—something that could be used as ammunition for blackmail—or they planned to rob him blind.
Neither of those was my motive. I had only one reason to target this asshole.
Justice.
It didn’t take long to hook him. When he slipped into the bathroom, I slipped something into his drink.
Eventide, a specialized combination of specific plant toxins.
I waited for him to return and handed him the glass to make sure he finished it.
Then I slipped it into my purse without him noticing.
I never left evidence behind. Sure, bars had industrial dishwashers—the heat alone was enough to remove any trace of poison. But I wasn’t willing to take chances.
I asked him to wait while I freshened up, then walked out the back door.
The poison was slow acting. It would take forty-eight hours for him to die an excruciatingly painful death.
His heart would race, his breathing would become labored, his organs would shut down one by one while he screamed and begged for relief that would never come.
When his death was discovered days later, I sent an anonymous tip to the authorities, letting them know where to find his wife so she could be notified as next of kin.
Not only did he have a hefty life insurance policy, but he owned a lucrative business that she sold before starting her life over somewhere new.
Betty waited for her words to sink in before asking me for help.
Working in the town I lived in was foolish.
I knew that. But I’d gotten to know the residents of Athens, and well, I had a soft heart for the weak.
For the broken. For the ones the system failed over and over again until they had nothing left but desperation and fear.
“I’ll check in on her,” I promised.
“Thank you.” Betty disappeared with my order, and that was the last we spoke until she dropped off my check. “On the house.” She smiled.
I shook my head and walked outside. Betty never let me pay when I came into the diner. That was why I didn’t come in often. I refused to take advantage of her kindness.
Inhaling the warm, sweet smell of magnolia, my feet carried me down the street. The scent was cloying, almost too sweet, mixing with exhaust fumes and hot asphalt. I glanced in windows as I passed, admiring the displays. Fall was right around the corner, and that meant Harvest Week.
It was one of my favorite things about Athens, Texas.
Every year, the businesses in town lined the streets with tables and awnings.
I’d already paid for my spot and put in long hours getting products ready, with a few new ones added in for the holiday shoppers.
Tinctures for sleep. Salves for pain. Teas for relaxation.
All perfectly legal, perfectly safe. Nothing that would raise suspicion.
My next stop while I was in town was the bakery.
When I first moved here, I didn’t understand some of the business names until I realized they were plays on words. Doughmeter, the bakery a few doors down from the diner, took its name from Demeter, the Greek goddess of the harvest and grain.
I paused with my hand on Doughmeter’s door as the sound of motorcycles filled the air. The deep rumble of engines, the roar of pipes, the vibration that traveled through the sidewalk and up through my legs.
Normally I made bread myself, but Sue Ann had a few flavors I just didn’t have the patience to master.
In this moment, I cursed my obsession with pumpernickel.
If I’d gone home after the diner, I wouldn’t have been standing on the sidewalk staring into the eyes of the man who made me come on my kitchen counter only to ghost me minutes later.
My heart stopped.
Then it slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack bone.
Brock.
He rode past on his motorcycle, his eyes locking on mine for a fraction of a second.
Long enough for me to see recognition flash across his face.
Long enough for heat to flood my body, my pussy clenching at the memory of his hands on me, his mouth on my neck, the bulge in his jeans pressing against me.
Long enough for rage to follow, hot and bitter, burning through my chest like acid.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down.
Just kept riding like I was nothing. Like I was nobody. Like he hadn’t made me fall apart in my own goddamn kitchen before disappearing without a word.
My shoulder radiated pain as I yanked the door open and stormed inside.
I held my breath, listening to the motorcycle pipes fade into the distance.
My emotions warred with each other. I couldn’t decide if I was furious at catching him watching me as he rode past or aroused by how fucking sexy he looked perched on that bike.
Leather cut stretched across broad shoulders.
Dark hair catching the sunlight. That predatory focus that made my skin prickle with awareness even from half a block away.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for making me want him. For making me ache. For making me feel discarded and used and stupid for believing what happened between us actually meant something.
The scent of freshly baked bread did nothing to settle my racing heart. My body had no business reacting this way to a man who clearly didn’t want me. The complete radio silence had made that obvious. A week. A whole fucking week of nothing. No call. No visit. No explanation.
Unfortunately, my heart and my brain couldn’t agree on that fact. And my pussy? That bitch didn’t care what the other two thought. She remembered how he touched me. How he made me come so hard I saw stars. How he called me his queen like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
“Lettie!”
I stretched my lips into a smile at Sue Ann’s greeting. Forced. Brittle. “Tell me I’m not too late!” I peered into the display case, taking in the smudged glass and shelves lined with golden loaves and pastries that made my mouth water despite the nausea churning in my stomach.
Sue Ann’s pumpernickel was the hottest commodity in town. Show up late on baking day and you’d go home empty-handed.
“I put a loaf aside when I saw you heading into the diner,” she whispered, disappearing through the swinging doors. She returned moments later with a loaf so gorgeous it was almost a shame to cut into it. Dark brown, nearly black, with a crust that crackled when she set it on the counter.
Almost.
“How’s your mom?” Sue Ann asked as she wrapped the bread in the special branded bags she used. They cost a little more, but instead of plastic, she’d chosen 100% cotton. She even offered a discount if you brought them back to be laundered and reused.