Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (6 page)

Makes sense now, I wouldn't remember him if he worked here after school. I'd come in early mornings, rarely ever after school. Yet, as soon as he says it, my eyes are drawn toward the doorway behind him. A memory loosens and flashes before my eyes. A tall, thin, dark-haired boy clad in a white apron, darting back into the kitchen when he saw me noticing him. It's a hazy memory, blurred at the edges. I'm not sure if I'm making the whole vision up.
 

Memories aren't the reliable archive of the past people assume they are. Memories can be altered by biases and new information. It's why eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable.

"What will it be today?" he asks again, telling me in not so many words he's not here to make small talk with me.

I order and watch him walk off without another word.

The kid sitting beside me lets out a short sigh and I remember he's there. He looks miserable. So much so, in fact, that I want to laugh aloud. What the hell does a kid his age even know about being miserable?
 

"Are the eggs not good?"

The kid looks at me. "Huh?"

 
"Just wanted to know if the eggs are making you miserable. So I know to stay away from them."

"It's not the eggs."
 

Watching him, a few details come to me at once. He can't be older than thirteen, middle school age. And he seems to be alone.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I ask, glancing at my watch.

He sets down the fork and sits up. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

My hands are over the keyboard of my laptop, resting there. I tap a finger over one of the keys without pressing it. "Maybe I am working."

"Are you?"

I can't help but laugh. "Fine, you got me. I'm not working."
 

"You're from out of town, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I'm technically from out of town. How can you tell?"

"It's always the same people here. Usually super old people this early in the morning."

"It's always been like that here. A good place to hide from the school crowd."

He watches me with a little more interest. "And how do you know that?"

"I went to the high school up the street. I used to come in here all the time, actually."

"Oh," he says with blatant disinterest, "that's cool."

There's something familiar about this kid, something tugging at a memory. Or maybe he reminds me of myself at that age. That thought alone is enough to give me the impression he is up to no good.
 

Though the logical assumption is that he's headed to school, the backpack strapped to his back makes me wonder if he's a runaway. I know I shouldn't ask him too many questions. A kid his age has been conditioned not to trust strangers. Still, I can't help it.
 

"Are you here with your parents?"
 

"No. My parents are dead."
 

Well, things just got awkward.
 

I turn to face my laptop screen, unsure what to say to that. The way he said it, the solemn tone, his downcast eyes—I somehow, instinctively, know he's telling the truth.
 

"I'm sorry," I say. "That sucks."
 

"Yeah, it does." The kid wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands up. Without looking at me, he closes a hand around his glass of orange juice and shoots back the remainder of it as though it were something much stronger.
 

Maybe it's because of what I learned about his parents, but his body language and mannerisms seem mature. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a ten-dollar bill, and slaps it on the counter.
 

"Hey, Owen," he calls out with an exaggerated casualness that wasn't there a moment before. Owen looks up at the sound of his name and his face falls slightly in a tired way. The kid's tone twists into blatant sarcasm. "Thanks for breakfast."
 

The bell over the door chimes and cool air rushes inside as the kid heads out onto the street. I hope he really is headed to school.

Owen places a cup of coffee in front of me, along with my food. He reaches for the ten-dollar bill and stuffs it in his pocket. I find it strange that he pockets the kid's money, but he doesn't even seem embarrassed or secretive about it so I'm left to assume this must be normal.
 

Rolling up the sleeves of his thermal shirt, he reaches for the dishes the kid left behind. Plates clink as he gathers them and his gaze lifts to meet mine.
 

I expect a smile. A fake, customer-service smile.
 

He doesn't smile. But he
does
look at me for a few seconds too long, curiosity in his eyes, as though noticing something about me he didn't before. He catches himself and switches his focus to wiping down the space beside me.
 

Owen moves around behind the counter, carrying the plates, and I can't help but notice there's something exaggerated about his posture. The type of intensity you wouldn't expect from a man working in a diner, but from someone about to draw a gun. And that's exactly the energy he emits, a treacherous one. Rocky cliffs and pounding shores. The type of landscape you wouldn't trek if you were cautious.
 

I'm a lot of things, but cautious isn't one of them.

I'm not the slightest bit subtle about the way I gape at him as I sip my coffee. It's been a while since I laid eyes on a man I could consume with my eyes and he looks far more appetizing than my food. The type of man you can't look at without imagining yourself doing things to him. Or better still, imagining him doing things to you.

He doesn't notice, or pretends not to. It's not until he takes the stack of dishes and disappears through the doorway that leads into the back that I'm finally able to fully take in my surroundings.
 

Some things are different.
 

The menu, hanging on the wall, for instance. It looks crisp—not the old worn lettering I've looked up at since I was a teenager. The tops of the stools are also new leather. Not fringed at the edges with small tears in them, the way I remember.

A dark worry creeps across my chest. It occurs to me that maybe Lucas is gone for good. That's how it happens. You get used to people, they become a staple, and you sort of forget that they're growing older. You don't notice the lines growing on their faces or their hair slowly peppering away into white. It happens slowly and then one day they're gone, washed away by time. The spot where they once stood scraped clean and taken up by a newer, younger person. Change is the only real constant in life.

Owen reappears only a moment later and I slide off my stool to meet him. "Where'd you say Lucas is?"

"I didn't say."

Is that supposed to be the end of the discussion? He seems to think so, moving along the counter, arranging the condiments sitting in front of each stool. I follow, walking parallel to him, the cold slate of granite separating us.

"Is it a secret?" I ask, my gaze flicking upward. His blasé responses will grate away at my patience pretty quick.

