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I recall our interaction in the kitchen, her pushing my buttons and me pushing hers right back. I knew she hadn't eaten. She's terrible about skipping breakfast. I've noticed the weight she's lost since the accident. Her clothes hang a bit looser with each passing day. She's stressed, no doubt a result of the choice of men she keeps around. But there's something else going on. She doesn't talk about things much—keeping them bottled inside and letting them fester. There's no telling the level of post-traumatic stress that was caused by the accident. Adapting to this lifestyle alone is enough to derail a person's mental health, but she was thrown in headfirst and then hit with wave after wave. I was born into this world; it's all I've ever known.
I couldn't back down when she called my bluff about eating, but dear God, I was not expecting her to eat a phallic-shaped food mere inches from my face, with her very best set of bedroom eyes staring up into mine. It was everything I could do to keep my dick in my pants and not take her right there on the kitchen counter. But I maintained control, locking the image away in my mind to keep forever.
It was my fault; I could have easily grabbed something fucking else for her to eat, but it was the first thing readily available. And I had no idea she’d so easily gain the upper hand when I thought I was the one calling the shots.
Another reason I'm absolutely bat-shit-crazy for her. She's unpredictable. She's bold. She's so fucking strong-willed.
Which brings us here—to Bram’s diner.
A job that she doesn’t need, yet chooses to keep because she can. Because she wants to.
Any single one of her men could easily provide whatever she wanted, but throw all three of them together and the possibilities are endless. Money is of no concern. They have the power to make pretty much anything she could want happen. And here she is, working a barely over-minimum-wage job three days a week. None of this is about money for her. It's about holding onto any shred of independence she can.
She glides from one table to the next, taking orders and gathering empty plates in the process. She drops them off at the kitchen window and places two ticket orders on the little carousel for the cook. June grabs two stacks of pancakes and delivers them to the corner booth. Wiping her hands on her apron, she peers around the room to check on her other customers, assessing whether their needs have been met and anticipating any request they may have.
Her gaze trails over mine, and when she notices I’m staring directly at her, she does a double take. I don’t look away. I keep my sights set on her, noting the subtle flush of her cheeks, the soft bob of her Adam's apple when she swallows, the nervous tuck of her obsidian hair behind her ear.
All of it is an act to draw me in even more.
And damn is she good at it.
She glances at the clock and then back at me, tilting her head to motion for me to come over.
Without skipping a beat, I march across the room and follow her to the counter.
I’d follow her to the depths of fucking hell if she asked.
“Your highness,” I greet her.
She rolls those radiant brown eyes of hers. “What do you want to eat? Your usual?”
“Are we not going straight home?”Home. Hers and theirs. A place where I don’t belong.
“No.” She doesn’t elaborate because she knows I already know where we’re going.
“Usual is fine.”
June slides behind the counter, gives Carlos an order, and turns her attention to the coffee station. She pulls out two to-go cups, filling both of them with coffee, leaving a little room in one. She tops it off with a bit of cream, and a single packet of sugar. She plops an ice cube in the other before putting the lids on both. She kneels down, her entire form almost out of sight.
My legs instinctually move so I can get a better view of her.
A second later, she returns to her upright position and puts the cups in a little two-cup carrier. She places it on the counter near me, pointing at one of them. "This one's yours."
But I already knew that. And not for a moment do I disregard the fact that she’s memorized myusualand how I take my coffee. It should make me feel special, but when I remember that this is what she does for a living, that warm and fuzzy sensation quickly dissipates.
She’s good at her job, that’s why she knows those details.
Just like I’m good at mine. That’s why I catch the little things—like the change of inflection in her voice when she talks to certain customers, the smile on her face when Bram arrives, the tenseness in her shoulders when something is bothering her. I see more than she thinks I do—more than I probably should. Each small observation makes my heart that much more hers than the day before.
We’ve been doing this for over six months. Every single day for the greater part of a year. In the very beginning, I was posted up at her house while she recovered from the gunshot wound to the chest. But then she went back to college, finishing her degree. I was there outside her classroom, silently waiting, watching, protecting. I walked her to and from without so much as a word—a shadow lurking, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. I wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her, and between my presence and that of her feared men, not a single threat has dared fuck with her.
That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there—they just haven’t been stupid enough to fuck around and find out what happens if they touch our girl.
I’ve accompanied her to doctor’s appointments, physical therapy, girls’ nights out, and on occasion, when she’s feeling a certain kind of way, we go to this little park on the outskirts of town where she sits on this one particular bench. I know she’d rather be there alone, but her safety doesn’t permit such a thing. So, I do what I can to give her some space while maintaining my watch over her.
And today, that’s what we do.
When her shift at the diner is over, we walk to her favorite spot in silence.
