A Sublime Casualty, Page 2

  “Well, that is the end goal, you know. Death is pretty much inescapable at this point for the both of us.” I slip the K-Cup into the Keurig and get my coffee brewing. Gabby’s condo is immaculate, decorator finished, and perfectly ready for a spread in Architectural Digest if need be. Gabby comes from money, truckloads of it. And it affords her to do anything she wishes, even taking in a street urchin like me. The day we met, I was sleeping behind a dumpster at the Hideaway Café, still grateful to have scored a paying gig that let me eat the leftovers off any plate I wanted, so long as I did it behind the scenes. Joe, the owner, had lost his wife in an auto accident the year before, and according to the waitresses I work with, his heart softened to the hurting world. Prior to that, he would have shot me on site. I guess timing is everything. Lucky for me, death and I often coordinate our plans.

  Gabby snaps her laptop shut as if making a statement. “Okay, how about we turn down the morbidity and get back to the task at hand—getting you off your lazy, single bottom and into the wild. Jackson and I are seeing a movie tonight. You can join us. And—if Theo happens to show up, we can call it a double date. Come on, he’s a totally nice guy.”

  “Nice guys don’t thrill me. Besides, my stomach actually turned when you said double date.” I schlep my coffee over to the breakfast table to join her. “How about no. How about you and Jackson enjoy the movie and I’ll come home after work and enjoy the sweet oblivion that is sleep.”

  “Wow. So poetic and pathetic all at the same time.” She shakes her head at me. “I will never understand you, Charlie Neville.” She takes a few anxious gulps from her mug before rising and snatching her backpack off the couch. “I’ve got English lit at nine. Care to sit in?”

  Every now and again Gabby has let me crash a class with her. She says her professors don’t mind a bit, and being that the Foxworthy family makes a sizeable donation to the university every year like tax-deductible clockwork, she doesn’t mind breaking a few rules a bit either. Gabby is a graduate student working toward her MBA in hopes to run the family hotel empire one day, and I’m sure she will. I’m also sure she and Jackson will tie the knot soon. Her obsession with all things bridal has hit a crescendo over the last few months. And soon thereafter, I’m sure she’ll start popping out adorable babies with matching mossy green eyes that will leave the world spellbound by their beauty. The hotel industry might have to wait for her to take her throne. It’s a rosy outlook for her either way, and I realize that my time as a freeloader is quickly coming to an end. With lousy tips and siphoning as much as I can out of the registers, I’m still well below the poverty line. I’ll most likely be homeless again come May. It’s a bleak thought that immediately dampens my spirits. I’m not sure what kind of life I thought I’d end up with after, but dumpster diving and visions of homelessness weren’t anywhere on the horizon. After. My life only has two markers: before and after. After promised to be so much better. It is, but not in the way I had hoped.

  “What time is abnormal psych again?” That’s the one I like. An entire hour focused on how twisted and depraved the human mind can be. The professor is an odd man, handsome, but too thin, and you could bet money he’s hiding something dark behind that painted-on smile. It never leaves his face. Like a rash he can’t get rid of. Creepy. I’d bet good money he has particular tastes in the bedroom. I’ve thought about taking him up on that silent offer he’s sent my way. Interested to learn more about me than my ass. On second thought, that’s probably exactly what he’s interested in learning more about.

  “One!” Her voice hikes with glee as she hits the front door. “Are you coming?”

  “Maybe next week. I’m scheduled eight-to-five.”

  “That means you’re free for dinner!” She bubbles with laughter as she shuts the door. “I’m making it happen!”

  Gabby would love nothing more than for me to date Theo the cop. I shake my head at the thought. I’m sure there are a number of people who would love for me to have a date with a police officer, and a much longer relationship with a warden at a state-run penitentiary. A dull laugh ripples from me as I take a sip from my coffee. Can you make wishes from hell?

  I shower, dress, and head off to work. The only date I’ll have tonight is at the public library to speak with Peavey and Devyn.

  I made a wish from hell a little over a year ago. And I got exactly what I asked for. I managed to escape the infernal fires and sent someone else there instead.

