3. Aliyah
ALIYAH
The black Aston Martin catches my eye again, parked in the same spot across from Lou's Diner. Third time this week. Jackson thinks he's being subtle, but subtlety isn't exactly a strong suit for a man built like a tank in designer suits.
I wipe down the counter with deliberate slowness, watching his silhouette through the tinted windows. He hasn't stepped foot in the diner in a few days shockingly, yet here he is, playing watchdog like I'm some kind of mark.
He is always pushing my goddamn buttons and I'm not sure why he even keeps coming around here. He brings out a side of me that I didn't even know exists. But I can't seem to control it.
"Taking my break, Lou," I call out, untying my apron.
The diner owner grunts from the kitchen. Perfect timing - the lunch rush just ended, and the place is nearly empty except for a couple of regulars nursing their coffee.
I don't actually need to work this many shifts. The sex parties I work cover more than enough. But those thousands in tips need somewhere to go that won’t raise questions - spread out between just enough legitimate shifts to keep the books clean.
It's annoying, but a necessary part of the game. Besides, the parties aren’t necessarily steady enough that I’d feel comfortable without a real job - just in case.
I grab my water bottle and step outside, the sun heating my skin with no cloud coverage. The concrete barrier between the diner and parking lot makes an excellent perch, giving me a clear view of his car. I stretch my legs out, making a show of adjusting my uniform skirt.
The engine of the Aston Martin rumbles to life. I hide my smirk behind a sip of water. For someone who deals in weapons and death, Jackson's awfully easy to rattle.
I pull out my phone, pretending to scroll while tracking his movements in my peripheral vision. The car idles for another minute before pulling away from the curb, tires crunching over loose gravel.
"Amateur," I mutter, counting down in my head. Three... two... one...
Right on schedule, the same black car cruises past again, this time from the opposite direction. I raise my water bottle in a mock toast, knowing he can see me through the windshield.
The car accelerates sharply, the growl of the engine betraying his irritation. Good. Let him waste his time watching me serve burnt coffee and mediocre pie.
I have no doubt that he could be slyer if he wanted to. Which means that he wants me to know he's here - I just don't get why. What is he even getting out of this?
I've dealt with men like Jackson before - they think their power and money make them untouchable. But information is the real currency in this city, and I'm rich with it. I just need to figure out why he's playing this little game.
He probably just isn't used to not getting what he wants - and he wants me to bend to him. Well, that's not going to fucking happen.
With a sigh, I head back inside. I'm working a double today for Lou, and I can't waste too much time out here.
The dinner rush hits hard, and I'm juggling three plates of meatloaf while dodging past Lou's ancient coffee machine when I hear it - that low, commanding voice that's been haunting the periphery of my life.
Jackson sits in the corner booth, his broad shoulders filling the worn vinyl seat. The suit today is charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to his frame. He's not alone - two men in similar attire flank him, their voices hushed.
"Specifications need to be exact." Jackson's words drift over as I refill coffee at the adjacent table. "These aren't toys. One wrong measurement and the whole shipment's worthless."
I slow my movements, keeping my back turned as I wipe imaginary spills from the table.
"The buyer wants confirmation by midnight." His tone drops lower, edged with steel. "If they don't get it, we'll need to handle the situation. Permanently."
A shiver runs down my spine - not from fear, but from the raw power emanating from him. I don't want to admit, but seeing him so locked in, with that cold, lethal certainty, is kind of hot.
It's not lost on me that Jackson is attractive. But if I fell apart for every good-looking and muscular guy in the city then I'd never be able to do either of my jobs.
I turn, meeting his dark gaze across the diner. His eyes narrow fractionally - he knows I've been listening. Instead of looking away, I hold his stare while I pour coffee for his companions, letting my hip brush against the table just slightly.
"Anything else I can get you gentlemen?" I keep my voice sweet, practiced.
Jackson's jaw tightens. "We're fine."
"Shame." I set down extra napkins, using the movement to lean closer. The scent of his cologne hits me - expensive, with notes of cedar and something darker. "Our pie's to die for."
His companions shift to admire me, but Jackson doesn't move. His stillness reminds me of a predator assessing its prey. But I'm no prey, and the dangerous glint in his eyes only makes my pulse quicken. And that's why I can't seem to be able to stop myself from pushing him.
"Maybe next time," he says, each word measured and controlled.
I straighten up, smoothing my skirt. "I'll hold you to that."
I give him a smile that tells him I'm nowhere near done as I head toward the back of the restaurant. I've barely made it behind the counter when Marie starts with her usual nonsense.
"I see your man's back." She nudges me with her elbow, nodding toward Jackson's booth like I wasn't just fucking over there. "Third time this week. Must be love."
I slam a stack of menus down harder than necessary. "He's not my anything."
"Sure, honey." Marie's weathered face creases with amusement. "That's why he keeps coming back for our stellar cuisine."
