Chapter 3
Taryn
I wake up hungover for the third day in a row.
My hangover made sense on Saturday. Madison and Shana were suffering too after my birthday party. We drank again that night, so I blamed Sunday on that, even though they were fine and eager to return to their universities.
But now it’s Monday, I didn’t drink anything last night, and I still feel like something dragged me behind a truck in my sleep.
Not only am I hungover, but I have to work today.
“Ugh,” I groan, my head spinning when I sit up. “What the hell is wrong with me? Please don’t let this be a stomach bug.”
As much as it sucks, I can’t afford to miss a day of work. Plus, Frank’s my ride, and he won’t be happy if he has to wait.
I force myself to get out of bed and stagger to the shower. Like most mornings, the water is freezing cold when I turn it on. I let it warm up while I brush my teeth, but it’s still barely room temperature when I step inside.
There was no shower in the basement when Shana asked her parents to let me live down here.
For the first year, I had to go upstairs every morning to shower.
Frank made such a big deal out of adding the shower that I’ve never complained about the temperature.
But this is one morning when a blazing hot shower would be incredible.
After my shower, I put on my work clothes and hurry upstairs. Melinda is still on the top floor getting ready. Frank is waiting by the door. He raises a brow and glances at his watch when he sees me.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m not feeling very well today.”
“I’m not surprised. You drank all weekend,” he sighs, opening the front door and gesturing for me to go to the car.
“I didn’t have any alcohol last night,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to care.
My relationship with Frank is basically a roll of the dice.
I never know what I’m going to get each day.
Sometimes he treats me like a second daughter.
Sometimes he treats me like an employee who never works hard enough to earn my paycheck.
But most of the time, I just feel like a burden.
I’m an unwanted houseguest he has to provide everything for, including a job, so I can afford my own groceries.
“We’ll have a big crowd for breakfast, like we usually do on Mondays,” Frank says while he drives, filling the silence with unnecessary conversation. I’ve been working at the diner long enough to know the patterns as well as he does. “Maybe a lunch rush too, if there are no food trucks nearby.”
“They usually only come on Thursday and Friday,” I say, my head pounding even worse now that I’m in the car.
“Yeah,” he agrees, cracking the window and lighting a cigarette.
Cigarette smoke rarely bothers me, but today it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
His brand usually reminds me of teenage rebellion, because Shana used to steal his cigarettes every chance she got.
Madison is the only one who turned teenage rebellion into a habit, but it seems she’s finally outgrown it too.
The sickness in my stomach gets worse until I have to rest my head against the window, breathing through my mouth so I don’t smell the smoke.
“You really are sick,” Frank notices. “If you’re going to throw up, either hold it until we get to the diner or roll the window down.”
“I think I’ll be okay,” I mumble.
A pothole makes me question it immediately, but I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.
“Good. Bethany’s out of town, so you’re the only waitress I have until dinnertime,” he says, taking another drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window.
Joe the Felon is waiting for us when we turn into the parking lot of the diner.
He grins when he sees us, revealing fewer teeth than a grin really needs.
Once we park, he walks around to my side of the car and opens my door.
Usually, he doesn’t smell like kitchen funk until he’s started cooking.
Today, it smells like the aroma is baked into his clothes and rotting.
“Thought you were going to be late, boss,” Joe says, looking past me.
“She’s not feeling well,” Frank grunts, getting out of the car.
“What’s bothering you, sweetheart?” Joe asks. “If you’re sick, I can fix you a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”
“No, thank you,” I say as politely as I can. “It’s my stomach, so I don’t think I should eat anything until it settles down.”
“Okay, want me to rub it for you? Or I could rub something else that’ll feel even better,” he laughs, leaning closer to me.
I glance at Frank, hoping he heard the inappropriate remark.
If he did, he’s ignoring it. He opens the front door of the diner and looks at us, so I move away from Joe as fast as I can without breaking into a sprint.
Today definitely isn’t a day for sprinting.
I’m worried I’ll get sick just trying to carry food to the tables.
As soon as I step into the diner, I get overwhelmed by all the different smells. I rarely notice anything but the stale grease when I get here in the morning. Today, my nose starts sorting through everything like it has a personal grudge against me for getting out of bed.
