His leg throbbed like a son of a bitch and the oatmeal Judy had given him for breakfast was gone. His stomach ached as if he’d been punched in it with a large hammer, making the bag of goop processor feel as if someone had drained it of all it’s juices.  Even his bile wanted a thing or two to digest. He could taste the bitter in his mouth.

Hunger makes a man do dumb things, and he was about to do the dumbest – have a meal in a Waffle House at 3 am in the morning off a lone stretch of interstate. A lonely yellow sign stood out against the black sky. The ebony letters, half faded from spending too much time in the mid-day sun, making the trademark sign spell Wafle Hose, if read from left to right, since the other letters in the name had faded.  He didn’t care.  A hot cup of coffee, a bowl of grits and maybe a couple of crisp strips of bacon would tie him over.

Mr. Yield maneuvered his Ford F-150 to the exit ramp, making the left, and driving across the interstate bridge, pulling reluctantly into the parking lot.  Only three cars were in the lot. One, he assumed belonged to the night manager, the other to the waitress who as going to have entirely too much attitude for this time of morning and the third to a lonely, lone customer.

“Dammit,” he mumbled as his phone began to vibrate. A call at 3 am was never good for him or the person on the other end.

“Yield,” he said into the line. He knew it was Beauty Kurtzwilde and he didn’t want to talk to her.

“Good morning; where are you?” She asked in the line.

“Waffle House, jut outside of St. Louis,” Yield mumbled, adjusting the aching leg.

“Did you retrieve the package from Caleb Morrow’s widow?”

“Yep, burned it,” he lied.  She didn’t have the package, or at least that’s what Stop had told him. He believed the man although the woman truck him as being a little on the left side of shady. That man was going to have his hands full with the woman and child. Yield saw no reason to out the man to Beauty on his change in life situation, especially since he’d done him a solid and only shot him in the leg versus kill him.

“Are you ready to for another?” Beauty asked.

“Another what?”

“A young man by the name of Luther Pennington has taken a watch that belongs to his grandfather,” Beauty said. “He lives nearby in Wentzville. Are you close to that location?”

Yield looked at his GPS. He actually sat in the parking lot of the Waffle House in Wentzville. The thought of getting a hotel room for the night sat well with him, which would give him a chance to put the leg up while he slept. The dull throb from Stop digging the bullet out of his muscle and sewing him back up hurt like a moferker.

“I’ll look into,” he told her, “send a photo.”

“No bloodshed if you can help it. The contract only requires the return of the item,” Beauty said. “The originator wants help for the grandson, not death.”

“Duly noted,” Yield mumbled, ending the call.  In a few moments an image of the young man would come through and, in the morning, he would begin his skip trace. At this moment, his belly reminded him of a couple of those crisp strips of bacon, a hot cup of black coffee and bowl of grits with cheddar cheese on top.

He cut the engine to the truck, climbing out slowly, ensuring he had his piece in his jacket pocket along with a new knife. The one he’d used to cut Stop had fallen in the snow. The knife didn’t mean enough to him to go back and look for it. In his line of work, he had plenty of knives, guns, and surveillance equipment to last him a life time. Moving slowly, the bell on the glass door jangled when he opened it, stepping inside to the warmth and grease filled air.

“Morning,” a pretty young woman called from behind the counter. Large brown eyes focused on his face. He knew the scar which emblazoned across his left eye and down his cheek was a turn off to a lot of women. Others found it to be a turn on, as if the scar gave him an edgy look which made him seem suspect. However, her eyes, went from his face to the man at the end of the far counter, seated in a corner with his head down.

Yield turned slowly, looking at the man who sat silently, his right leg bouncing up and down like a junkie in need of a fix. Probably going to try and rob the place. Dammit.

“Coffee, black and hot. Bacon and a bowl of grits with some cheese on top,” he said, dragging the leg a bit as he went to find a seat facing the door. Wanting the last booth in the rom of three, he went to sit, but found the seat occupied by a small, sleeping, little person.

“Sorry about that,” the waitress said. “Chad is sleep down there. Babysitters are so hard to come by nowadays. My Ma, won’t watch him while I work, at the late shift ain’t got many customers. It works out.”

