They stopped at the counter and requested to use the showers, then booked a time slot for an hour later. Kota couldn’t help but note that Walker only booked one. Maybe he hadn’t planned on showering? Or maybe he wanted them to shower together?
The thought hit him so suddenly he nearly choked on absolutely nothing. His face immediately started heating.
Walker glanced at him. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“I’m fine,” Kota lied.
Walker’s mouth twitched suspiciously.
Kota glanced around, noting that the diner was pretty busy despite the early morning hours. There was a group of men sitting around a large table towards the back. Some had plates with piles of food, while some just nursed beverages. The air smelled like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and syrup, all of itlayered over the faint diesel stink clinging to everyone who came through the door.
There were a few solitary truckers staring into their cups, like the black sludge within was a scrying mirror and not three-day-old coffee. Kota noticed a plump older lady in a t-shirt and jeans, her long gray tresses caught up in a bedazzled pearl-encrusted hair clip, sitting beside a man of similar age and build. They were in a deep discussion about a girl named Kinsey, who was apparently their granddaughter.
“You’re staring,” Walker said, amusement evident.
“Her hair clip is so fancy.”
Walker laughed again, shaking his head like he found Kota hilarious. He led them to a booth far in the back, close to the windows, away from the various groups dotted around the large space.
Of course, he did. A professional killer probably didn’t like having his back to a room.
If the diner had a name other than the truck stop itself, Kota hadn’t noticed it, but as they sat, he couldn’t help but note the mustard yellow and rust color scheme that made him feel a bit queasy. Or maybe that was just the murder-adjacent road trip catching up with him.
Hard to say.
Before he could ponder it for long, a woman breezed up to the table in a pair of black pants and a polo shirt that bore the same nauseating colors. She smiled at Walker when she saw him, revealing a crooked yellow front tooth. “Well, hey, there, Tex,” she said, her thick accent making Kota wonder where exactly they were on the map. “Haven’t seen you here in a dog’s age. I thought you died.”
He’d never heard someone turn the word died into two syllables before.
“Hey, there, Gem. I’m still alive. Barely. How ya been?” Walker asked, with a casual laziness Kota had yet to witness in his short time with the older man. It was strange seeing him like this—relaxed, familiar, almost charming. Like there were versions of Walker other people got that Kota hadn’t known existed yet.
“Same shit, different day,” she fired back, plopping down two comically large menus covered in sticky laminate. “Who’s this youngin’?”
“This is Kota,” Walker said. “I’m giving him a ride to the West Coast.”
“LA?” she asked. “You look like one of those pretty boy Hollywood types.”
Kota snorted in disbelief. “Me? Hardly. I can barely remember my own social security number, much less a whole script.”
She gave a dry cackle that had all eyes on them for an exaggerated moment. Kota sank a little lower in the booth, heat crawling up his neck. “Fair enough, Hollywood. What can I getcha all to drink?”
“Can I just get water?” Kota asked timidly.
Walker raised a brow at him. “Do you actuallywantwater?”
“Yeah?” he said, like it was a question.
“Order something else, too,” Walker said, seeing through his obvious lie.
Kota shook his head. “It’s alright.”
Walker sighed, giving him an irritated look. “I told you I’d take care of you until we reached our final destination. Order something else or I’m gonna order you chocolate milk in a sippy cup.”
Kota choked on his own indignant squawk, face turning pink. The worst part was, based on Walker’s expression, he absolutely would. “Diet Coke, please.”
