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“Here.” I tap her shoulder and hand her a cheese biscuit. “Do you want me to drive to the depot so you can rest a little bit?”
“Of course not. I would never let a future felon drive my car.” She laughs and pulls off.
The rest of my day passes by in slow motion—two long bus rides, a short walk in a slight drizzle, and finally, freedom.
I’m several hours early for work, but I don’t care. I make myself as useful as possible—cleaning the stage and the main rooms, organizing the prop closet, and practicing on the pole.
By the time it’s my turn to dance to my one song that evening, I’m not nervous at all. I can do the routine in my sleep, and I breeze right through it.
Every spin is effortless, every twirl is graceful, and every dollar is worth it.
The second I’m done—after I count my money and get dressed, I tell Michael I have to leave early. The last bus is in twenty minutes and I can’t afford to miss it.
“I’ll drive you to the diner.” The security guard says as I put up my umbrella outside. “It’s across the street from your stop.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll—”
“Now,” he says firmly and points to his car. “It’s my job.”
He doesn’t speak to me on the short drive over, and he waits until I’ve walked inside the building before driving away.
The second his car is no longer in sight, I run to the corner—waiting on the light to change so I can cross the street to get to the stop.
Five minutes...
I take my place at the stop and wait. And wait. And wait...
An hour passes by and the bus never comes. I call the twenty four hour helpline to ask if it’s been severely delayed, and they tell me that the return schedule was changed last month; the final bus ran two hours ago.
Exasperated, I drop my umbrella into the mud and let the rain drench my clothes.
This weekend can’t get any fucking worse!
I consider walking back to the club and asking Michael if I can sleep in his office for the night, but I remember that it’s a Sunday—a “Super Sunday”.
There are three bachelor parties scheduled for later, and as much as I love my job, I just want to be left alone today. I don’t want to be tempted to help out.
Soaked, I head across the street to the diner and slide into a booth. I figure I’ll call Robyn after she gets off tonight and beg to ride back to Blythe with her.
I politely tell the waitress I want two slices of cherry pie and take out my outdated e-reader, wishing I could jump inside of it and live with some of the characters right now.
By the time I finish scrolling through the final chapters of my favorite book, I realize it’s only eleven o’ clock. I still have several more hours to wait for Robyn to get off.
I click on another book and order another slice of pie.
Thank god this place is open twenty four hours...
The second I get to the best part of the book, a deep voice interrupts me. “Mind if I join you?”
“Is the rest of the diner empty?” I don’t look up. I hear the man let out a low laugh and slowly lift my head, finding myself face to face with Carter. Again.
He slides into the booth and picks up a menu, smiling at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Wondering if you’ve put a tracking device on me. There are plenty of empty booths.”
“I can see that.”
“Well...” I dart my eyes from him to the vacant booth across from me, but he simply sits there. “Long day for you? Is this where you normally stop to eat after going to The Phoenix since you’re addicted to half naked women?”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you on break?”
I’m about to answer him but my cell phone starts to ring. Robyn.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hey, I just got your text. What’s up?”
“Can I ride home with you whenever you get off?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“The diner around the corner.”
“You don’t mind waiting until three in the morning? You know we have groups here tonight.”
“Not at all. I’ll wait.” I breathe a sigh of relief and thank her before hanging up.
“How long have you been sitting here?” Carter looks concerned.
“Not long.” I lie. “I was actually enjoying the peace and quiet before you came so...”
“What happened to your wrists?” He reaches over the table and brushes his thumb against the red imprint. “Handcuffs?”
“What can I say, my boyfriend likes to be rough with me.”
He notices the small white bus-transfer paper that’s sitting underneath my plate and pulls it out, reading it to himself.
