“Okay,” I answer. I feel like this name should mean something to me. But I’m too tired to remember it. I’m operating on two hours of sleep, nearing the end of my shift, and there’s just so many people in this dang town. Who can keep track of them all?
Not one person has sussed out the switch. Sure, they might privately be thinking that Kenna’s having an off day. She’s quieter than usual. Her coffee isn’t quite as on point. But so far, nobody is out there wondering if she’s been body-snatched. I’m going to call that a win.
I shift my weight from side to side to minimize the throbbing. My neck is stiff from staring down at the register and the coffee machine controls. The skin on my hands is all dried out from washing and sanitizing them so many times, and I’ve had the song “Harvest Moon” stuck in my head ever since the diner’s playlist looped for the third time. But the point is, I’ve gone the whole day working here without anyone calling me Lorelei, Moxie, or Ember.
The diner is quiet, so I open YouTube, seeking my favorite guilty pleasureDungeons and Dragonschannel—Max Mercury’sDice of Destiny. Not even Rafe knows I’m a Max Mercury subscriber. Five years running now. I almost never miss a session with Dungeon Master Max.
Nobody knows who the DM with the sonorous, compelling voice really is. I listen to the show while I’m working out and every night when I go to bed. Most nights, it’s Max’s voice telling me bedtime stories while I’m drifting off to sleep. Max is so adept at seizing the reins of my imagination, painting vivid images that I swear I can feel with my entire body.
His storytelling skills are pretty good, too. But then again, Max’s voice is so damn hot, he could probably get me off reading an End User License Agreement in my ear.
Another thing about Max—he never takes off his dragon masque. Never shows his face. It’s part of his mystery.
And that’s just so fucking hot.
I don’t believe the rumors that he’s disfigured or that he’s not even really one person. I believe he’s a real guy who’s actually out there. And one of these days, I’m going to find a way to meet him, and then I’m going to …
The little bell on the diner’s door clatters against the frame as a short, dark-haired woman walks in. She’s wearing a long, baggy raincoat over a pair of overalls, but I can see she has some really interesting ink snaking out onto her collarbone and wrist.
“I’m back!” she announces.
“Welcome back!” I wave. I have no idea who she is, but I’ll play along.
Halfway into the diner, she freezes and tilts her head sideways. She looks me up, and then looks me down, and her face suddenly goes blank, suspiciously blank.
“Hey, Georgia, what are you doing back already?” Carlos comes in the door behind her, carrying a small bunch of flowers. “I thought you and Hudson were camping up in the hills for another week?”
“Glamping,” Georgia replies. “Hudson caught a cold, and we decided to come home. I’m here to grab some soup.”
“There are some nasty bugs out there. Let me put these flowers in water, and I’ll ring you right up. My wife is a sucker for tulips.”
“No rush, Carlos, you take your time. I wanted to have a word with Kenna here.” Georgia is talking to Carlos, but her eyes do not leave my face, and I have to give her credit … my expressionless, resting bitch face hardly holds a candle to hers. Some people are just born looking fierce.
“What’s up, Geo—” I try to act carefree and unaffected, but she cuts me off.
“Outside.” And then she spins on her heel, lithe and catlike. “After you …”
“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re outside.
“You know, our secret place behind the building where we like to talk?” Georgia leads me into an alley. And like an idiot, I follow her.
Georgia stops abruptly just after we pass a dumpster, where the alley narrows. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my best friend, Kenna?” she demands to know.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s me, Georgia!” I try to defend myself.
“Tell me what color dress you wore when you went to prom with Bryce Holm?” she asks like an unfazed, Cold War-era interrogator.
“Yellow?” I guess a quirky color, based on what I know of Kenna’s personality.
Next thing I know, the rough brick of the alley wall is smooshed against my cheek. I’m pinned to the wall with my arm twisted behind me.
“Wrong. Kenna would rather have gouged out her own eyeball with a spoon than go to prom with Bryce Holm,” she says icily in my ear.
Does this little bird seriously think she can take me? I’ve got six inches and at least twenty pounds on her, and I do a lot of my own stunts!
I take a cleansing breath while recalling that cool, evasive maneuver the stunt coach taught me in the stage-fighting class. Do I shift my weight to the front foot or the back? Lean into the twist? I manage to spin free.
Georgia steps out of my way, her raincoat billowing open. This is when I notice she has a small baby bump. Great. I’m going to have to fight a pregnant chick.
