Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

I owe my thanks to a lot of people who
helped make this book a reality.  To Emily Collins, my swim buddy and fellow
critter, thanks for NaNoWriMoing with me.  See what you started?  To all my
KCACG ladies—Kim Gabauer, Christina Wilson, Lindy Dierks, Paula Gill, Dawn
Lind, and a special shout out to Heidi Senesac.  Thank you for your friendship
and holding my feet to the fire.  To Shannon K. Butcher, an amazing writer and
mentor—you’ve helped me more than you know.  Thank you, Cheryl O’Donovan, for
all your guidance.  Kathy Collins, Alta Durrant, Sara Attebury, Sarah Skolaut,
Janice McClain, and Barbara Herrin thanks for reading for me and inspiring me
to be better.  To Ann Charles, a kick ass writer, thanks for reading and
blurbing.  You are awesome. To Kim Carruthers and Sarah Lovewell, my beta
readers, thanks so much.  You guys rock.  To my fellow chicks in the hen house,
Larissa Reinhart and Susan M. Boyer—it’s been fun taking this journey with
you.  To John Snethen, thanks for all your help on all matters legal and illegal. 
Jeff and Colter, my go-to guys, first readers, and favorite husband and son—you
two put up with my nuttiness and were my biggest cheerleaders.  Even though you
looked ridiculous in those skirts.  But keep the pom-poms, you never know when
they might come in handy.  And gratitude to my daughter, Austin, who let me
have her name—you’re not getting it back, so forget it.  A big thanks to Kendel
Flaum for all your hard work.  Thank you all.  You’re the best.

Mondays were known for two
things at Ma’s Diner: we poured lots of extra coffee and the tips sucked. 
After my last customer left, I counted out my money.  Twenty-three dollars and
sixteen cents.  Hmm, food or gas?   

I walked behind the counter
and had just started to refill ketchup bottles when my friend, Ax, walked in. 
The bright afternoon sunshine flashed on his wallet chain as it slapped against
his thigh.

Axton Graystone—his real
name, I swear to God—was usually cheerful, goofy, and extremely mellow due to
his natural disposition and the boatloads of pot he ingested.  But when he
stopped by the empty diner that afternoon, he was twitchy and nervous.

 He plopped onto a stool in
front of me and swung his overstuffed backpack onto another.  His knee bounced
up and down like a toddler on a sugar binge and he tapped his fingernails on
the counter.  “Rose, I need you to do something for me.”

“I’m not giving you my
pee.”  Axton had a couple of possession misdemeanors.  Now the administration
at the college where he worked made him take a urine test once a month.   

The keys in his pocket
jangled with every bob of his knee.  “No, not that.  I need a favor.”  Worry
lines creased his forehead and his pale blue eyes were more bloodshot than usual.

  I glanced up from my
ketchup transfusion, leaned over and stared into said bloodshot eyes.  I
sniffed the air around him.  “You’re not stoned.  Are you drunk?”

Roxy Block, my fellow
waitress-slash-bestie frowned.  “I thought he was always stoned.”  Roxy was in
a pissy mood.  She’d quit smoking the day before and it was not going well. 
For any of us.

“Where were you last night?”
I asked him.  “I thought we were going to watch
War of the Worlds
.  I
made those pizza rolls you like.”

“Jeez Rose, I told you a
million times, it’s
When Worlds Collide
.  It won an Academy Award.  It
was like, a visual masterpiece.” 
Tap, tap, tap
.  He rapidly beat out a
rhythm on the counter.

“Whatever.”  I reached over
and laid my hand on his, forcing him to stop tapping his nails. 

  Axton hopped down from the
stool and went to the picture window at the front of the diner.  With his hands
on the glass, he glanced up and down the street—left, right, then left again. His
breath made a big foggy circle next to the closed sign.

After I twisted a lid on the
last bottle of ketchup, I walked to the tables around the small dining room,
putting a bottle on each.  “So where were you?”    