  The Hideaway Café first caught my attention for its ironic name. It was exactly that for me for so long. Joe Morris, a heavyset man with a lantern jaw, an overall unhygienic look about him, houses an entire assembly line of dumpsters behind his restaurant, just close enough to the stucco building to hold in a minuscule amount of heat at night. It was July and the sun was still heavy, burning with summer anger as it straddled the country. If it were winter, I would have frozen in the snow. I wish I could say that’s why I waited to do what I did, but that’s not the case. The cauldron was getting too hot. I saw a window of opportunity and had just enough time to map out a plan. Premeditated murder could most definitely lead to life in prison. Peavey and Devyn understood I had no choice but to run.

  The Hideaway Café, a squatty dirty building with poor signage, is exactly point six miles from the Steel Eagle Condominium Complex. And it’s exactly point two miles from Conrad University. Go Eagles. The entire building is overrun with coeds and their noisy boyfriends. It’s mostly populated with females—an odd segregation of the sexes, but I’ve noticed during my short twenty-one years on the planet that people have a way of doing just that.

  Wakefield is full of forests and neatly manicured lawns, odd in general to me since the part of the state I hail from is flat lands, dirt fields, and liquor stores. But I like the woodsy feel of it here. You can smell affluence in the air by way of the gallons of French perfume the girls at Conrad bathe in. One would assume that since the Hideaway is within walking distance of a major university that it would feel the effects of the money pouring through this town, but no such luck. The students generally flock to the strip malls that surround the school like a brick and mortar fort. No offense to Joe, but the food offerings are on an entirely different level there. Gabby is vegan, and her boyfriend Jackson is doing Keto. And if their eating habits are indicative at all of anyone at Conrad, then I’m betting there’s not a very big demand for all day breakfast. The all-you-can-eat pancakes sign might as well read carb lovers delight! The cube steak and endless omelet combination aren’t exactly hitting it out of the park either. I’ve even heard the cooks complain about the lack of culinary diversity on the menu, but Joe is nearing his seventies and he’ll tell anyone who will listen that this is the kind of food that built this good nation. Joe is all about God and country and a decent helping of biscuits covered in bacon grease. I think back to my time in Strafford, eating warm bologna from a cooler on most days. I have to side with Joe on this one. Peavey, Devyn, and I would have lost our carbohydrate-starved minds if we could have eaten all the pancakes we wanted. But they eat well now and so do I.

  Hours drag by as I force myself to run circles around the establishment. The décor itself leaves a lot to be desired, old wooden tables and chairs with a smattering of expletive-riddled etchings. The black and white terrazzo flooring gives off a dizzying effect that makes me sway on my heels after four hours, and the walls are painted a thick coat of avocado, the paint curling and pocked, tempting customers to chip away at it as they wait for their meals. There’s a stainless counter that runs the length of the place like a long steel tongue with a register seated over it near the front door. Joe’s wife Ana had an affinity for quirky wall clocks, so every square inch of the place is covered with cats whose eyes move back and forth, cuckoo clocks that sing and chime, and they all go off at indiscriminate times. Not one clock in the place tells the right time, and Joe suggested once it was purposeful. He never wanted anyone to clock watch while they were in here. He heard that in Vegas they block off
all natural light and don’t display the hour so that gamblers will lose track of time and spend all their money. I’d hate to point it out to Joe, but in the restaurant business, he should be far more interested in turning tables than in keeping the loafers glued to the cheap seats. But then again, if the all-dayers didn’t take root to the furniture, the way they’re prone to, the place would be empty half the time. As it stands, there are only a handful of brave new souls that give the place a chance each week. Very few ever come back.

  Dena and I work the floor. Dena is an older woman, late sixties, has worked at the Hideaway since she was a teenager. Her hair is spun into a beehive with the texture of cotton candy. Black with white roots. We have that in common, but you can trade blonde for her gray. She smells like a toxic combination of peppermints and Lysol, and strangely I find this comforting. Not sure what odor she’s trying to mask, but if she were running on the theme of the other employees here, it’s not a legal one. Never married, two cats. I see my destiny etched on the lines of her face and I don’t mind all that much. I like cats. They’re aloof and all around content to be alone, like me.

