Page 23 of Rockland

And if I won’t have him in my thoughts, I certainly won’t have him in my house. I’ve just got to get through the memorial this weekend, prove to everyone I can handle myself again, then get rid of him. Send him back to whatever backwards primitive lifestyle he’s living.

First things first—get through the next few days. Show him and the Village—and Bronson—that I’m of sound mind and spirit. That I’ve made a miraculous recovery and that enacting the hierarchy is unnecessary. That their concerns are unwarranted. Rockland can stay a few days, see how well I am. Today is Thursday, the memorial is on Saturday. He should be boarding the private jet and off on his way by Sunday.

It’s only four days. I can do this. I can play nice.

I start by processing the shock of my surroundings. He’s taken me to a dive diner. The half-lit sign above the tacky red awning proudly proclaims Roscoe’s. There’s no bar in sight.

We settle into a booth in the corner. I look around. The crowd seems to mainly consist of the sixty and up crowd. It smells of coffee and fried meats.

I rest my elbows on the table and I immediately remove them. It’s sticky. I say, “What is this place? You call this a restaurant?”

He says, “It’s a diner, a greasy spoon. But yes, princess—most people consider it to be a restaurant.”

I pick up the menu and the filmy thick plastic cover clings to my fingers.

Gross.

I flip though the colorful pages. Burgers stacked with onion rings. Meat wrapped in bacon. Fried chicken, fried potatoes, fried everything. My skin feels greasy just looking at the pictures. I peek over my menu to get a glimpse of him.

His eyes are locked on me. Watching me. His dark brow narrows with disapproval.

I swallow, hard. Go back to my browsing. On the last page, I find a list of salads.

The waitress appears, her gaze lands on Rockland and she’s practically drooling. The tip of her pencil is between her hot pink painted lips. Her weight shifts on her feet, and jutting one slim hip toward him, she says, “Can I help you?”

I bet you would like to help him… right out of those black jeans he’s wearing.

Before he can answer, I say, “I’ll have a grilled chicken salad. Dressing on the side. And a diet Coke.” I toss the menu toward her. It lands with a smack on the table by her hip.

He says, “She’ll also have a side of cheese fries. And make it a regular Coke.”

I groan. “I’m not eating that crap,” I mutter.

He says, “You need calories. You’re skin and bones and this is the fastest way to get the weight you’ve lost back on you.”

Our waitress has gone from enraptured to looking slightly uncomfortable. She shifts her weight again and says, “Ah—and what will the gentleman have?”

I snort. “What gentleman? Is there a gentleman here?” I squint my eyes, peer around the booth, and say, “I don’t see one.”

He’s staring at me with that dangerous look, the one that makes my ass cheeks clench together on the plastic booth cushion. I start to squirm. His palm slaps the table, making me jump in my seat. He smiles, looks at the waitress, and says, “You guys have a butt roast on your menu? I do love a good roasted butt.”

My face goes up in flames.

The waitress smiles helpfully. “No… I don’t think so, but we do have a pulled pork sandwich. Comes with or without slaw.”

Rockland says, “I’ll have that. Slaw on the side.”

“Disgusting,” I murmur.

He says, “She’ll have a slice of the pie as well.”

Fury rises from within me. “I can order my own damn food, Rockland. I said, I’m not eating that crap.”

He leans in, his dark eyes lock on mine. His jaw clenches. His low voice is laced with a threat. “Is this really how you want to handle yourself?”

My cheeks flush but I stand my ground. “I’ll handle this by having a diet Coke and a chicken salad, thank you very much⁠—”

He holds up his hand, turning to the waitress. “On second thought, I’d like to cancel our orders. Something’s come up. We’ll try again another day.”