Old fryer oil clings to the walls. Burnt coffee sits bitter and stale in the pot Joe forgot to empty last night.
The floor smells like bleach, wet mop, and whatever died under the rubber mat by the grill.
There’s syrup dried somewhere, sweet enough to make my stomach roll, and onions, even though nobody has chopped any yet.
Bacon grease. Old toast. Sour milk from the trash behind the counter.
And underneath all of it, Joe, as he walks into the diner behind me. He’s followed closely by Frank, who now smells like a recently extinguished cigarette. For some reason, that’s even worse than a lit one.
Everything is so overwhelming that when I try to grab the counter, my hand slips, and I nearly fall. Then I feel more bile in my throat and have to rush to the restroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, unable to stop myself from vomiting.
“Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter.
I have to be sick. That’s the only explanation. Hangovers don’t last days. Maybe Madison and Shana had a bug and didn’t tell me.
After my stomach settles, I go to the sink and clean up. I send a message to Madison and Shana in our group chat.
Taryn: Hey, I’m sick this morning. Anyone else feeling sick? I may have a bug.
Madison: Nope, I’m fine. I really hope I don’t catch it!
Shana: Same here. Are you working today?
Taryn: Unfortunately. The other waitress who works during the day is on vacation.
I put my phone away and sigh. I’ve still got some time before the diner opens, but I should be rolling silverware, stocking condiments, and filling the ice bin. I’ve got to find a way to make it through this day, no matter how much my stomach protests.
When I step out of the bathroom, Frank is waiting on me with his arms folded across his chest. It doesn’t look like he’s here to offer words of comfort.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’ll manage,” I mutter.
“Taryn, are you pregnant?” he asks, glaring at me. “If you are, we need to talk.”
“It’s not mine!” Joe yells, clearly eavesdropping. “Not yet at least.”
I don’t have the energy to throw up again, but my stomach clenches anyway.
“Frank, I’m not pregnant,” I say flatly, shaking my head. I’ve had sex before, but it’s been almost two years. “That’s impossible.”
“Then you really need to lay off the drinking,” he says, turning and walking away. “It’s not a problem until it starts interfering with work. Then it’s a big problem.”
“I’ll be more careful,” I assure the grump, hurrying to take care of my morning duties.
It’s an absolutely miserable day. Possibly the worst one I’ve ever had at the diner. I’m incredibly sensitive to everything from the overhead lights to the sound of the bell every time an order is ready to the smells that pour out of the kitchen.
By ten o’clock, I’ve dropped several forks, gagged behind the coffee station because a man at table six apparently bathed in cologne, and heard Joe mutter something disgusting from the kitchen even though the grill fan should have drowned him out.
When my shift is finally over, I’m exhausted, cranky, and more agitated than ever.
I’m glad I don’t have to ride home with Frank.
He drives me to work, but I usually take the bus home, since he doesn’t leave until the last customer is gone in the evenings.
Today is definitely not the day for a double shift, even if I could use the money.
“Did you remember to clock out?” Frank asks as I walk past him.
“Yes, sir,” I reply respectfully.
There’s not much daylight left when I leave the diner. I just want to go home, crawl into my bed, and pray that tomorrow will be a better day. But while I’m standing at the bus stop, I get a message from one of my friends.
Valerie: Hey girl! Are you off work yet?
Taryn: Yeah, my shift just ended.
Valerie: I thought so. Swing by the bar. I’ve got a birthday present for you!
A bar is the last place I want to go, but it’ll be faster to stop by and get my gift than explain why I don’t feel up to it.
I’m not as close with Valerie as I am with Madison and Shana.
We went to school together but weren’t really friends until we both ended up stuck in Covington after most of our classmates left for college.
The bar is within walking distance, so I head that way. Halfway there, a new sensation emerges. Not nausea this time. Not dizziness. It feels like I’m being watched. A few times, I swear I see something lurking in the shadows between buildings, but when I look, there’s nothing there.
“Great, now my imagination is screwing with me too,” I sigh, shaking my head.
If I could afford it, I would make an appointment with my doctor, but that’s just another expense I don’t need. What I need is rest. A lot of rest.
