"Hmm," I mused noncommittally.
"How long were you in your last foster home?"
"Long enough," I said vaguely. I hadn't expected to feel a moral twinge over lying to Chet. The U.S. attorney's office had given me a cover story for my safety, got it. But Chet and I were on good terms. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. It felt cheap to exploit that, even if I was only here for the summer. "Listen, I should get going. Catch a quick nap before my shift tonight. Well, that and plan my revenge."
"I'll sleep with one eye open."
My smile slipped. Chet had meant the words to be funny, but as my thoughts drifted to Danny Balando, who was out there searching for me, I realized Chet's joke was spot on for me, too.
Dead on.
9
AT FOUR THIRTY, I CLOCKED IN MY TIME CARD. Clearly the Sundown was too cheap to upgrade to a computerized system. Dixie Jo put Inny, another carhop, in charge of giving me a tour of the kitchen and what I presumed was the diner's version of basic training.
I couldn't help staring at Inny as she waddled across the white-tiled floor with purpose, barking information over her shoulder at me. Cooks' station, ice-cream machine, malt mixer, storeroom. Her black hair was cut in a choppy bob, and her small eyes seemed permanently pinched in a scowl. She had gangly legs and arms, and she folded the latter over her skinny chest. But below that she was soft and round, her belly straining against the fabric of her camo shirt. Inny, who didn't look seventeen, was pregnant. Really pregnant.
Smacking her gum, she eyed me up and down. "Know the difference between French and ranch dressing?"
"Sure."
"Things gonna get real busy round here at six. You're not gonna have a mental breakdown on me, are you?"
I plastered on a false smile, because I knew what she was doing. She was trying to put me in my place, but I didn't feel intimidated by her. I wasn't intimidated by anyone in this town.
"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," I said.
Inny slapped an order pad in my hand. "Take down orders, give 'em to the cooks, then take the food out when it's done. Need me to repeat any of that?"
I took an apron off the row of hooks beside the swinging doors, tied it around my waist, and tucked my order pad in the front pocket.
"This here's the carhop door," Inny said, walking me over to a side door beyond the cooks' station. A rack of laminated menus hung to the left of the door, which had a porthole window encased in it that offered a view of the side street. "Stand here and keep an eye out. Someone should drive up soon."
I leaned a shoulder against the door and kept my eyes on the road. A couple of minutes later, a truck pulled up and honked its horn.
"The hungry beep--that's your signal," Inny hollered at me while balancing four salad bowls in a row up her arm.
I pushed through the carhop door. I was halfway to the truck when I realized I had no idea how to greet a customer, much less take an order. Since I wasn't in the mood to have Inny laugh at my ineptitude, or give me a General Patton-like dressing down, I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder and tried out an impromptu greeting.
"Welcome to the Sundown Diner. I'm Stella and I'll be your server today. What can I get you?"
"Two chicken fried steaks and an order of fries and coleslaw each. No drinks. You got that?"
"Got it," I said, scribbling it down as fast as I could. "I'll put that right in."
Inside, I clipped the order to the cooks' wheel, but before I could sigh in relief over getting through my first order smoothly, I heard two more hungry beeps from the curb.
"Let me know when your hands get full," Inny called from the other side of the kitchen. She stepped out of a large freezer, as big as a room, that shelved rows of frozen food in bags, canisters, and plastic buckets. Frosty air rushed through the open door, which she promptly shut. I had a feeling if the air conditioner didn't kick on in the kitchen soon, I was going to have to come up with an excuse to visit the walk-in freezer frequently.
By six thirty, I was too busy for nerves. Every parking space beside the diner was taken; the minute one car backed out, another shot into its place. My hand was beginning to cramp from furiously scribbling orders, and my shoulders ached from carting trays of food between the kitchen and the street. The standard tip was a flat two dollars, which would have been scandalous in Philly, but it wasn't like I could complain. Who was going to listen? Inny worked alongside me, methodically stuffing her tips into her pocket without comment. I wondered what she was saving for. It was probably judgmental, but I was sure she'd have no trouble getting some kind of government handout for teen parents.
Inny snagged me by the sleeve on my way outside. "I should warn you, that's Trigger McClure's truck that just pulled up."