The other waitresses giggle, and I grip the coffee pot as I pick it up to keep myself in check.
I don't have time for their nonsense and unlike them, I'm not interested in some made man - because he definitely is one if he's around Blade - trying to get under my skin.
He can keep my shifts interesting but that's it.
"Go on." Marie gives me a little push. "I'd get back to your man if I were you."
"He's not my-" The words die in my throat as Jackson looks up, those dark eyes locking onto mine with predatory focus. My skin prickles under his gaze, and he points at his coffee cup.
Without breaking eye contact, I turn and dump the entire pot of coffee into the sink. The hot liquid splashes against stainless steel, steam rising like my temper.
"Aliyah!" Marie gasps.
"Make him a fresh pot if you want." I untie my apron. "I'm taking my break."
Lou appears from the kitchen, his bushy eyebrows drawn together as he surveys the scene. His eyes flick between me, the empty coffee pot, and Jackson's booth. Something knowing crosses his weathered features, but he just shakes his head and retreats back to his grill without a word.
I feel Jackson's stare burning into my back as I push through the kitchen doors. Let him watch. Let him wonder. I'm not some waitress he can intimidate or charm into submission.
But as I lean against the cool brick wall outside, my hands shake slightly. Not from fear - from the electric tension that crackles through the air whenever he's near. From knowing that every time I push back, I'm playing with fire.
And God help me, part of me wants to burn.
I slip back inside, smoothing my uniform and plastering on my most dazzling smile. Time to give Jackson a show he won't forget.
"Here's your coffee, sugar." I lean close to Mr. Peterson at the counter, touching his weathered hand as I set down his mug. "Extra hot, just how you like it."
His cheeks redden at the attention. From the corner of my eye, I catch Jackson's fingers tightening around his phone.
I sway between tables, letting my hips move with deliberate grace. At the booth near the window, a young businessman in a cheap suit fumbles with his menu.
"First time here?" I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling Jackson's gaze burning into my back. "Let me walk you through our specialties."
The businessman's adam's apple bobs as I bend closer, giving him my full attention - an eyeful of my cleavage. "The, uh... what do you recommend?"
"Everything's good." I wink. "But I make the best milkshakes in town. Extra thick, extra sweet."
A glass crashes behind me. I turn slowly to see Jackson's mug shattered on his table, liquid spreading across the surface. His face remains impassive, but his jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. I didn't even see the guys he was with leave.
"Let me help clean that up," I call over, not moving an inch from the businessman's table.
"Don't bother." Jackson's voice carries that dangerous edge that would make smarter people run.
Good thing I've never been accused of being smart.
So instead of helping, I turn my attention to a group of college boys who just walked in, leading them to a booth directly in Jackson's line of sight. "You boys looking for something sweet?" I lean against their table, letting my uniform ride up just slightly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackson start to move. He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with precise movements that barely contain his rage. Those dark eyes lock onto mine as he drops cash on his table.
The thrill of pushing him to his limit makes my blood sing. I blow him a kiss, saccharine sweet, before turning back to my eager new customers.
"Now, where were we?"
The college boys' laughter grates against my nerves as I take their orders, hyper-aware of Jackson's presence behind me. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"I'll have whatever makes you smile like that again," one of them says, trying for smooth but landing on sleazy.
The temperature in the diner seems to drop ten degrees. I don't need to turn around to know Jackson's reached his limit. I'm not even sure why he cares but for some reason, I seem to get under his skin.
It's thoroughly entertaining.
His footsteps are measured, deliberate as he approaches me. Each click of his expensive shoes against the linoleum sounds like a countdown. I feel him pause behind me, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my nape.
"Enjoy your meal, gentlemen." His voice carries that quiet menace that makes smarter men tremble.
The boys' smiles fade as they finally notice him - all six-foot-three of barely contained violence in a perfect suit.
And they probably assume this is him claiming me as his.
I fight back a sigh, especially as he leans forward and growls, "Aliyah. "
I straighten, turning to face him with my customer service smile. "Leaving so soon?"
Those dark eyes bore into mine, promising retribution. Without a word, he slides something into my apron pocket and walks out, his broad shoulders rigid with tension.
The rest of my shift crawls by, but finally Lou waves me off. I count out my tips, and there it is - a heavy cream-colored business card. The black embossed numbers seem to mock me. He gave me his damn number.
I grab my bag and head to the parking lot. His Aston Martin idles in the shadows, right where I knew it would be. The night wraps around me like silk as I pull out my lighter - a habit left over from my dancing days when everyone needed a light.
The flame catches the corner of the card. I hold it up, watching the expensive paper curl and blacken. The numbers disappear into ash that floats away on the breeze.
Then I turn and give him a smile, knowing he's watching. I can just imagine his jaw clenching, the annoyance flashing across his face, and my grin only grows.
He doesn't know what kind of game he's playing with someone like me.