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TheDevil’sDipdiner is open twenty-four seven, a haven of burgers and bitter coffee for someone who doesn’t sleep at night. It’s been three days since my first shift on the yacht, and every night since, I’ve sat in a sticky booth under unforgiving strip lights with a copy of Real Estate for Dummies in front of me.
I’ve re-read the first line of the first chapter more times than I can count. I can’t get into it—not just because I know I’m never going to be the type of woman to wear a suit to work and have her face plastered on a bus stop bench, but also because, as I predicted, Raphael’s parting words are playing on a loop in my brain.
Don’t call me boss when you’re half-naked, Penelope. I might just get the wrong idea.
The curl of his fist. The set of his shoulders. The sharp line of his jaw as he glanced back at me. The image is so visceral that if I stare at the sheet of darkness through the window for long enough, I can see his silhouette against it.
I got under his skin for the briefest of moments, but nowhere near as deep as he’s gotten under mine.
Pathetic, really. Am I so immature and sex-starved that a squeeze of my breasts, a touch of friction, and a mild-mannered threat are all it takes for the butterflies in my stomach to brush the dust off their wings?
A server fills up my coffee cup, and I take a gulp before letting it cool down, in the hope that the burn will distract me from the nervous energy buzzing in my chest.
It doesn’t.
Behind me, the bell above the door chimes, ice-cold wind brushes my back, and warm laughter chases after it. I twist around to see a group of girls pour in. They’re around my age, and judging by the Santa hats and off-beat clatter of stilettos across the lino floor, they’ve just come from a Christmas party.
The one in the sparkly dress slams her palms against the counter. “Gimme everything you’ve got!”
Laughter ripples through the diner, tilting the lips of servers and the three lone diners occupying the other corner booths.
“But seriously,” a girl in a red skirt groans, coming up behind her friend and wrapping her arms around her waist. “We start work in three hours, and the only things that’ll soak up the vodka are burgers and fries.”
Feeling like an orphan peering into a family’s living room on Christmas morning, I watch the exchange over the back of the booth seat, until my smile fades and the hollow void behind my sternum grows denser. It’s like I’ve watched them open their presents in front of the fire and have gradually realized the warmth and happiness inside won’t reach me through the glass. The reality is that I’m left outside in the cold with nothing.
I bet they share jeans and confess their odd obsessions with men who hate them.
Sucking in a breath to anchor myself, I turn back to the wall of the diner. Ignoring a pitiful smile from an old man in the corner booth opposite, I study the signed football shirts behind Plexiglas, and grainy photographs of Z-list celebrities shaking hands with the owner.
“Wait—turn this up!”
I glance behind me, just in time to see red-skirt girl lunge over the counter and grab a remote control. My gaze follows where she’s pointing it to and lands on the chunky television mounted on the wall.
Breaking News. The words flash red and white below a somber-looking woman. She’s wrapped up in a cashmere scarf and stands in front of a charred building with a padded microphone grazing her lips.
The girl behind me stabs at the volume button.
“I’m standing outside the former Hurricane casino and bar tonight, shortly after news broke that the owner has asked the Atlantic City Fire Department to cease their investigation into the fire.” The reporter glances at the paper in her hand. We’re here with the owner himself, Martin O’Hare.” The camera pans to reveal a man standing beside her. “Martin, could you tell us why you’ve decided to call off the investigation?”
An icy awareness spreads over my skin, chilling everything that lies beneath. It feels instinctive to get up and run, but I’m frozen to the plastic booth. I can only stare at familiar eyes and listen to a familiar voice, as panic climbs up my throat.
“First of all, we’d like to extend our highest gratitude to the men and women of the Atlantic City Fire Department; they’ve worked tirelessly on this investigation over the last few days. However, being mindful that public services are overworked and funds are overstretched, we’ve decided to pursue other methods of justice that don’t burden the taxpayer.”
“Are you saying you’re taking the law into your own hands?”
Martin lets out a gruff laugh. “You make us sound like thugs, Claire.”
“Well…it does sound a little sinister; don’t you think? Why not let law enforcement handle the issue? There’s a suspected arsonist on the loose, after all.”
He smiles tightly. “As I said, we don’t want to waste any more inspectors’ time or taxpayers’ money. We’re fortunate enough to have the resources to hire private investigators, and out of respect to the residents of this great city, that’s what we’ll do.”
“And when your private investigator catches him?”
His stare shifts to the camera. It reaches through the television and singes my clammy skin.
“Who said it’s a him?”
My vision wavers like it has its own pulse, but at the heart of it, Martin O’Hare’s all-knowing glare is as sharp as a knife. The news cuts suddenly to an orange inferno lighting up the night’s sky. Vicious flames licking red bricks until they turn black. There it is: the epitome of my personality—impulsive and bitter—in all of its blazing glory. And here I am, watching it from a fucking diner over a cup of coffee.
