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None of these things were on his mind while he sat on red vinyl and stroked ringed fingers down his steel gray goatee.
Until he looked up as the waitress approached.
Her dark brown eyes took in the body, the cut, the rings and chains, and her eyes flared. Maker wasn’t sure if it was fear or lust, but it was something.
“Coffee. Black,” he said, his voice a rumble from deep in his chest.
The waitress pushed a menu across the table toward him. “Sure thing,” she said, turning away from him fast enough that her hair fanned out, hitting Maker with the scent of her shampoo.
Fear, he thought, even as her strawberry scent punched him low. He watched her watch him while she poured his cup and tried to figure the best way to handle the beast that was Widow Maker.
Her next approach was the way he expected she’d approach a wounded animal who might be grateful for the handout but also might take her arm off.
She set the coffee in front of him and eased back a step.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, her voice pitched soft.
“Meeting a friend. Keep the coffee hot, and we’ll see what’s what when he shows.”
Maker looked into her face, and placed her age at late twenties. He had her by a couple of decades, but there was something about her.
She reminded him of old school Hollywood back in the day when the women had looked like women, all hips and tits, sultry eyes, and pin up hair.
He clocked her name tag.
“Lizzy,” he said.
“Yeah?” she asked, turning back toward him.
“Unusual name,” he observed, just making conversation to see if he could get this to go where he wanted it to go.
She smiled, flashing a dimple in her left cheek.
And beauty rolled right into knockout.
“Mom named me after Elizabeth Taylor. I was born during her White Diamonds phase,” she said.
“Taylor’s?” Maker asked, knowing it was some kind name brand, but not sure of what.
“You’ve got no clue, do you?” Lizzy asked, a shy grin peeking out.
“Only clue I’ve got is that I really like that dimple next to your mouth,” Maker said, deciding to go with honesty and letting the chips fall.
She flashed the dimple again. “Perfume. White Diamonds is the name of a perfume. Mom loved it, so she named me after Elizabeth.”
“Ahh,” Maker agreed, not giving the first damn about the perfume but somehow fascinated by the woman telling the story.
Lizzy smirked, “This probably means nothing to you, but I have a sister named Chanel.”
At Maker’s blank look, she laughed, a little bolder. “It’s another perfume.”
Maker grinned, “How’d your brothers make out?”
“Didn’t have any, thank God. No telling what she would have come up with.”
And that’s when the rumble of a Harley snagged Maker’s attention.
“Gonna need another coffee,” Maker said, turning to the front windows where he could see Gate pulling in.
