Chapter 9 #2
"We're delivery drivers stuck in a storm," she says, pulling her hair back. "Not complicated."
Is she serious? Everything about my life is complicated. I live in a house made of cards. One wrong move and the whole thing comes tumbling down.
I do one last sweep of the room before we leave. Check the window locks. Make sure nothing valuable is visible. The truck keys go in my pocket, gun tucked at the small of my back under my jacket.
Adena's already by the door, waiting. The storm hits us the second we step outside. Rain coming down in sheets, wind whipping it sideways. Lightning splits the sky, and thunder rumbles in the distance.
We make a run for the truck. By the time we're inside, we're both soaked.
I start the engine, flip the wipers to max speed. They can barely keep up.
"You better be hungry," I mutter.
"Starving," already scanning the road ahead.
I pull out of the motel lot carefully. The storm has turned everything into a wall of gray water.
The streets are deserted. Smart people are inside.
We're not smart people.
I drive slowly, headlights cutting through the rain until I see a low-slung building with faded yellow siding and a hand-painted sign that's probably been there since the seventies.
I reverse park as close to the entrance as possible and kill the engine.
We make another sprint through the rain. The door sticks slightly when we push through, then opens with a jingle of bells overhead.
Inside smells like coffee, bacon grease, and something baking—maybe pie. The floors are scuffed linoleum, the booths are red vinyl with duct tape patches, and there's a long counter with spinning chrome stools that have seen better days.
A woman behind the counter looks up—fifties, dyed blonde hair teased high, pink lipstick, name tag that says "Lurleen." She's refilling salt shakers.
"Lord have mercy, y'all are soaked," she says, her accent thick as molasses. "Grab yourselves a seat anywhere, sugar. I'll be right with you."
The diner is nearly empty. An elderly Black man in overalls is at the counter, reading a newspaper. A trucker is in the back corner booth with a plate of what looks like country-fried steak.
Adena heads for a booth by the window. I follow, sliding in across from her.
The table has a laminated menu stuck between the napkin dispenser and the sugar caddy. Someone's written the daily specials on a chalkboard behind the counter: Catfish & Hushpuppies. Meatloaf Plate. Chicken & Dumplings.
Outside, lightning flashes. The whole diner brightens for a second before settling back into the warm glow of fluorescent fixtures and a few scattered table lamps.
Lurleen appears with two thick ceramic mugs and a pot of coffee. "Coffee, hon?"
"Please," we both say.
She pours, sets down two menus. "Special today is the catfish—comes with coleslaw, hushpuppies, and fries. Soup's chicken and dumplings."
“I’ll need a minute,” Adena says.
Lurleen nods, smiling. “Take as long as you need.”
When she shuffles away, I shrug out of my jacket, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at my shoulder.
Adena notices. "So who knifed you? Last partner?"
That gets a smile out of me even though it shouldn't. "Guy thought I was hitting on his woman."
She picks up her coffee. "And were you?"
I lower my voice. "You didn’t think I flew solo this whole time, did you?"
I catch enough of her subtle disdain to know she’s disappointed in me. Don’t know what she expected. I never said I was a saint.
“Some things you can’t fake for three years,” I remind her.
Her gaze drifts out the window, then back to me. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean we get to use what we do as an excuse for sin.”
I sit back a little. This is not a conversation I want to be having. “You want to talk about sin?”
She glances around the diner. “Not here.”
I open my hands. “You started this. You want to talk, we talk. How about we discuss all the sins you’ve committed since you got here?”
Her eyes narrow a fraction, and I get the feeling that she’s got plenty she wants to say. None of which is appropriate for two delivery drivers sitting in a diner.
She doesn’t get a chance to answer. Lurleen arrives, pad in hand, ready to take our order.
"What can I get y'all?" Lurleen asks, pen poised over her order pad.
Adena doesn't break eye contact with me for a beat longer than necessary, then turns to Lurleen with a smile that's too perfect, too practiced. Probably one her mother drilled into her before she could probably even spell the word "talent."
"I'll have the catfish plate, please."
"Good choice, hon." Lurleen scribbles it down, then looks at me expectantly.
"Meatloaf," I say.
"Mashed potatoes or fries with that?"
"Mashed."
"You got it." She tucks the menus under her arm. "Be out in about fifteen minutes."
When she's gone, the silence stretches between us like a tripwire. The smile's already gone. Whatever mask she just wore for Lurleen disappeared the second we were alone again.
"You think I’m judging you," she says finally, voice low enough that it won't carry.
“Aren’t you?”
She tosses her head. "I think you're using your cover as permission to stop caring about the difference between what you have to do and what you choose to do."
Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. "There's a gap there, Jagger. And you know it."
The truth of that statement hits harder than I expect. I lean back against the cracked vinyl booth, crossing my arms—a reflex, a barrier. "You don't pull punches, do you, Tiger?"
"I don't have time to." Her voice softens, but the intensity doesn't fade. "I don't know how much longer I'll get the chance to talk to you like this. To you. Not the cover."
And there it is. The real reason behind this impromptu interrogation. She's not just making conversation—she's trying to know me before the window closes. Before we're locked into our roles and every word has to be calculated, every gesture scrutinized.
Like this is some high-stakes crash course in each other. Or a date. Which it isn't and can't be.
"Paco would have settled for a vending machine dinner," I say, deflecting.
She blows on her coffee and arches an eyebrow. "Paco doesn't have your best interests at heart."
My chest tightens. And it's not because she finally dressed the wound I'd been neglecting. "And you do?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Is she for real? I don’t even know her, but she’s taken better care of me in the last two days than any real woman I used to prop up my cover in the last three years.
Our food arrives. Lurleen slides the catfish plate in front of Adena—golden, crispy, with a pile of hushpuppies on the side. My meatloaf looks like every other meatloaf I've ever had. Edible. Adequate.
The second we’re alone again, Adena pushes the basket toward the center of the table without a word. “So you don’t sit there drooling like a dachshund.”
I wish I could laugh. But the woman can read me like I'm an open book. Three years of a bulletproof cover, and she sees right through it.
I take a hushpuppy and place it beside my mashed potatoes. “Tell me something. You like this with everyone?”
Her brow knits. “Like what?”
“Sweet.”
She sputters a laugh, and an ache starts to grow in a place I thought was long cauterized. “No one calls me sweet, Jagger. Abrupt. Blunt. Occasionally generous and efficient. But never sweet.”
The idea that I’m seeing a side of her no one else does sends warmth spreading through me. "So you’re saying I’m the exception?"
She stops chewing, and the tiniest flush grows on her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m obligated to look after the people God puts in my path.”
I frown and slice into the meatloaf a little too aggressively just as the toe of her boot gently kicks my shin. “Four o’clock.”
I glance up from my meal, and all my veins fire.
A cruiser just pulled into the parking lot. Two officers inside, windows fogged from the rain.
My hand stills on my fork. Every instinct I've honed screams at me to assess, calculate, prepare for the worst. I’m carrying, and so is Adena.
The cruiser’s door opens.
Adena's face is perfectly calm, but her fingers tighten around her fork. She's ready. Professional.
Everything I stopped being the second I started wanting this to be real.