He said nothing. His eyes on the shifty character and then the child. A moment of envy went through him as he thought about Stop, being at the raggedy home made house with Judy and the child. A family. He wanted a family, but it would be just his dumb luck to marry a crazy bitch that liked to fight all the time. The last one gave him the ugly scar across his face.

A ping from his pocket indicated Beauty had sent the photo for his next assignment.

“Pull one bacon,” the waitress yelled as a man, big around the middle, waddled from the back. The swinging door complaining of his girth as he walked over to he fridge. Grubby hands reach for the handle to pull out three strips of bacon.

“Hey, wash your hands before you touch my food,” Yield said aloud.

“The heat from the grill will kill any germs,” the cook grumbled.

“Either way, I would rather not have the germs from your ass on my meal,” Yield said, looking down at the photo.

This was the part of his job he hated most. The images people sent of the targets were also good pics before the subject went bad. A good looking kid with blonde hair, bright blue eyes and an award winning smile looked back at him. He was pretty sure the kid didn’t look like this now. If he was using, more than likely, he would look more like the kid at the end of the counter. Used up.

“Here’s our coffee Mister,” the young woman said, sitting the cup down. “Let me get your grits. I made them myself. Just a little bit of milk, a bit of sugar and heavy cream. Makes them grits real smooth when you stir’em up.”

He watched her firm backside, young supple skin and pert breast as she leaned over the table to place the bowl in front of him. Her lips moves slowly so he could understand her words. He’s scaring me.

Yield mouthed back, call the cops.

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head no. Her eyes went to the child then back to him.

Yield turned up his lip in a frown. He didn’t understand what she was trying to tell him and really didn’t give a shit. His leg hurt. He wanted his grits and that bacteria bacon the shit stain on life was cooking under the heavy metal press on the grill. Shrugging and reaching for the bowl, his attempt to blow her off didn’t work.

Two loaded spoonful bites into his grits, Yield knew without a reasonable doubt, they were by far the best tasting boiled grounds of corn he’d ever eaten in his life. For that reason alone, he took a little more interest in what she was trying to say to him. Craning his neck, he looked over his shoulder into the seat to see the sleeping child. The child was the key to her message.

“Dammit,” he mumbled out loud.

The shaky fellow looked up at him, with blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. Cursing under his breath, it was just his blind luck that the skip trace he’d been sent to retrieve was in the same hole on the same wall as him.

“Fuck it, I’m finishing my meal first,” Yield said licking his lips when the bacon arrived.

“Luther, pay up or get out,” the cook told the boy.

“Jake, you know I’m good for it,” Luther, the shaky man said.

“Your Grandpa is good for it, you aren’t good for nuthin’,” the cook said feeling proud that he could lord this over the downfallen young man.

Yield hated bullies. Especially when it came to those less fortunate than others. Life had kicked the young man hard in the teeth, and this ass wipe wasn’t helping.

“Luther,” he said aloud. “You hungry?’

“Yeah, but I ain’t got no money,” he said.

“I’ll buy anything you have on you that’s worth a twenty so you can get yourself a meal,” Yield said to the young man.

“All I have is this watch, and I can’t sell it for no twenty damned bucks,” Luther said.

“What do you want for it?”

“A hundred! A hundred dollars,” Luther said.

“Deal,” Yield said. “Hand the watch to Millicent over here, who will bring it to me and carry back the hundred. Easy transaction. You get a meal, the cook is happy, I get a watch and Millicent earns a nice tip.”

A shaky Luther gawked at him. The once nice teeth as shown on the photo on his phone were now black from smoking meth. The smooth, well cared for skin in the photo was pock marked and full in sores.

“No funny stuff out you Mister,” Luther challenged.

“I’m not going to move which is why the sweet Millicent is going to bring you over this bill,” he said, taking a crisp note from his wallet. “You hand her the watch she hands you the bill and everyone is good.”

“What if I keep the watch and your bill then kick your ass?” Luther asked, feeling bold.

“Then, your Grandfather is going to be real pissed at me when I return that watch to him and put a bullet in you,” Yield growled out.

Millicent jumped, the cook dropped the spatula and Luther’s eyes grew wide. Yield loved this portion of the job. He called it the ‘come to Jesus’ moment.