But the strange sensation doesn’t pass. Every step I take, something feels off.
Shadows move in my peripheral vision. For a moment, I smell something that reminds me of the forest near my grandmother’s house.
Then a car passes and all I smell is exhaust. When I get close to the bar, I’ve never been happier to see the neon signs.
Smells aren’t bothering me like they were earlier. I can tell that when I step into the bar and don’t immediately gag when I’m hit with the aroma of stale beer, citrus cleaner, fried food, and sugary mixed drinks.
I’m glad the bar isn’t packed. Only a handful of customers are scattered around tonight. Valerie is making drinks, so I walk up to the counter.
“Taryn! Yay!” she says happily. “Give me a few minutes and you can walk with me to my car. Your gift is in the backseat.”
“Okay,” I reply, leaning against the bar.
“Want something to drink while you wait?” she asks. “It’s close enough to your birthday that I can give you a free drink without my dad tearing my ass up with his belt.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, waving off her offer. “I haven’t been feeling that great today.”
“You pregnant?” she asks, glancing over at me.
“No, I’m not pregnant,” I retort. “Why do people keep asking me if I’m pregnant?”
If Valerie hears me, she ignores it. She makes a few more drinks, checks on her customers, and gets her dad to come watch the bar.
I follow her outside, and before I can even enjoy the breeze, the strange sensation returns.
At least it’s not my stomach now. I’d rather feel uneasy than half a second from puking all the time.
“I was going to wrap it, but I didn’t have any paper,” Valerie says, opening her back door. “So, just close your eyes.”
I force a smile, close my eyes, and hold out my hands. Valerie places something smooth that almost feels like a lamp with no lampshade, so I have to open my eyes to examine it. I’m not sure what it is until she places a few wax discs on top.
“It’s a wax warmer,” she explains. “You mentioned that Shana’s basement has an odd odor.”
I mentioned that to Valerie once. I’m surprised she even remembers because that was years ago. Truthfully, I think I’ve gotten used to it since then. It didn’t even bother me that much today when my stomach was in knots.
“Yeah, it’s a little funky,” I admit, wrinkling my nose. “Thank you so much. This is so thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, hugging me. “How did your birthday party go?”
“It wasn’t really a party. I would have invited you if I had a party,” I say. “I just hung out with Madison and Shana. It’s been a while since the three of us got to hang out.”
“Do anything fun?” she asks, raising a brow and removing a disposable vape from her purse. She takes a hit and blows out a stream of vapor that smells like lemon.
“We drank way too much vodka and Shana brought some weed, so we had a good time,” I say. “It was like old times. We even tried to cast a spell.”
“Cast a spell?” she laughs. “I thought the three of you grew out of that.”
“So did I,” I sigh. “We found this old book at my grandmother’s house a long time ago. It’s supposed to be a book of spells, but we could never get any of them to work.”
“Because magic isn’t real?” she asks jokingly, taking another hit from her vape.
“That and the fact we could never decipher it,” I say. “Madison used AI and got further than we ever did in high school, so they wanted to try a spell.”
“What kind of spell?” she asks, raising a brow as she exhales a lemon-scented cloud.
“A love spell,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Truthfully, I don’t even know if it was really a love spell. We couldn’t decipher everything.”
I see something move in the dark beside the bar, but I’m sure it’s just imagination messing with me again, so I try to brush it off.
“Casting mysterious spells that you can’t even read?” she laughs. “Good thing magic isn’t real.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, then I jump because there’s a loud thud from the side of the bar like someone just tried to punch through the brick.
There’s more movement, but this time, I’m not the only one who notices it.
Valerie’s head whips toward the shadows at the same time mine does.
For a second, I swear there’s a shape near the corner of the building.
Tall shadows. Broad shoulders. A glimmer that almost looks like eyes catching the security light.
It vanishes before I can fully process it and a roar echoes from the alleyway behind the bar. Loud, furious, and too deep to belong to any man. It sounds like a beast.
“What the fuck was that?” Valerie asks, her eyes wide. She lowers her vape without taking another hit.
I don’t answer, because I’m as startled and confused as she is.
Whatever it was, it sounded angry.
I can’t shake the feeling that it was angry at me.
But why?