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When I step up on the porch of the converted Victorian house, laughter greets me with welcome arms. Ambient light spills across the full tables inside and then out onto the wooden slats of the wraparound porch. Walking around to the back, I weave through the outside seating that won’t hold a single person until the spring and head toward the backdoor. It’s beautiful here in the spring and summer months. Sal decorates the courtyard with twinkle lights and stays open into the early morning hours. Now it looks desolate and lonely.
A black milk crate holds the backdoor open, and I creep inside, letting the cool air spill into the hot hallway. I kick it aside so the door slams shut. Sweat beads on my forehead as I enter the employee locker room. It isn’t large, just a converted closet with a few lockers that line one wall.
Tossing my stuff in, I grab my apron from my locker and pull my hair into a ponytail. Our uniforms are basically black from head to toe—my favorite color.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, reminding me I didn’t make myself my own crabby patty, hoping Sal set aside a meal for us, so I let my stomach drive me directly into the kitchen, where Sal works quietly.
“Hey, boss.” I open the lid to the pan where he usually keeps food for us and find a few chicken strips and fries. The lack of food tells me all I need to know about the night. It’s busy for a Monday. When Sal doesn’t reply, I grab a few fries and turn around. “Sal?”
He barely glances up at me until the plates he’s working on are finished, and he slaps the bell. “Autumn!” he shouts. “Table two.”
I completely missed the fact that I am working with Autumn tonight. The curvy blonde steps up to the window with a stern, silver-eyed glare at Sal. “One of these days, Sal, I’m going to slap you and enjoy it,” she says in her deep feminine voice. It’s a cross between gritty and too many cigarettes smoked the night before.
“Just take the food, Autumn.” Sal tosses a towel in the bin before finally looking at me. He appears exhausted, as though Monday is his least favorite day of the week. Sal is usually a neutral man—never too happy, never too sad, and never too angry—but right now, he looks…almost weary, as though his skin doesn’t quite feel right. He itches his arms, and it only settles my opinion of him.
“Rough night?” I ask and pop a fry into my mouth.
“Charlotte, thank the service industry gods.” Autumn loads up her tray. “Tables one through six are full. I know it’s early, but I could use your assistance.”
“She’s being nice.” Sal grabs a bottle of water and downs it. “Get to work.”
“Wow, hello to both of you.” I toss a half eaten fry onto my plate. “What’s happening tonight?” Monday is usually my day off. I don’t often work tonight or Tuesday, nor do I often work nights. I hate having to leave Milo alone at night, and I hate having to walk home later.
I’m out of my element, and when Autumn and Sal look at each other as though they are sharing a small secret, I feel like I’m missing something crucial.
Sal sucks on his teeth, and Autumn hums under her breath before walking off with her tray. “Monday nights are busy. That’s all, Charlotte.” Sal clears his throat. “I need you to take over table six. The rest of the night will slow down.”
“Tate said you’re trying a BYOB thing again.” I pop another fry into my mouth as I eye Sal. There is something off about him tonight, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. All I know is it sends a strange warning up my spine.
“Yeah.” He grabs a new towel and tucks it into his apron. “They are drinking wine.”
I groan. The only other evening I ever worked was the last time he attempted this, and it ended with the local police department swarming the diner to break up multiple fights. Maybe my regulars are out there.
Grabbing his next ticket, Sal goes about ignoring me. Left to my fries, I grab a cup and fill it with soda water. I crave the carbonation but not the sugar. Leaving my small snack, I tuck my notepad in my apron and exit the kitchen.
As I enter the dining room, I take in the customers. They aren’t the usual. These businessmen look like they are conducting a meeting outside of work hours. The tables are full of men I have never seen before in my life, but again, that isn’t out of the norm in a town of just under ten thousand.
What is out of the norm is how they all take me in as I stand off to the side and look around the room. They stop their chatter and look at me, inspecting me like a bug under a microscope. Their gazes make my skin crawl, and red flags wave in my psyche.
Table one has three middle-aged guys, and I swear they are wearing the same suit—black on black. They look like typical corporate stooges, only not quite. Tables two and three are much the same, only at each table, the ages are different—one with older men, one younger.
Four and five have normal people. A young family is just finishing their meal, and the other is an older couple.
They all stare at me, studying me for moments before dismissing me and returning to their meals and dinner companions.
Strange.
I focus on table six, where one man drums his fingers along the tabletop. He looks the most out of place with shaggy, dirty blond hair cut in a mullet and more tattoos than I’ve ever seen on a person. As I approach his table, I see his gauged ears and a septum piercing. He tattooed the side of his face in what looks like feathers, and that’s all I know before he sets cold, calculating eyes on me.
They stop me in my tracks.
The concept of “dead eyes” had been a phrase tossed my way without clear context until this moment. Never before had I encountered a gaze that epitomized that phrase so chillingly.
His eyes, blue as a tempestuous sea, fixate on me with a weightiness that feels suffocating. An unusually stark white sclera frames the storm within, giving the illusion that his irises are suspended in an abyss of pallor. A heaviness descends over his gaze, his eyelids lowering as his scrutiny washes over me.
He tilts his head slightly, his lifeless gaze sweeping the length of my form. A sensation of exposure washes over me, a vulnerability that chills rather than invigorates. “You’re new,” he states, his words a matter-of-fact observation. My legs finally regain their function, propelling me toward his table.
“Not entirely,” I reply, determined to assert myself, despite the unsettling aura he exudes. “Evenings just aren’t my usual shift.”
