Lauren

 

Al’s Diner on Highway 65 was the type of shit-hole stop-over you could get a cup of coffee for 99¢, a bowl of chili for a couple bucks, and the toughest cut of meat you've ever had for just under ten. The gas station next door kept a steady stream of truckers and travelers, all going to some destination other than the nearest town, and most of them just looked like they were passing.

 

It was the perfect place for a woman like me. Drifting, trying to fly below the radar, just wanting to make it from day to day, and stay one step ahead of my past. Because that's all you had out here, really, on this lonely stretch of road. Your day-to-day, and your past. Futures were for rich folks and people who didn't have anything they were running from.

 

Today was slow. Achingly slow. Even the lunch rush had been as sparse as the desert land I was looking out over from where I sat on an overturned milk crate next to the fire exit door, trashy paperback folded up in my hands, the smell of old, stale cigarette butts filling the air.

 

My book was one of those old bodice rippers, the type my mom would get into back when she was alive. The clerks at the truck stop next door kept them rotated and well-stocked for the truckers that came in. The older drivers were insatiable in the way some of them read these. I guess I could be, too, on slow days like these.

 

Out of all the types I read this was one of my favorites. The bad boy, a good-for-nothing rugged type with the secret heart of gold. Didn't matter if he was the noble savage type, or the Scotsman, or just a trashy biker. I loved them all. Because, when you're stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of drunk rednecks and truckers as far as the eye could see, what else were you going to do?

 

“Cora!” Al called to the back of the house, his voice rebounding through the clatter of dishes and kitchen work before it reached me. “You got a table, one top! Number five!”

 

Number five, the corner booth.

 

Al didn't use my real name because, quite frankly, I'd never given it to him. He paid my tips under the table, kept my names off the forms, the works. I wasn't altogether sure if he knew I was working under an assumed name, but he knew something was up, I was sure of it. Why else would a pretty girl who could read be working in a place like this, especially when she wasn't knocked up with her third baby from her high school prom date? I had the feeling Al had seen his fair share of desperate cases like me, though.

 

I leaned my head back into the fire exit door as I closed my bent-up romance novel and stuffed it in my apron. “On it, Al!” I shouted back, then heaved myself up from the plastic crate to head back inside.

 

I'd had dozens of gigs like this one, all over the west and south, all in the kinds of places you don't see a new face very often. At least not one that sticks around. Places like these, you start to realize, are the kinds of places that people go when they want to disappear. If you weren't born around here, then you were probably trying to stay away from something else. Sometimes the law, sometimes bad decisions, sometimes just their past in general.

 

Me? I'm Lauren Saylor, and I was running from my pops, Dalton Saylor, one of the biggest movers and shakers in in the Tri-State area. Richer than sin, and twice as deadly to your health. I learned that the hard way when I watched him beat my mother to death in a paranoid rage because he thought she was working with outside forces to bring him down. I high-tailed it out of there and kept to the shadier side of life ever since that night. No social media, no emails. Hell, not even a phone.

 

It's amazing how easily you can hide in a country this big. Just don't tell anyone your real name, and you're set.

 

I grabbed a towel as I walked through the kitchen, slapping it down over my shoulder. Here, at least, I didn't have to pretend I was some kind of trashy waitress that was one step away from stripping, like I had at the last joint. They made me crawl into the booth with customers and flirt with them no matter how gross the guys were, my skirt was short enough I might as well have not even been wearing one, and the managers always had a nasty tendency to get a little too handsy.

 

Al kept out of my way as long as I did a good job, and he let me wear whatever I wanted. Normally that just amounted to a decent top and some jeans I didn't mind smelling like a greasy spoon at the end of the day. Throw an apron over it all, put my hair back in a ponytail, and you've got a work uniform. Or at least enough of one to keep him happy.

 

I pushed through the kitchen's swinging doors and headed out onto the floor. Without even glancing to my table, I grabbed a menu off the counter and swung back around to head to my customers. What I saw sitting at the table almost made me stumble.

