Page 112 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

Just…text me back soon, okay?

Guilt creeps up my spine and I immediately send back confirmation that I’m alive, before telling her I’m sorry for the radio silence. I don’t have it in me to really talk to anyone right now. Especially so close to my shift where I’ll have to be social for hours. Or at least pretend to be.

I’m okay, Reagan. On my way to work. I’ll text you later? Sorry for going MIA.

I give her a few seconds to respond, but when the message doesn’t shift to read, I chuck my phone into my passenger seat with a sigh. She’ll get back to me when she has time, I figure. Until then, I’ll rehearse my apology for leaving her basically high and dry for the past few days, and come up with a better lie for what happened at the haunted house so I don’t worry her.

22

The fact Trudeau comes to the diner for three hours and just sits with a cup of coffee feels suspicious at best. At worst, it’s a subtle threat that I work hard to ignore.

Which is hard, since he requested to sit in my section. Martha makes her presence known while he’s sitting there, glancing his way every once in a while and doing everything she can to seem as inhospitable as possible.

Not that it works.

My phone going off in my pocket has me heading back to the break room forty-five minutes before the end of my shift, and I glance down to see I’ve missed a few messages in the past few minutes. The ones from Reagan take priority because of my guilty conscience, and I read through her rambling worries and irritated complaints about ignoring her.

Though, I’m unsure when we became such great friends that she expects me to text her back within the hour. Last I checked, we were good friends, sure. But she has her friends and I have…

Well, I have my cats.

And now, I suppose I have Cass, too. Even though our conversation and his confession from this morning play on repeat in my brain like one of those songs that you just can’t get out of your head. It’s almost like elevator music. Always there, playing on repeat, no matter how distracted I am by other things.

He’d meant it. There’s no way around that. And no way around the fact that Cass is absolutely, without a doubt, a psychopath.

So why am I not more afraid of that realization, like I should be? Why am I not marching over to Detective Trudeau to tell him all the things Cass told me so he can, I don’t know, investigate him for other crimes or maybe chastise him at least?

Why am I so okay with it?

After sending back a few more half-assed apologies to Reagan, I open the messages from Cass, leaning against the counter as I read through them.

I hope you’re having a good day. Miss you.

A grin curves the corners of my mouth upward, and I tilt my head to think of an answer, even as my fingers tap on the screen.

It’s only been a few hours.

Unlike Reagan, the text flips to read instantly, and the typing bubble immediately pops up. In seconds he’s responded, and I glance up at the door, making sure I’m still alone. Not that anyone would mind me being back here for a few minutes.

You’re off in forty-five minutes, right? Can I come pick you up? I thought we’d go get dinner, if that’s okay.

God, he’s so sweet over text. I tell him that works, and stuff my phone back into my pocket before heading back out to finish my shift.

The forty-five minutes left of it feel like days. Not just because I’m excited to see Cass and go out somewhere with him. But also because Trudeau just fucking sits there. Like a log. Like a lump.

Like an ugly, toad-eyed lump I’d like to get excised as soon as possible.

At seven fifty-five, I’ve had about enough of it. My patience is as frayed as the napkin he’s been absently shredding, and while my other customers have been pretty unremarkable, even Martha has started dropping hints that maybe he could leave or order a second cup of coffee at the very, very least.

But he doesn’t take her hints, or Jeremy’s. He just sits there and smiles in that oily, polite way of his, and nurses an empty cup of coffee. His gaze makes me itch, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles constantly, but finally it’s time to make my last round and let my diners know that my shift is over.

“If you decide to order anything else, detective, my replacement will be around to check on you in a few minutes,” I tell him, the epitome of politeness. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your coffee. Martha said to let you know it’s on the house.” I smile sweetly at him, aware that the expression doesn’t come close to genuine.

“Where you off to?” he asks absently, looking up at me with his bulgy eyes. “Back home? Or are you planning to have a fun night out?” It’s wildly inappropriate, and not at all his business. But I only smile wider at him.

“I haven’t quite decided.”

“Isn’t that Byers’ car out in the parking lot?” He doesn’t even look out the window, and I wonder how the hell he already knows what Cass drives. I don’t fall for it or look.