Oliver immediately dragged me toward the kitchen, pulling me into a secluded corner the moment we stepped in. The worried look on his face told me we were in trouble, or could be.
“Daisy Doll, I need you to listen very carefully.” He whispered, looking around as if someone might be lurking. “Everything you've heard or will hear, you didn't. Okay?”
I leaned toward him. “Who's the man, Oli?” I whispered, curiosity getting the better of me.
“None of your business,” he growled, pinching my arm. “Keep your mouth shut. Especially with Olivia.” I pressed my lips together and looked away from him. He pinched me again, thistime at the waist, making me jump and curse under my breath. “Daisy Peonia Mary Parker, if you open your mouth, I guarantee you that me snapping your neck will be the nicest thing that will happen to you.”
“So, is this guy dangerous-dangerous?” I insisted, softly.
Oliver sighed and scratched his bald head, nodding. “Keep your mouth shut. Understood?”
I didn't like the idea of not being able to tell Olivia about the stranger, but I also had no intention of finding out if Oliver was right. Because he usually was.
“Okay.” I agreed.
“Go on, go outside and take something to our client.”
I blinked, not understanding what he was asking of me.
“What do you mean by ‘something’? Do I look like a fortune teller, able to guess what the fella wants?”
“Daisy Doll, make something up! Okay? Now, get out of here or I'll kick your ass.”
With a disgruntled snort, I went back behind the counter and picked up the mug the guy had left there. As I rinsed it, a smile spread across my face again.
‘Make something up’, huh?
I filled the mug with hot chocolate. With a cheeky smirk, I topped it with a generous dollop of whipped cream, pink and yellow marshmallows, and pastel-colored star- and heart-shaped sprinkles. To finish it off, I added a cookie and achocolate straw. As Olivia used to tell me, psychopaths were just people who needed to eat a little sugar.
I put on my best smile and pranced across the diner with the cute drink in hands. When I set it down on the table in front of our grumpy customer, he looked at my work of art and raised his head very slowly, silently staring at me.
I kept smiling, feeling a morbid pleasure.
“Here's your drink,sugar!” I turned on my heel and dashed away from him.
There was no one in the South who didn't call to their customers, acquaintances, and friends ‘sugar’ or ‘love’. It was part of our culture and affectionate nature. But there was something particularly satisfying about preparing a mug of fluffy hot chocolate for a sinister individual and then finishing off the situation by calling him ‘sugar.’ Especially since there was nothing sweet about that man.
I went back to my tasks, humming and skipping behind the counter, despite the shadow in the corner of the diner. It was always better not to ask questions or speculate. Besides, the best victories always came from the most innocent battles, and I won that one.
It was around nine in the morning when the space filled with cheerful conversation. Especially, gossip.
I placed two plates of waffles in front of two old ladies who were talking about the latest news in town. Hunter Caldwell and his dearest wife, Jennifer, were getting divorced. I bit my lower lip, walking away from the table to keep from laughing.
Well, well, what a huge surprise. The ‘perfect couple’, built on top of Olivia's misery, was getting divorced after almost ten years of marriage marked by Hunter's constant cheating scandals. Those two idiots deserved everything they were getting for the suffering they caused my best friend.
Quickly, I took my phone out of the pocket of my tiny white frilly apron, which, paired with my pastel yellow skirt and blouse, made up the cheerful diner’s uniform. I sent a quick message to Liv.
“Your besties are making headlines,” I wrote.
In a fraction of a second, my phone beeped. “Hihihi. Karma is slow, but it never fails!”
I laughed heartily, putting my phone away again.
Divine justice was, in fact, an infallible thing.
As if to prove my point, my smile faded when I saw a figure walk through the glass door.
That routine had been going on for six years, and I wondered if she would ever let me exist in peace. Senator Madeleine Jones went out of her way every day to show up at the diner. Morning, afternoon, or night, she always appeared. And she always looked at me with those hurtful eyes that brought Lester back to life for a moment, before demanding my attention, reminding me once again that if he died, it was because of me.