I glanced at the carhop door. I was too far away to see clearly out the porthole window. "Who's Trigger McClure?"
For the first time all night, Inny's expression softened. Wagging her head, she gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Don't let him scare you. And don't let him walk all over you."
I pushed through the carhop door and headed for the red truck parked nose-first to the curb. The guy at the wheel looked about the same age as Inny and me. Definitely high school. Based on Inny's warning, I'd expected someone older with crooked teeth and mean, alcohol-glazed eyes. One of Chet's drunk cowboys, maybe.
Trigger McClure had a lazy, impish smile that played across his bow-shaped lips. Bright red-gold hair fell into hot blue eyes. A few freckles dusted his creamy skin, and I found myself shaking my head to break out of a trance. He looked like a model for a sporting goods store. No wonder Inny had warned me about him. He probably had girls fawning over him regularly. Hard not to let that kind of attention go to your head.
Trigger leaned his gym-chiseled body out the driver's window and crooked his finger impatiently at me. "I'm next," he hollered.
I walked over, catching a whiff of male perspiration. That, along with his sweat-soaked T-shirt and the baseball glove on the bench seat beside him, told me he'd probably come straight from practice.
"Where's Inny?" he wanted to know.
"Inside. I'll be taking your order tonight." I held my pencil poised over the order pad, showing him I was on a schedule. Not that he noticed, but the car beside him had backed out and a new one had filled its place. Twin toddlers in the backseat whined and thrashed their legs while their mother tapped the steering wheel and fixed me with a hurry-up glare.
Trigger scratched his thumb across his forehead. "Listen up. . . ." His eyes perused the front of my shirt, and I couldn't help feeling like he was ogling my boobs. "No name tag?"
I shifted my pad higher. "Would you like to hear our drink list? Pepsi products, lemonade, sun tea--"
"Mountain Dew and a chicken fried steak, Miss No-Name." A sultry smile curved his lips as he addressed me with a hint of flirtation.
"I'll put that right in."
"You like this, don't you, making me work to get your name?" He flashed teeth as white and straight as piano keys. I couldn't say why, but something about him felt vaguely familiar. A ridiculous thought to have, since I'd never laid eyes on Trigger McClure before. But I couldn't brush the nagging thought, and it made my guard rise a notch.
"I like doing my job," I said, pulling on a bland mask of politeness. If Trigger wanted to learn my name, there were multiple ways--like strolling inside, cornering Inny, and asking her. It wasn't that I didn't want him to know my name. Despite how I was sure it looked, I wasn't being cagey. It was just that his strange familiarity had chased a chill up my spine, and until I had time to sort it out, instinct told me to keep my distance.
"You're a coquettish little thing, aren't you?" Trigger went on, ramping up the charm in his good-ol'-boy smile.
Coquettish. I had always hated that word. And while he wouldn't believe me, I wasn't stonewalling him on purpose. But--
The more I stared at him, the more rapidly the synapses at the back of my memory fired. I knew this guy. I just
couldn't remember how.
Hoping to get away and clear my head, I skirted his truck and headed for the ragged-looking mom with twin toddlers.
"Making you nervous, aren't I?" Trigger drawled after me. "I'll get your name, girly-girl."
With only half my mind present, I scribbled down the mother's order, then hustled inside. It was going to drive me crazy, trying to place Trigger McClure. His name didn't ring any bells, but his face certainly did. It had changed since the last time I'd seen it--whenever that had been. He'd grown up a bit, trimmed out that baby face, which was why I hadn't recognized him at first--but at some point, Trigger and I had crossed paths. And I couldn't fathom how. When would I have met a country boy from Nebraska?
It would have been long before I became Stella Gordon. If I knew Trigger, he might know me--the real me. He was a potential breach in my cover story.
Unless he didn't remember me. It was a possibility. After all, it had taken me a moment to recall him. No, not recall. I still hadn't placed him. I was beginning to doubt I'd ever met him. Maybe, years ago, I'd sat across the aisle from him on a plane, and I was confusing a simple glance in passing with a deeper, more prolonged connection. If I couldn't remember how I knew Trigger, there was a good chance he wouldn't remember me, either.