 

He was tall, with short and shaggy dark hair with auburn notes that shone in the brilliant sun streaming in through the windows. His shoulders were broad, and he had an easy way about him that told you he could handle himself in a fight. I briefly wondered if he could handle himself, or me, in something other than a fight. Something about the way he sat there, relaxed, but still aware of his surroundings as he waited for me to bring him the menu.

 

And he was looking right back at me.

 

His eyes flickered up and down my body, returning the favor I'd given him. His full lips curled up a little at the edge, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

 

“Start you off with anything, handsome?” I asked as I handed him the menu.

 

“Water, and a coffee.”

 

“Room for cream?”

 

He shook his head, waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, I'm fine. No cream. Sugar I like it sweet.”

 

“Makes two of us,” I replied, my lips curling into a little smile of invitation. “Be right back with your water, handsome.” I turned and headed back to the counter, my mind already imaging all the things he could do to me. I could practically feel his eyes on my ass as I sashayed away, my hips moving seductively as I crossed the floor.

 

I poured his glass of ice water and cup of coffee, visions of us already dancing in my head. A man like that didn't show up every day, let alone at a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere. He might never come back. I glanced up as I grabbed the sugar shaker from beside the tray of coffee cups ad caught him watching me.

 

He didn't glance away. His eyes just followed me as I brought his drinks to the booth and set them down on the table in front of him, leaning forward as far as I could, my face just inches from his. “You're not from around here, are you?” I asked as I pulled back a little, my lips still close.

 

He smirked, his dark brown eyes smiling along with the rest of him. He glanced down at my full, unmarked lips, then back up my eyes. “Aren't I supposed to have some big, burly trucker ask me that out here, and not some young and pretty waitress?”

 

“Well, if you need to mark it off your bucket list,” I nearly purred, “I could go next door and grab a couple to come ask for me, instead.”

 

He chuckled, still not taking his eyes from mine. “You're right. I'm just passing through on my way to LA. Something tells me you're not from around here either . . .” He paused and looked down at my name tag, his eyes lingering as they passed over the swell of my breasts. “. . . Cora.”

 

“Not exactly,” I admitted with a little smile. “Been around long enough that all the regulars know me, though.”

 

“Well, of course. Who wouldn't want to get to know a pretty face like yours?”

 

I blushed and glanced away, licking my top lip and biting my lower. I looked back to him as I straightened up a little. “Decide on what you want to eat, yet, mister?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes still locked on to mine as his finger blindly pointed to the wrong item on the menu. “The steak.”

 

“Uh-uh,” I replied as I shook my head, my pony tail waving back and forth like a flag. “You don't want the steak, handsome. It's awful. Go with the meatloaf or burger. Antonio does a good one, and you definitely won't be disappointed.”

 

He eyed me curiously, seeming to decide whether my advice was good or not. I guess I measured up, because he finally nodded. “Cheeseburger with fries, then. No onions.”

 

I smiled as I pulled out my order pad and scrawled down his selection. “Anything else?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. I figured he’d catch the implication.

 

The handsome stranger looked like he was about to take me up on my offer, but stopped himself and shook his head. “Gotta be somewhere, so I should probably just get the burger,” he admitted.

 

I smiled and shrugged. “Your choice, handsome, kitchen's still open.” I turned around and went back, shouting his order to Antonio as I came around the counter.

 

“Coming up!” Antonio shouted back through the kitchen window as he started to get to work on the order.

 

There was just something about this guy, about how his eyes seemed to bore into mine with that dark, penetrating gaze of his. There was a measure of cockiness there too, that was almost charming. For a moment, I'd almost thought he was going to take me up on my implied offer.

 

Alas, like I said, I'd been living on trashy romance fiction for months. With a life like mine, spent always on the run, you can't exactly bother to get close to anyone. With the jobs I was working and the bars I could afford, I didn't exactly get the pick of the litter on who walked through the door either. It had been awhile, I realized. Too bad he was like all the rest who passed through here and had somewhere, anywhere, else to be.