  It’s not until after the sun starts to go down that I’m jolted from the comfortable trance that gets me through a long shift. In walks a tall, dark, and intimidating wall of steel, robed in the most frightening shade of navy. The shiny gold badge on the left side of his chest winks my way as if acknowledging the malfeasance I’ve committed. My bones seize and my muscles tighten to stone, making it impossible to move. He comes this way with me pinned behind the counter, trapped like an animal. I shoot a quick glance to Dena who is happily chatting to an all-dayer who likes to spread her secondhand books around the table like old friends.

  I swallow hard as he comes my way with an affable smile. Dark hair, eyes as bright as a colorless sky, all teeth and dimples. Hell, if he weren’t in uniform, my hormones would be shooting off right about now. They are anyway.

  “You go by Charlie?” His deep voice penetrates me intimately, and for a brief moment, I feel as if I were just violated on some level.

  Go by? My heart drums up my throat, into my ears, as my entire body pulsates with the erratic rhythm. My mind screams run. My feet, however, remain oddly nailed to the floor.

  His brows furrow. “I’m sorry. I just assumed. I mean, you’re not wearing a name tag.” He winces, and something about the action washes away the hardness of that inky uniform. A gun sits in its holster like a steel threat. My eyes bolt to that shiny gold badge once again. An oblong herringbone pattern of some kind is printed over it. I’m too far away to properly make out what the image is. And then, just as if he heard, he closes the distance between us and I read Theo Stavros and Police Officer. The word Wakefield rounds out the rim of the badge.

  Theo. A flood of relief washes over me, stealing the heat from my body and replacing it with an icy chill.

  God, this is Gabby’s setup. The totally nice guy. Jackson’s cousin.

  “Yes, that’s me.” A dull laugh escapes me as my flesh slaps cold from sweat. “I’m Charlie.” I’m going to kill Gabby. And coming from me, it’s a bona fide threat. “So, are you here to arrest me or just interrogate me for a while? But then, you’re a mind reader, so you don’t need to do that, right? I mean, you knew my name, and like you so astutely pointed out, I’m not wearing a tag.” Always, always remain calm in the presence of law enforcement. I’ve read enough true crime stories to know what lands someone in the hot seat, and silence and a serious lack of humor buy you a one-way ticket straight to the penitentiary. I loathe flirting with another human being. I loathe most human beings in general. Smothering Gabby in her sleep with that ratty stained pillow of hers is completely on the table.

  He belts out a short-lived laugh, his chest bobbing up and down as if he were actually enjoying my presence, but I magnetize to those blue gray eyes of his that seem to shift color—at the moment they favor steel gray, dove gray, pencil gray. The dark stubble lining his cheeks makes my fingers twitch to touch it. He’s handsome in a rugged way, alarmingly so. The entire female population in this greasy spoon is leaning in his direction. The men have taken notice, too, but they’re eyeing his gun. The girls are eyeing a far more destructive weapon, though, just as prominent, below that. I can’t help it. When you spend a year trying not to look people in the eye, their crotch is a natural place to fall.

  “They’re seeing a movie tonight. Jackson and Gabby.” His brows dip with a hint of remorse for having to stoop to ask.

  “I hate movies.” It’s true. But the words bubbled out without my permission, and now I’m fearful that I’ll accidentally unleash my entire life’s story—and so soon after I’ve finally harnessed it in.

  “That makes two of us.” He shoots a cool glance to the rest of the establishment. “She said you get off at five. You have time for a bite? We could head across the street if you like, or here if you want.” He offers an easy smile, dotting the pleasant invitation with a happy face. Not only is Officer Theo Stavros comely as hell, and he is clearly a charmer, but there is a boyishness about him, a quasi-shy demeanor that makes me want to linger.

  Bullshit rule number four hundred fifty-six: Never leave a cop with a negative vibe about you.

  “I’m off now and here is perfect.” The next bullshit rule reads: Never let him take you to a second location.

  We head over to the back near a window, a secluded area that makes working the loop in this place a little more tedious. My evening replacement, a middle-aged woman named Tara, waves as she walks through the door.

  “So, I hear you’re new in town,” he says just as we slide into our seats. In this dim light, his eyes glow ten times brighter. I have never seen eyes so bright with the exception of…

  “Oh shit.” My lips are quick to betray me again.