I knew I should tell Carmina. Deputy Price would want to know about this. But if they thought there was a breach, they'd probably yank me out. Thunder Basin hadn't grown on me, but the last thing I wanted was to relocate to another middle-of-nowhere town. I had a job here. I was beginning to learn my way around. And I had Chet.
The instant I thought Chet's name, I wondered why I had. Sure, he was friendly, but he wasn't a reason to stay. I supposed I liked how he had a funny way of making me forget I didn't want to be here.
I just had to make sure our relationship didn't stray over a certain line.
After hanging my new orders on the cooks' wheel, I picked up a food tray and started to carry it outside.
"He give you any flack?"
I glanced over my shoulder to find Inny dispensing vanilla ice cream into a malt cup. She put it under the malt machine, which kicked on with a high-pitched whir.
"Nothing I can't handle," I called over the noise.
"Don't be afraid to yell at him if he gets out of line. Dixie Jo wouldn't fire you over it. She hates him. Probably, she'd give you a raise."
"Food's getting cold," I said, hoisting my tray a notch. I wasn't sure about Inny yet. Instinct told me not to trust her, but there was something about her, something I couldn't name outright, that I liked. Or maybe admired. She didn't strike me as a girl who'd shy away from demanding her boyfriend use a condom, so I concluded it must have broken in the act. Her pregnancy was a genuine misfortune, not an oversight. Because this girl was as tough as concrete. Like me, Inny didn't back down easily.
As I delivered the food to a family of five in a Suburban, Trigger honked his horn. Leaning across the bench seat, he yelled through the passenger window. "Hey, No-Name! I wanna change my order. Scratch the chicken fried steak. I want a bacon-mushroom burger, medium rare. And fries. Bring me some of them, too."
I paused, making sure I could pull on a face of serenity before I strolled over. "As a regular customer, I'm sure you're aware of our policy. I apologize for any inconvenience, but once an order goes to the grill, you're stuck with it." With that, I strode toward the carhop door. I didn't want to give him time to argue with me.
No such luck.
"Hey!" Trigger hollered, slamming his truck door as he came after me. "Tell Inny to get her butt out here. I don't want you. I want her."
"Inny's working the dining room. You want her? Get a table inside. Either way, if your order's on the grill, and I'm betting more than that, it's probably almost done, you're paying for it." And if you stiff me, I swear I'll do worse than spit in your food the next time you come around.
I pushed into the diner and let the door fall shut in his face.
The kitchen was hot. Steam from the pots and pans fogged the windows, and I blew my bangs off my forehead, which felt plastered to my skin. I'd have given anything for a reason to step inside the walk-in freezer, but Eduardo, the head cook, was dinging the bell for my next order. Trigger McClure's order, as fate would have it.
"I'll grab it in a sec!" I told Eduardo. Trigger McClure could stand to let his food cool. And his heels, if I had any say.
In the ladies' room, I grasped the sink and blinked at my reflection. My legs throbbed and I longed for a chair and stool to kick up my feet. I was only three hours into my shift, and already bed sounded pretty darn appealing. Turning on the tap, I splashed my face and wiped down the back of my neck.
"Trigger McClure is a self-important jerk who deserves a shot of urine in his next Mountain Dew," I murmured at the mirror. The thought brought a fleeting smile to my lips. It was a thought delicious enough that it just might, I decided, get me through the night. I exhaled, letting my clenched shoulders loosen, and that's when I heard the toilet flush.
Inny stepped out from behind the stall door. Just like that, the tension jumped back into my shoulders and the rest of me filled with sickened dread.
"I--" I began. But what could I say? She'd heard every word. Even though I would never pee in anyone's drink, I hadn't left much ambiguity as to my intentions.
Inny stepped up to the sink and scrubbed her hands. Eyes glued to the mirror, she tousled her black hair. Then she gritted her teeth, examining the cracks for food. "Urine?" she said at last.
"Please don't tell Dixie Jo--"
"Urine?" she repeated, louder. "You couldn't think up anything better than urine?"
Unsure where she was taking this, I ignored her baiting, even though a few more-disgusting options had sprung to mind. Perhaps discretion was the better part of valor.
