Chapter 4
Alec
She stops walking, and I follow her gaze to a security guard standing by an option known as Taco Hut. He clutches a golden shell in his hands and munches away. A few shreds of bright-green lettuce drop to the tile floor, and his shining black shoes squeak as he pivots and squats to pick them up.
The girl remains frozen, but the guard is too busy shoveling food into his face to notice her staring. She doesn’t even take a breath until he wipes his hands on a napkin and heads in the opposite direction.
How strange.
Technically, I’m the criminal here, and I don’t react that way to authority figures. With my ability to smooth talk my way out of anything and everything, they aren’t really a concern for me.
I look back at the girl, though she’s more like a stray puppy I’ve plucked off the street—dirty and feral and terrified of The Man.
Her size contradicts the pauper lifestyle she exudes.
Instead of a gaunt, emaciated appearance, she’s actually pretty chunky, and I mean that in the most respectful way.
Underneath all the dirt and grime and insecurity, I still see the hint of who she could be.
Her dark, unruly hair would become soft and silky after a good shower, and her lifeless hazel eyes have the potential to shine.
She could keep the weight. If anything, it enhances her figure. So much softness.
Once the security guard is out of view, her body relaxes, and she scans the food court.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask.
“Everything,” she says under her breath. She looks up at me, craning her neck to look into my eyes. “Pasta heats up nicely in the microwave.”
“So you won’t have dinner with me?” My lips draw into a hint of a pout, and I’m only half joking.
I’m genuinely curious about this girl, and I want to know why the security guard made her react that way.
I want to know what makes a girl break into a vehicle to steal old fries. I want to know everything.
And I don’t even know her name yet.
“I can always eat a little bit now,” she says, “but the rest will be my breakfast tomorrow.”
“A little early to be thinking about breakfast, eh?”
Her lips draw into a frown. “I’m always thinking about the next meal.”
I remember—with zero fondness—the many meals I’ve missed. Yearned for. Starved for. She doesn’t seem to have an issue with missing meals, though. That’s dickish of me to think, but I don’t understand the walking contradiction which she represents.
We head over to the make-your-own pasta lineup, and she peers through the glass protector as she makes her decision. She eventually chooses a take-out container full of fettuccine alfredo, and I go for spaghetti and meatballs. After weighing both containers, I pay.
With our food in hand, I motion toward the sea of tables and chairs. “Let’s go sit down.”
“You meant that whole eat-dinner-with-me thing, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” I smirk at her. I love her snark.
She finds a satisfactory table, and we sit down.
She flips open the lid of her container and starts eating.
Right to the point. I grab my fork and dip the plastic tines into the noodles, winding some around as she inhales her food.
I don’t ask her name yet because people like her tend to be more open when they’re with strangers.
If we exchange personal information, I might seem less safe to her.
I lean forward. “What were the fries about?”
She swallows. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”
“Is that why you got freaked out by the security guard? Because of other opportunities you’ve taken?”
Shame colors her cheeks. “Yeah . . . I got kicked out for stealing.”
“Clothes?”
“Food.”
She steals food from the food court? How does she get away with that?
Then her eyes dart to the family a few tables down. They get up and abandon their trays on the table for some employee to clean up later. Her muscles tense and flex with an urge, and I suddenly realize what she does.
“You eat people’s leftovers?”
The shame on her face becomes mortification as she realizes how I put it together. She bites so hard on her lower lip that I worry she’ll make herself bleed. So I tell her something that might make her feel better.
“When I was hungry enough, I would lurk behind restaurants and eat food from the dumpster. I had no clue how old anything was or if it was bad. I just dove in and scavenged anything I could. And I got extremely sick from it twice. The worst part? I was so sick and so hungry that I ate my own vomit.”
Her eyes widen slightly before dropping completely from mine. This is the first time I’ve told anyone that story. I guess you are more willing to share when the person doesn’t even know your name.
I expect disgust to appear on her face, but aside from that moment of widening eyes, she remains stone-faced. A mutual embarrassment lingers between us, strolling back and forth.
“But you aren’t starving, are you?” I get the courage to ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t let myself get hungry.”
“Why?”
“I compulsively eat because I want to look like this. I need to look like this.”
Compulsively eating? I haven’t heard of that in people like us. Poverty of this level goes hand in hand with being disgustingly thin.
The girl lowers her fork and begins fidgeting with her fingers.
“Dare I ask why you need to look like that?”
Her eyes jump to mine again. “No.”
Ah. She’s shut down. I guess it won’t hurt to learn some of her details, then.
“Can I ask your name?”
“You can ask all you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you.” She picks up her fork and swirls it in the pasta without taking a bite.
“What’s your name, pup?”
“Tegan Massey,” she finally says.
“I’m Alec Yeager, but they call me Ace.”
“They?”
“My crew.”
“What does that even mean?” She brings the pasta to her lips, then lowers it. “What was with the clown-car act in the parking lot?”
“We’re magazine salesmen. We travel the country to make sales.”
She nods before taking a mouthful of food and pointing the empty tines at me. “I feel like you’re lying to me. Who reads magazines anymore?”
“Only our oldest clients.”
“You make money like that, though?”
I wrap my hand around my chin, trying to assess how much I should explain to this complete stranger I found scrounging in our van. I’m tempted to hide what we do, but fuck it.
“We sell ourselves, Tegan. We create sales from sob stories that tug at the heartstrings of the rich and privileged. The magazines are just a decoy. All you need is the ability to manipulate, a book for orders, and some magazines to make them believe we’re legit.”
“Are you legit?”
A smile creeps across my face, and I slide my tongue between my teeth until the barbell clanks against them. She notices my tongue ring for the first time, and she swallows hard. I’m clearly not something she’s used to seeing. And I kind of like it.
“We’re as legit as we can be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“The money is legit, and that’s all that matters.”
Her ears perk up when I mention money. I’m guessing she doesn’t have a job, based on the desperation in her eyes.
“So you lie to people for a living?” she says, her lips tightening.
“Yes.”
“Is that what all this is? Manipulation?”
I bite down on the tip of my tongue. “No, Tegan. I wanted to help you.”
She stands, throwing the lid down on her food and swiping it off the table. “I don’t need your help.”
She looks around—for the guard, I presume—before rushing toward the exit. I hurry to catch up to her. I have no clue what I did to piss her off.
“Tegan!” I call toward her back. “What if I could offer you a job?”
She pushes through the doors, but I go after her. She won’t get away this easily.