  “What’s the matter?” He glances back, his natural alert system rigged for trouble. “You need to leave? Did you have somewhere to go?”

  “What? No.” My heart starts in on a riot. Say yes. Take the out. Run like hell right out of Wakefield. “I just”—a dull croaking sound comes from my throat—“I just realized who you are. I mean, I’m sorry about your sister.” It comes out so low it sounds like a series of hardly audible clicks.

  “Me too.” His mouth hardens. He’s instantly pissed, and just as easily as the storm came, it passes and he’s back to nurturing that smile he’s putting on just for me. It looks painful. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to try. “It’s been a year.” He shakes his head just as Tara drops off a menu—just one for him, a wink for me, and a couple of waters. “Thanks.” He nods her way. Nice guy strikes again. “You’d think I’d get used to it. But you can’t. My mom and sister are in hell every day right along with me.”

  My stomach lurches. God, he’s human. His whole family is human. For so long I’ve tried to compartmentalize it. I had seen the missing posters up all around town, on campus at Conrad before Gabby rescued me from the streets like a stray. Lizzy Hartley, age twenty-seven, last seen 07/07/17. It had an eerie ring to it. I’ve memorized that flyer, her face with the dark wiry hair, pale eyes, cut features. It haunts me in my sleep.

  “I’m so sorry.” I swallow down all the lies begging to bubble from my throat. An upbeat song starts in through the speakers and brightens the mood between us.

  “We don’t need to talk about that.” He shakes his head, those dark brows twisting like worms as he glances to the menu.

  “We serve breakfast all day long,” I say, sounding every bit like an advertisement. “Sorry, it’s sort of my spiel whenever I see anyone opening to the lunch or dinner options. It’s all sort of iffy around here. Don’t tell Joe I said that.” I wrinkle my nose the way I’ve seen the coeds do at Conrad. The only way out of this mess is to convince him that I’m so damn normal. That I’m someone he might actually think good things about when this is through. Females who commit violent crimes are more likely to be promiscuous. My God, I might have to sleep with him. Gabby is treading on th
in ice and it’s fracturing fast. A brief vision of Officer Stavros lying over me naked, his rock solid body over mine, pulls me away from the table momentarily. I can almost feel the warmth of his chest, his fingers digging into my hair, giving a firm tug at the back of my neck. I can’t help but scowl over at him. I bet he’s too polite in bed for hair pulling. No. Gabby pegged him correctly. He is most certainly a totally nice guy. Please, may I touch your vagina? May I take off your bra now? It would be a game of Mother May I in the chastest sense. Or at least I’m guessing. I’m wrong about a lot of things, but that one would surprise me.

  “Well, I like your spiel, Charlie.” He shuts the menu with a quiet hush and sets it to the edge. “All-you-can-eat pancakes for me,” he says just as Tara hits the table with her pencil at the ready. Tara is rail thin, gaunt, wrinkles and veins around her eyes like a road map. She’s a user. I could tell before she admitted it to me. Her cheeks are severely puckered, and her skin has the requisite pocking just the way my mother’s did. I’m not sure how she holds down a job, but I’m guessing the real problem is “her man,” her verbiage, not mine. She’s harmless, mostly toothless, and overall kind.

  “Sure thing, sugar.” She nods over at me. “How ’bout you, Gem?”

  My face flusters. When I first started working here, I needed a name—one not my own. I hesitated when Joe asked me my name and he nodded as if he understood. He asked if I had a nickname I preferred to go by and out it came like some Pez dispenser of truth. Gem. It’s what Peavey and Devyn called me back home. It’s what my mother called me. Her gem. Her oldest daughter. Her favorite little killer. She might not have said that last one out loud, but I’m guessing it might have a ring of truth to it if she knew what I did. I’m sure even from the grave I’d have her approval.

  “Same for me,” I say before leaning over the table, elbows down, my gaze fully focused on my nice guy date. I’m trying my best to send a clear signal to Tara to boot scoot the hell away from us before she unleashes any more tidbits about me. I made the mistake of getting high with Tara once about six months ago. Who knows what secrets I might have spilled at the time? She’s toxic around the two of us. Us. I shake my head at the police officer seated across from me. There will never be an us.