"First time Trigger grabbed my ass on the job," Inny said, "I put a dead cricket in his hamburger. And all you can come up with is urine?" She shook her head. "Maybe I was right. Maybe he is gonna walk all over you."
Still cautious, I said nothing.
Inny bent over the sink, applying a fresh swath of lipstick. "I just told you I put a dead cricket in a customer's food and you've got nothing to say?"
I grazed her eyes in the mirror but didn't fully meet them. "What's his problem, anyway?" I asked carefully.
"Isn't it obvious? He has a small dick."
At last our eyes locked. Very slowly, we smiled.
"He plays baseball," Inny went on. "All the scouts got their eye on him. He's a pitcher, and a leftie at that. You oughta see his fastball. Ninety miles per hour with a little tail to it. Ball takes a sharp, cutting left-to-right curve just before it sails over the plate." She whistled with admiration. "And his change-up? 'Bout fifteen miles per hour slower than his fastball, but with a right-to-left sinking tail. The whole town is convinced he'll play in the majors--and with good reason. Believe it or not," she added cynically, "not many celebrities are born in Thunder Basin, so he's caused quite a commotion. Course, all the attention has gone to his head. And left him depleted in certain other areas."
"Sounds like you know a lot about Trigger."
She shrugged. "I know baseball."
"If he's headed to the majors, he'll be leaving town soon. That should give you--us--a reason to smile."
"Yeah," Inny said, but without the amused snort I'd expected. If anything, her tone sounded moody.
"He asked for you. I told him you're working the dining room tonight."
Inny grunted, snapping back to her sharp-eyed self. "I've worked here long enough to know what he likes. He doesn't have the patience to deal with anyone else."
I waited for her to say more, but she dried her hands and left the bathroom without another word.
Still pondering my strange, but not necessarily unwelcome, conversation with Inny, I gave her a minute's head start, then followed after. I picked up Trigger's order and carted it outside. Knowing Inny was on my side gave me the motivation I needed
to face Trigger again. There was something to be said about solidarity.
"One chicken fried steak," I said, passing the take-out bag through Trigger's window, "and one ice-cold Mountain Dew."
He flung the bag back at me, nearly spilling the drink in my outstretched hand.
My temper took an edge. "I can place a second order for a burger and fries, but as I already explained--"
"Get Inny out here now."
It took all my willpower to speak calmly. "As flattering as your tone is, I can't do that. Inny is working. So am I. If you look around, you'll see there are five other cars waiting on their orders." I passed a faux-leather check folder with his tab through the window. "We take cash or credit card. No personal checks."
Trigger didn't accept the check folder. He grabbed the soda instead. The next thing I knew, the lid was off and the contents of the cup were flying at me.
I gasped, wiping ice-cold soda out of my eyes.
"Damn. There goes a perfectly good pop," Trigger drawled.
I counted to ten. I did it again. When I spoke, I made sure my voice was cool and level. "I've heard you're quite the baseball player. Pitcher, is it? Let's hope you handle your balls better than your drink."
Blotchy color flushed Trigger's face, but he merely grabbed himself, hitching his crotch blatantly, and said, "Wouldn't you like to know."
Then he slammed his truck in reverse and gunned down the street.
I don't know how long I stood staring at the plumes of exhaust rolling off the road, feeling my throat clench tighter. I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself it was the soda that was making them sting. I felt a horrible and unwanted tickle in my nose, and knew I was close to crying. So much for being the tough girl from Philly. I was going to let that jerk make me cry. I hated him for it--almost as much as I hated myself.
Right when I thought I was going to lose it, Inny came up beside me.
"Here," she said, handing me a dish towel. "Just so you know, you've got a ways to go before you catch me. He's done that to me three times. Four if you count the chocolate milk shake. Man, that took forever to wash out of my hair."
I wanted to laugh, but my throat felt thick and slippery.
"Dixie Jo will get the money for his order from his parents, but I can't promise a tip. Trigger's mom and dad are his biggest fans. Probably he'll tell them you're a scorned lover and you dumped the drink on yourself to get his attention." Inny looked sidelong at me. "You'd be amazed how many girls in this town are scorned lovers of Trigger McClure."
Dangerous Lies Page 7
