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The little bell above the entrance rings as the door swings open. Braxton holds it for Asha, who strolls into the diner and joins us in the booth. She slides in beside Max and catches my eye.
Over the table, we share a smile, but it’s slightly more than a smile. It lingers a microsecond too long, accompanies a twinkle in her eye. It’s a bit of furtive flirtation. Not so much we arouse either brother’s suspicion, but enough that I know the attraction is mutual — even if she has yet to admit it to herself.Good lord, you’re beautiful.
It's at this moment I realize she’s going to be trouble.
EIGHT
Asha
This diner isa rundown waystation for truckers and other less discerning travelers to fill their bellies without worry of judgment. It belongs to the men and women of the road, a restaurant at the edge of the world, living in the margin, outside society’s reach.So why do I feel so comfortable here?I guess I’m becoming one of their kind, fallen through the cracks into a demimonde of misfits, alike only in their distaste of the norm.
The wafting scent of grease and sizzling meat patties cuts my philosophizing short. My stomach grumbles and I realize how hungry I actually am. Ravenous, as it turns out.
Our talented server arrives with a half dozen plates balancing on her arms, and still manages to place each before us without spilling so much as a single fry. “Enjoy,” she says flatly, before flashing a smile at the other side of the table, one to share between Orson and Braxton.
Max and I both take notice, sharing a moment of mutual eye-rolling before we dig in. I mean, I know the waitress is only looking at them because Max radiates aleave me the fuck aloneair, one of the few things we have in common, but I don't think Max is the least bit worried about his sexual prowess.
Even if her ogling the guys irritates me a little.
We tear into the meal with the ferocity of our inner wolves, but none as much as Orson. He’s shoveling his country-fried steak and mashed potatoes into his mouth like it’ll run away if he gives it the chance. I pause to watch and after a few seconds of my fascinated observation, he catches my eye.
His cheeks redden, and he smiles back at me. “When you’re in prison, you learn to eat quickly.”
“Prison?” I repeat, unsure I got that right. The Blackwell brothers shift uncomfortably in the booths, eliciting awkward squeaks from the ancient vinyl upholstery.
Orson, on the other hand, seems unabashed by his past. “Yeah, I did some hard time. The experience leaves its mark on you. Indelible, it seems.”
Perhaps propriety would dictate I not ask the question at the forefront of my thoughts, but instead it slips right off the tongue. “What’d you go to prison for?”
Without missing a beat, he replies, “Murder.”
Logical.“That would do it.”
I guess I should be scandalized, but after everything I’ve seen and the company I keep, I’m just not, really. Instead, what shocks me is the excuse my mind immediately makes for Orson. As I look back at him, I think to myself; he had his reasons. Without knowing the context, nor any of the details for that matter, I make the split second judgment in his favor. Orson exudes an ingenuous aura, more like a golden retriever than the one hunkered down under the table.
That scares me.
My defenses soften in his presence, but I have to keep my guard up. This world is unforgiving of my kind and any weakness might pave the way for ruin. I already fear how close I’ve gotten with Max and Braxton, but I feel I know them. Even if I can’t trust them one hundred percent, I can trust them to be themselves. Orson remains a mystery, perhaps deceptively forthcoming. I can't tell if he’s completely honest or if honesty belies his true motives.
Even though I haven't sorted my thoughts, I feel like the whole table is waiting for my response, so I just answer without being sure what I'll say. “I know the Enforcers have a lot of murderers among their ranks, but I find it hard to believe they’d trust one that killed pro bono.”Murderers like Grim and the rest of his team.
He chuckles, which could be read as either congenial or sinister. I leave that question unanswered and ask another, “What do they want with you, Orson?”
“I’m good with tech.”
Weird. I can't see how that will help us.
But I don't say that. “Some kind of computer whiz?”
He smiles. It’s disarming. Alarmingly disarming. “Yeah, something like that.”
And now I can't imagine this guy behind a screen. Nothing about him, actually, makes sense.
“Huh.”
“What?” he asks, studying me.
I hadn't realized I'd said anything aloud until he responded, but now I have to explain myself. Fun.
