Page 5 of We Already Dug the Grave

Billy continued eyeing me as a squeal erupted from the booth across the dining room at the same moment the phone rang.

The shrill rrriiing! cut through the diner, and I had taken two steps toward the counter when the man in the make-out booth—who I’d mentally named Pit-Bush for obvious reasons—called out.

“Hey waitress, you going to get our order or what?”

I looked from him to the phone just as my boss pushed through the swinging kitchen door and scooped up the receiver. “Huddle Hut,” his deep voice boomed.

Pit-Bush hollered again, louder. “Hey, waitress! You hear me?”

“I’ll be right with you,” I answered, still trying for calm.

“Milly, baby.” Larry sat the phone on the counter. “It’s for you.”

“Who the hell is calling me at work?” I thought aloud. The only person who even texted me was my roommate, and Carla would never call the diner.

“Hey, waitress…”

Larry glanced toward Pit-Bush.

“Take a message.” I gestured toward the back booth. “I’ll deal with this.”

I pushed away all thoughts of Moss Grove and plastered on a smile that in a certain light could’ve been a snarl, the telling twist in my stomach tightening as I sashayed to their table. “What can I get you lovely folks today?”

“’Bout damn time.” Pit-Bush’s beady green eyes crawled over me, and I wanted to pluck them out and smush them between my fingers like English peas. “It ain’t like your job’s that hard.”

My jaw clenched. Maybe I didn’t need this tip after all. Carla said she didn’t care that I was behind on rent. Her mama owned our apartment. But I loathed owing anyone anything, and while I was fairly certain Carla wouldn’t kick me out, her mama was not as forgiving.

I opened my mouth to respond when the woman-half of the duo piped up.

“Now Ian, don’t be mean.” She petted his arm like it was a house cat as she spoke. “She might be special. You even consider that?” Her face split into a phony, sympathetic smile. “Bless her heart.”

Bitch. The word flashed in my mind. One of the younger waitresses, Deja, had told me it was un-feminist to call another woman that, but I disagreed. Sometimes, it was the most accurate way to describe a person. Sometimes like now.

“Sorry about that.” I beamed. “How about I get you and your brother started with some of our famous coffee? On the house?”

“What?” The bitch sputtered. “He’s not my brother.”

“Huh?” My eyes popped open in mock surprise.

Pit-Bush’s cheeks flushed. “You think I’d be in here kissing my sister?”

“Sorry. I thought, you know, you kind of look alike.” I smiled at the bitch, giving a small shrug. “Let me get that coffee for you, and I’ll take your order when I get back.”

I scurried off to the coffee station before either could respond, grabbing two mugs and working up the perfect loogie. The wad of spit had splatted into the bottom of one of the mugs when a throat cleared behind me.

“Jesus,” I gasped, spinning around to see my boss smirking. “Larry, I—”

He held up a hand and winked. “I didn’t see anything.” Larry had been a constant in my life since I’d arrived in Persimmon Key tear-streaked and vibrating with rage a decade before, with no idea how to be an adult. He immediately clocked me for a runaway, letting me park my truck, which doubled as my bed, in the lot, knowing it was safe enough. Then, he offered me a job.

On my second day, when a group of policemen sat in my section and I’d locked myself in the bathroom with a good old-fashioned panic attack, he hadn’t fired me. More importantly, he hadn’t asked questions. Instead, he’d served the table himself and told me to stick with it, that I’d eventually be okay. At serving or in general, he never clarified.

“Here.” He passed me a slip of paper. “Your message.” Larry shook his head, and his gray braids bounced against his shoulders. “Some real weirdos out there.”

I thanked him and set down the mugs. Pit-Bush and the bitch could wait. I looked down at the paper, the back side of a ticket.

At first, the words didn’t register. But then…

No. No this wasn’t possible.