He grins again, and this time the smile is different. It’s like he’s in on the joke and he wants me to be, too.
“Honest. Never had one before,” he says. “Which means it’s the best damn peanut butter and tuna melt I’ve ever had in my life.”
I manage a laugh, a real one, and the tension that’s been ricocheting around my insides all morning finally lets go. It’s replaced by something else, something as fragile and flickering as the web of spun sugar on my cotton candy cupcake this morning: that maybe, just maybe, I can be something more than the sum of my fears.
The moment is interrupted by Molly, who appears with a fresh plate — the actual order. She must have been watching. She winks at me, then deposits a fresh, correct plate of eggs, hash browns, and bacon in front of Breaker. He looks at her, then at me, and shrugs as if to say, ‘What can you do?’
“Thanks,” he says to Molly, and then returns his gaze to me. “Riley here’s got a unique style. Keeps things interesting.”
Molly smirks. “That’s why I hired her.”
I stare at the floor, but can’t keep the smile from creeping onto my lips. I go into the kitchen and get the rest of his order right: coffee, black, with another glass of water on the side. He nurses it for half an hour, unfazed by the bustle and the shifting gossip orbit as more of the Devils filter in. He doesn’t say much, but every time I pass by, I can feel those blue eyes on me — calculating but not cruel.
No, definitely not cruel. Maybe something closer to the opposite, which is hard to believe considering some of the other things he’s said to me, but the proof… well, he did just eat a sandwich that makes me gag just thinking of it.
When Breaker leaves, he drops a tip the size of my whole paycheck and gives me a quiet nod on the way out, like we’ve survived war together.
The rest of the shift blurs by, but the memory of that look follows me like static.
When I finally close out, my phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Miss me?
The world narrows. My hands shake so hard I can barely pocket the phone.
Outside, I'm halfway to my car when I see it: the door hanging open, glass scattered like teeth across the pavement.
My legs give out.
The phone slips from my hand, and the last thing I feel is cold gravel against my cheek.
Chapter Six
Breaker
The first thing I see when I step outside is glass. Shattered glass spread like wicked, shining snow on the surface of the parking lot.
The second is her — collapsed beside it, knees drawn up in a feeble fetal position, hair plastered to her face by the rain. My breath catches in my throat, my muscles tense, and I’m moving before I think, crouching down, checking her pulse like it’s instinct. Steady. Thank god. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then find me.
“Riley?” I say.
“Someone…” she starts, voice thin, “my car…”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I see it.”
The driver's side window is shattered, and the door is hanging open.
My jaw tightens. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. She looks so small, so frail, as she trembles. “No. Just… just scared.”
“Come on.” I stand, holding out my hand. “You’re not staying out here.”
She hesitates, as if she’s deciding whether I’m more dangerous than the man who did this. I wait. Finally, she takes my hand. I pull her to her feet. Her hand is cold and small in mine, trembling. For a moment neither of us speaks.
“Where are you staying?” I finally ask.
“My car.”
