His attention flicked down before he could stop it.
I sighed into my soda. “But in the dark, you can barely see the stretch marks.”
That did it. The confidence drained right out of him. He picked up the beer he’d bought and backed away like I’d handed him a contagious disease.
“Right.”
I gave him a cheerful wave. “Have a great night!”
He disappeared into the crowd.
The bartender laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Well.”
I smiled into my drink. “Well, what?”
He leaned one hand on the bar. “You handle yourself just fine.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Spent six years in labs with men who thought they were smarter than me.”
He pointed toward the kitchen window. “I’ll put that order in.”
My stomach growled loud enough for both of us to hear. He paused, looked down at my midsection, and laughed again.
“Long day?”
I looked through the front window at my truck. Steam crept faintly from under the hood. Bandit glared through the windshield like he was already planning the lawsuit. My whole life sat packed under tarps in the back, tied down with bungee cords and optimism. I was in a new state, heading toward a new job, with no clue what waited for me except rent, fieldwork, and the very real possibility that my truck might die before I made it there.
“Long week.”
The bartender poured another soda and slid it over. “Food’s coming.”
I wrapped both hands around the cold glass and, for the first time all day, stopped moving.
When the burger arrived, I inhaled it with the focus and intensity of a woman returning from war. No dignity. No slowing down. Just grease, salt, meat, bread, and the primal restoration of calories entering a body that had been running on gas station coffee and spite. The fries vanished right behind it. I tucked two strips of bacon into the wax paper and tore off part of the burger patty for Bandit, because the little bastard had endured the ride and deserved tribute.
The bartender came by with the check. I slid my card over and asked for a fresh cup of water.
“For the cat?” he asked.
I looked up. “How’d you know?”
He smirked. “You saved bacon.”
Fair.
He disappeared with my card. I packed the scraps into a to-go box and was gathering my bag when another voice slid in beside me.
“Leaving already?”
I turned.
Different guy. Not Carhartt. This one looked cleaner, which somehow made him worse. Tan skin. Pressed shirt. Nice watch. Hands too smooth, nails too neat, like he worked indoors and paid other people to lift things. But his eyes had a flatness to them that made my skin pay attention. Cold. Measured. Like smiling was just a behavior he’d learned by watching normal people.
I gave him my second polite smile of the evening, which was already two more than my social budget allowed. “Long drive.”
