The guys eat, glancing at me, waiting for me to lay out the specs. Years after getting sent home, we stuck together, got obsessed with Harleys, and now, it seems, I’m the captain for life. The military stayed with us even out here in the Land of the Free.
Old habits and the things we’ve gone through aren’t leaving us, and we aren’t leaving each other, not after we lost three men to suicide after we initially split up. Sticking together seemed to lessen our PTSD symptoms, and we stopped taking the meds that made us slow and muddied our brains. Dawson also laid off alcohol. Senator still smokes weed, but that seems to chase away the night terrors, so that’s fine by me.
Dawson nudges my elbow, and I look up from my plate, mouth full of omelet and French toast. I chew, and my eyes roll into the back of my head. Swallowing, I say, “Fuck, it’s still the best omelet in the world.”
“The one we had in that one place in Beirut was pretty memorable,” Senator says.
“With a more memorable cook,” Mason pitches in, and we laugh as Senator throws a roll of bread at Mason’s head.
“What’s the mission?” Dawson asks.
“It’s personal.”
Some guys nod, others snicker.
I scoop up more eggs. “What’s so funny?”
“Cap, you’re an asshole, and no woman in her thirties is gonna sleep with you.”
“What’s her age got to do with it?”
“Women that age know better.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Tammy says as she steps back into the room, “calling me Kitten isn’t gonna cut it. And your friend is right. We do know better.” She places my iced tea on the table. “Anything else?”
“More coffee.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Kitten,” I add, just to play with her some more. She’s annoyed I’m running her back and forth. Well, I have to keep heraway from the Suit so I don’t have to kill him, which is healthy for all of us.
Except my coffee doesn’t come, and Tammy doesn’t either. The ginger girl shows up to check on us, and I ask for more shit I don’t need to see if the girls decided to tag-team our party of seven, but no, Tammy’s staying in the main diner.
When the check arrives, I see Ginger’s name on it, meaning Tammy lost the table and the fat tip I was gonna give her. People in this town don’t come from money. This is working-class America, and life is tough out here.
My team files out, and I stay in the back room just to see if she’ll fucking come back and see me again. I sit for an hour, out here in the back with dirty dishes in front of me, doing what I hate most.
Waiting. No busboys come. No waitress comes to clean the table. Finally, I stand and stretch, cracking my neck before heading out to the main diner.
Tammy’s still working, all right.
When she sees me, she turns and practically bolts into the small hallway in the back. I walk after her, grab her wrist, and spin her around. I pin her against the wall. Her face lifts, and she’s staring right at me, almost daring me to kiss her.
“Meet me at Bee’s tonight,” I say and wait for her answer. This would be the time where a woman says she’s taken, if not married, and I walk away. Or shoot the competition. I’ll decide after she answers.
“No way.”
Going great so far. “Why not?” When faced with the why question, most people either get confused or defensive or they lie. Tammy might go with a lie. I’m trying to get a read on her face and body movements so I can tell if she’s spinning one in her head.
I spent almost twenty years in one military setting or another and often worked with CIA spies, watched them interrogate prisoners, learned from them, sometimes wondering if I chose the wrong profession, because I sure as fuck love getting the truth out of people.
“I don’t have a babysitter.”
Shit. I didn’t see that coming, but it’s true, and I recover fast only because I’m trained not to show shock. “Where’s the baby daddy?”
“Out of town.”