“Yep, your Grandpa sent me to get his watch back,” Yield said. “Normally, I would kick your ass and take back the stolen property, because that’s what I enjoy doing. But this morning, I’m tired. My leg hurts, I’m sleepy and a bit pissed off. However, Millicent here has made me feel kindly towards you after eating this bowl of yumminess. So do all of us a favor, take the damned money, give me the fucking watch and for God’s sake, eat some food!”

He handed Millicent the bill which she accepted with shaking hands. Hesitantly she moved down the walkway behind the counter to Luther, who pulled the watch from his pocket. Tears filled his eyes as he handed it to the young waitress, who put it in her pocket then handed him the bill.

“Come to me Millicent,” Yield said, holding a strip of bacon in his hand. “Cook, make the man a steak with a side of eggs and put it on my tab.”

She reached his booth, passing him the watch. He stared at the inanimate object. The old man wanted it back, more than likely as a last straw to take one more thing from the kid. It wasn’t his business.

“Thanks,” he said to Millicent, sliding the watch into his pocket.

Her eyes going to the child.

“Are you going to be in town for a while?” She asked, wanting to ask him for help that he didn’t fucking feel like giving.

“Nope,” he replied. The way the hope drained from her face said it all. The kid’s father was an asshole. A local cop? “Whaddya need?”

He couldn’t believe he’d said the words.

“A ride home would be nice for me and my kid,” she said. “You can have the couch to sleep on tonight, if you want. It’s lumpy, but it sure beats you staying in the local motel. It’s safer too.”

“And what if I’m jut going to keep rolling?”

“You can’t,” she said turning her back to him to get the him a refresh on his coffee. “Mr. Pennington lives twenty miles outside of town, and your bandage is bleeding on your leg.”

“Fuck,” he mumbled; she was right. His leg had started to bleed.

“No, that’s not on the table, but Mister, it sure does sound good,” she said with a wink.

How do I get myself into shit like this was the first thing that went through my head. The second thing was the possibility of a good fuck from a young pretty thing like her with lots of energy. Hurt leg or not, I could just hold tight and let her do the work. A third thing popped into my head as well. The kid.

It always starts with the damned kid.

****

MILLICENT ST. JAMES lived in a trailer park, just inside the city limits of Wentzville, Missouri. The sparse place was clean, the kitchen sink empty of dirty dishes and the fridge full of Waffle House to-go containers. He surmised it was how she and the kid ate on the regular.

“What’s the story? The boy’s Pap is a cop?” He asked, taking a seat in one of the two kitchen chairs.

“No,” she said. “His Uncle is the cop. Chad’s father is his brother,” she said. “You know the type, never wanting to help but always want to make the rules of what I can and can’t do. You’re a bad Mom sort of shit, while he’s down in St. Louis laid up with a chick with big fake titties and fat injected into her ass.”

“May be some merit to it, you bringing home strangers and all for a ride,” he said it with a double-edged meaning.

“I said you could sleep in the couch,” she told him.

“You also said a fuck would be nice,” Yield said. “I gave you the lift home with hopes that once my leg got bandaged, you would come through. I’m a man, that’s how I think. Women don’t think like us, you folks are always planning, six steps ahead of our sluggish brains. What are you hoping to get out of the deal?”

“Truthfully?”

“Why not? Lying don’t get you very far with me,” he said.

“Shit, I’m hoping, if I am to be honest,” she said, biting her bottom lip, “that if I fuck you good enough, that you will take me and the kid with you.”

“Lady, you don’t know me!”

“I sure as hell don’t which should make you really wonder, how completely awful my life must be here if I’m asking to go with you!” Millicent said.

“Yeah, but where am I taking you?”

“To your house,” she said. “I am a great housekeeper, a fantastic cook, and Chad won’t be a problem. It’s just for a little while until we can figure out what’s next. If not, and you leave me here, life is just going to get uglier for us. Help me. Help my child. Help us get a new life.”

“What if I’m married and got a woman?”

“Do you?”

“Hell no,” he said.

“Then good, I can be your woman for a while,” she said, getting the first aid kit. “But first, let me take care of that leg.”

“I can do it,” he said. “Plus, I would have to take off my pants.”

“Well, Mister, I sure as hell can’t fuck you with them on,” Millicent offered.

-  Fin-

Coming May 2019. You can pre-order by clicking on Amazon or here for other platforms