After dropping the sandwich, water, and condiment packets on the desk, he pulled out a padded guest chair and positioned it behind her. He even held it while she sat down before pushing her forward.
A bartender with impeccable manners. That was when the obvious smacked her over the head. This guy wasn't a bartender. He was the owner. The visual examination earlier made more sense. Her job interview had started back at the bar. Bringing her back here was nothing more than an act of charity. When was the last time anyone treated her with a modicum of kindness? Not since her grandfather had died and the Riverstone Pack had snatched her.
"When you're done," he said, those dark eyes hard enough to let her know he was still judging her, "Come get me at the bar. We'll talk after that."
Then he was gone, closing the door with a quiet snick behind her, giving her privacy. What kind of man would trust a complete stranger in his personal office? He didn't even know her name.
Her stomach rumbled, interrupting her dizzying thoughts. She ripped open the sandwich and took a huge bite. Not even a fancy meal from a four-star restaurant would have tasted better than the mountain of roast beef covered with shredded lettuce, fresh onions, and a few thick slices of tomato at that moment. She took a second bite before she even remembered the condiments and grabbed a packet of mustard.
Maybe the owner could tell how much she needed this and gave her privacy so she wouldn't embarrass herself by scarfing down the most food she'd eaten in over two days. There had to be a reason, but at that moment she didn't want to think about it. Instead, she focused on finishing her food at a slower rate while looking around the office. The double-paned window next to the desk faced the woods where she could see a squirrel hopping around the grass, looking for crumbs left behind.
On the walls, a few framed photos hung. Three were of the owner and two other men. Brothers? They didn't look like each other at all, and the clothes they wore appeared to be from different decades. One photo showed them dressed in U.S. Army uniforms standing in front of a sign that read Fort Benning. In the second picture they all sported leather jackets and posed in front of their Thunderbird motorcycles, while the third made all three look like they had way too much fun at Woodstock. In each of the pictures, the three men looked at each other, not the camera, laughing as if it was the most fun they'd ever had.
An intrusive thought wormed past her mental blockade, but she crushed it before it could bloom. Denial was a beautiful thing until it bit you on the ass.
The last picture appeared to be of the owner as a young boy. He was dressed in old-fashioned trousers, a cowboy hat, and Samara thought he looked about five-years-old. Behind him stood a young woman with hair pinned under a bonnet and wearing a long dress with a tight bodice and high collar. She had her hands on the boy's shoulders and a wide smile, like a mother who was proud of her son. That picture was browned with age and had worn edges, as if it were taken a century ago, instead of a few decades. All four pictures must be the owner's ancestors. That had to be the answer. Otherwise, it would mean...
Nope. She still refused to open door number two even if it held the correct answer.
Seven minutes had to be a respectable time to eat a sandwich. She didn't want to wait any longer, so she finished her water, then made her way back to the bar where the owner continued his inventory.
"Thank you," was all she could think of to say, keeping her eyes on the floor rather than on the man in front of her.
"Clearly you needed it." His voice was softer this time, a low baritone, but neutral. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it under tight wraps. She couldn't figure out his intentions.
No point in denying it. "Yeah, I guess I did."
"Do you have a place to stay?"
Did she want to admit to a stranger that she had no home? Oh, what the hell, he'd already figured out she was half starved. Homelessness wouldn't shock him.
"Not at the moment." She lifted her eyes to meet his. Her intent was to make sure he knew that while she might be homeless and hungry, she still had boundaries no one was allowed to cross, no matter what. Ever. That she had sworn that to herself the moment she escaped.
His poker face never cracked. After another few seconds of studying her, he motioned her back through the employee doors. "There's a room upstairs where you can stay for a while."
"Yours?" She could have bitten her tongue as the instinct to flee roared back to life.
If he was offended, he didn't show it. "Mine is across the hall. You'll have your own bed, bathroom, and a deadbolt on the inside. No one will get in unless you want them there."
A deadbolt, huh. Odd, that he would promise her a warm safe place to sleep, but still no job. Her physical needs overcame all of her self-preservation instincts. "Okay. I...appreciate the offer."
He led her back into the hallway, then up a tight stairwell. On the second floor, Samara found herself in another short hall with two doors, one on the left, the other on the right.
The owner opened the door to the right and led her inside. The space was small—a twin bed with gray sheets, a nightstand, lamp, and a TV mounted on the wall. As guest rooms went, this one was a purely functional space except for the garden window with two small cacti growing in containers. The plants gave the room a personal touch. Diagonally to the window stood another door which she guessed was the bathroom.
It was the perfect space for her to hide for a while, just until she could figure out where she was going to run next and how she was going to get there. So long as the Riverstone Pack didn't pick up her scent before it faded, she would be safe.
"This is a generous offer, but I still believe I should work for my rent."
He nodded. "The bathroom has soap, shampoo, and towels." His eyes looked her up and down again. "I'm guessing you're a size medium on top and ten jeans. What size shoe do you wear?"
Her hackles rose again, but his absolute calmness didn't sound anything other than a clinical guess at best.
"Size eight jeans, and size seven shoes. Why do you need to know?"
"The uniform waitstaff wear is basic black. You don't have a backpack, so I'm assuming you have no other clothes." For a moment, his stoic face relaxed into sympathy. "Rest for today and tomorrow morning. Then we’ll start your training at noon and get you ready for your first shift at two o'clock."
"Wait? I have the job. Just like that?" Of course she couldn't wear the rags she'd worn this whole time. Despite washing herself, the clothes must stink of blood and sweat. "You don't even know my name. I don't know yours."