His shoulders jerked at the
sound of my voice.  “I went to a club.  Look, Rose—”

“Like a dance club?” I interrupted,
a bottle dangling between my fingers.  I’d known Axton forever.  We’d gone to
school together from first grade through high school at Huntingford Prep and the
only club Axton ever attended involved Starfleet uniforms and speaking Klingon.
  

“I’m trying to picture you
dancing.”  Roxy smacked a piece of nicotine gum as she pushed a broom across
the black and white checkerboard floor.  “And in my mind it looks more like a
seizure.”  Roxy wore a very short, red pleated skirt, a frilly white blouse,
and white platform shoes.  A lacy headband held back her electric blue hair. 
Her outfit was not a side effect of cigarette deprivation.  She always dressed
like that.

Axton glared at her.  “It
was a private club.  Invitation only.”  He looked back at me.  “That’s not the
point.”  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans that were
almost white from too many washings, then stomped back over to the counter and
jumped up on the stool.   

“It wasn’t the country club,
was it?” I gave a little shudder.  “I hate that place.  I thought you did,
too.”  I turned to Roxy.  “The last time we were at the country club, he set
off the fire alarm and the entire place had to be evacuated.”   

Roxy smiled around her wad
of gum.  “That figures.”

“Dude, that was a long time
ago.  And no, it wasn’t the country club.  It was…exclusive.  Seriously, can
you do me a solid?”

Axton at a
Star Trek
convention?  Yes.  Axton, at an exclusive anything?  Uh-uh.  Something was way
off here. 

Today he seemed wired for
sound, but normally he was just wiry.  From his thin, five-foot-seven-inch
frame, to the patchy tufts he called a beard, to the dishwater, chin-length
waves that swirled around his head.  The man loved all things Tolkien and
cheesy sci-fi movies.  Private clubs where admittance was by invitation only? 
Uh, no. 

“Ax, what is going on?  And
why are you so hyper?”

His gaze darted past me, to
the last glazed doughnut on the cake stand.   

Roxy walked up to the
counter.  “Bet you went to a titty bar.  You know the strippers invite
everyone, Axton.”  She reached out and patted his back.  “Not just you.”

He blew out a breath.  “It
was not a strip club.”

Roxy rolled her eyes and
tried to blow a bubble.  She wound up with a string of gum stuck to her upper
lip.

Axton looked longingly at
the doughnut.  “Can I have that?” 

I lifted the glass dome. 
“Take it.”

He grabbed it and snarfed it
down in two bites.  “Thanks. I haven’t eaten all day.”  He rubbed his hands together,
wiping crumbs from his fingers.

“Hey, dumbass, we just
cleaned that counter.”  Roxy picked up a rag and swiped at the crumbs.

With a sigh, I took the rag
from her hands.  “I’ll finish this.  Why don’t you take a break?”

She raised a brow.  “Like a
cigarette break, you mean?” 

“Like a fresh air break.”  I
spun her around and gave her an almost gentle nudge toward the kitchen.  

Once she was gone, I faced
Axton, pushed aside the salt and pepper shakers, and leaned on my forearms.  I
gave him a narrowed-eyed look designed to make him spill all his secrets. 
“What did you do last night and what kind of favor do you need?”

“Can’t tell you where I
went, but I need you to take my backpack for a day or two.  Keep it someplace
safe.” 

Now I knew something was
wrong.  Axton without his backpack?  That’d be like Linus without his blanket. 
Ax toted that thing everywhere.  He probably slept with it.  “Are you in some
kind of trouble?”        

“No, no trouble.”  His knee bobbed
even faster than before.  “Will you help me out?”

He gazed at me with an
emotion I didn’t recognize.  Anxiety, maybe?  “Sure, Ax, whatever you need.”

His shoulders sagged in
relief.  “It’ll only be for a day or two.  Thanks, Rose.”  He came around the
counter and pulled me into a hug.  “I’ve got to get back to work.”  He quickly
walked to the front door.

I followed him out of the
diner, the aroma of coffee and cinnamon trailing behind me.  I held up my hand
to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun.  “Call me later?”