As I watch him saunter off, I can’t help but marvel. The scrawny, scared kid I dragged out of Chicago is gone. In his place is this lanky smartass with an easy smile and a spine made of steel.
I pull into Maggie’s Diner, home of artery-clogging goodness and gossip central for Pinecrest. Time to trade one family for another.
Maggie’s already at the grill, her gray hair escaping its bun. “About time, girl! These hash browns ain’t gonna flip themselves!”
I grab an apron, tying it with practiced ease. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your hairnet on; I’m here.”
The smell of bacon and coffee hits me like a brick wall. It’s a far cry from the stench of stale beer and cigarettes I used to wake up to. Funny how life works out.
I settle into the rhythm of the morning rush. Pour coffee, take orders, dodge Frank’s wandering eyes. Same shit, different day. But today, there’s an extra spring in my step. Friday’s coming, and with it, Em.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Maggie comments, eyeing me suspiciously as I hum while refilling the napkin dispensers.
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just looking forward to the weekend.”
Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Hot date?”
I snort. “Yeah, right.”
The urge to tell her about Em bubbles up, but I squash it down. Old habits die hard, and keeping my cards close to my chest has kept us alive this long. “Just glad for a break from this grease trap.”
Maggie’s eyes narrow, like she can smell the deflection. I grab a rag, wiping down the already spotless counter. “Speaking of grease, when’s the last time we cleaned these griddles? Pretty sure I saw something evolving there yesterday.”
It’s a cheap shot, but it works. Maggie’s face scrunches up in indignation. “Now listen here, missy. Those griddles are cleaner than—”
I let her rant wash over me, nodding at the right moments. Crisis averted. The less they know about me, about us, the safer we all are. Even if this town feels safe, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all too good to be true.
The bell over the door jingles, saving me from Maggie’s tirade.
Don’t get me wrong. Maggie means well, but the less people know about my life, the better.
The bell over the door jingles, and in walks Old Man Jenkins, right on schedule. “Mornin’, Wren,” he croaks, settling into his usual booth.
“Morning, Jenkins,” I reply, already pouring his coffee. “The usual?”
He nods, rheumy eyes crinkling at the corners. “How’s that boy of yours?”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Growing like a weed. Kid’s gonna be taller than me by next week.”
Jenkins chuckles. “Takes after his daddy, I bet.”
My spine stiffens, but I keep my face neutral. “Nah, he’s all me,” I lie smoothly, turning away before he can ask any more questions.
That’s the thing about small towns. Everyone’s always fishing for information, trying to piece together the puzzle of the newcomers. But I’ve gotten good at deflecting, at giving just enough to satisfy without revealing anything important.
The morning wears on. I dodge questions about Alex’s father, about my past, about why we moved here. It’s like a dance, and I’ve memorized all the steps.
“Order up!” Maggie calls, sliding a plate of pancakes across the counter.
As I grab it, a thought hits me. Em’s coming. Lenny’s here. Alex is happy. For the first time in… fuck, maybe ever, things are looking up.
59
Dimitri
Blyat,the fucking bass pounds through my bones like a jackhammer. I’m stuck in this gaudypizdaof a hotel lounge—Erik’s, correction,ournew cash cow. Gambling machines are blinking like strung-out whores as I take a long drag of my cigar, blowing smoke at some prancyyeblanwho gets too close.
A wall of bottles lines the bar, top-shelf vodka, high-end whiskey, fancy-pants gin. It’s a who’s-who of liquors, all priced to bleed your wallet dry. Not a drop of the cheap stuff in sight. Classic Erik.