He stops and looks at me. "He's in the hospital. Scripps Mercy."

"What happened? Is he sick?"

Closing each of his hands over the edge of the counter in front of him, Owen leans into the space between us as though to make sure we aren't overheard. My eyes are drawn to the outline of his muscular arms beneath his shirtsleeves. "He had a massive heart attack a few days ago. Still recovering, but doctors say he'll be fine."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm really fond of him. He's a good man."

"Sure he is," Owen says, too quickly. I get the sense of an implied, 'what the hell would you know?' And he walks away once again without the slightest warning.
 

I'm well aware of the discernible sting of rejection as I'm left standing there, my mouth parted in anticipation of what I was going to say next.
 

I get the urge to laugh, but not out of humor. How has this place not gone out of business with him behind the counter?

Sliding back onto my seat, I bring my attention where it should be. The laptop screen. My resume. My job hunting research.

I decide I've had enough of Owen's antisocial demeanor. Because fuck this guy. He's not eye candy delivered by the universe. He's a dark cloud shading my safe haven, stripping it of all the things I expected when I walked through the doors.
 

A part of me had hoped this little haven of mine remained untouched and sacred, even while so much in my life was uncertain.

What used to be a symbol of normalcy to me, a place I could escape to, is now just another thing that isn't what it used to be.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sounds around me are comforting: light chatter, silverware clinking, soft ambient noises. Nothing that should distract me. Yet my attention is divided, half on the embellished list of phrases on the screen before me and half on something else in my immediate surroundings.
 

When Owen comes to collect my empty plate, I finally admit to myself what the real distraction is. It's him. I'm aware of him even when I'm trying not to be. I know when he is closer to my end of the counter or further down. I sense when he passes by me to bring people their orders or when he's behind the register ringing someone up.
 

And now, I'm trying to
not
be aware that he is somewhere behind me. I'm trying so hard that his voice jars me when, out of nowhere, he says, "It's too long."

I turn in time to see him reach over, finger landing on the laptop screen and tapping on the spot right over the bottom of the file, which reads,
Page 1 of 3
.
 

"Your resume," he says. "It's too long."

"Do you mind?" I yank the screen down, stopping short of slamming it closed. I can't believe his nerve. It doesn't help that my glare meets the back of his head as he's already walking away and around to the other side of the counter.
 

But I guess he's not done with me because he turns to add, "No one has time to read a resume that long."

The short laugh I let out is as humorless as the fake smile that accompanies it by default. "Okay,
what
is your problem?"

"My problem?" He's across from me again. This time behind the drink machine. The way his hazel eyes scan my face, with a sliver of amusement, reveals he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"The massive stick you have lodged up your ass." I make a general gesture in his direction. "Ring a bell?"
 

He folds his arms over the counter and tilts his head the way a person does when they genuinely don't understand a question.
 

"
Oh, come on.
Your customer service skills? They suck."

"Do they?" he asks, straightening up again to fill two glasses with soda. "I don't consider them skills, really."

He heads off to bring the drinks to a nearby table. I watch carefully. The customers don't appear put-off with his indifferent mannerisms. They give him a smile and mumble what I think is 'thanks,' though I can't hear it.
 

Owen doesn't look at me when he returns to his spot. Even though I'm sure he knows that I'm watching him through narrowed eyes.
 

"You know," I say, "I thought you were being an asshole by mistake, but maybe it's entirely on purpose."
 

His head hangs down, eyes on the glass he's drying with a towel. "I don't do anything by mistake."

A beat.

I don't have a comeback and am breathing a little harder than I was a few seconds ago. To say I'm annoyed is an understatement. The universe is fucking with me, subjecting me to psychological warfare. It wants me to become a ridiculous news story that goes viral on social media:
Female Attorney Beats in Man's Head with Resume Bearing Laptop at Local Diner
.

I get up and pay my bill without saying another word. Owen runs my card through the machine and I'm not even sure if he looks at me because my gaze burns a hole into the back of the cash register. The all too recent memory of the last time a man got under my skin weaves, tauntingly, like a bobble head in the forefront of my mind. That situation didn't end well, and I've reached my quota for how many assholes I can handle without setting the feminist movement back a few notches with a PMS-cidal rampage.

Crossing through the front door, I glance back without reason and find Owen's sights darting up from behind me.
 

You've got to be kidding me. This motherfucker was staring at my ass.

Distracted, I nearly trip over the door's threshold. I quickly recover, but not soon enough to soothe my ego, which gives me a subsequent kick in the throat.
 

Great. There goes my graceful exit. I wish I would've fallen all the way and cracked my face on the pavement. At least then he couldn't have considered it funny.
 

I grip the laptop bag's strap closer to my chest and continue walking, the morning air distinctly cool against my unusually warm face.

CHAPTER EIGHT

One second I'm sleeping, the next I'm bolting upright and panicked by the brightness of the room.
 

I didn't turn on my alarm and now I'm late.
 

Straightening up, I push away the gray bedcover from my body. Wait. I don't own a gray comforter. This depressing color is my sister's version of sophistication. I'm in Lex's guest room. And I'm not late because I don't have anywhere to be.
 

Stomach tightening, I fall back onto the bed and stare at the crack in Lex's ceiling. And as I lie there, the panic that jarred me awake looms. I can't seem to shake it.

When I finally head into the living room, Lex is near the front door, slipping on her heels and getting ready to leave for work.

"
Morning
," Lex says, with almost sarcastic enthusiasm. I know she's mocking my appearance—which, though I can't see, I imagine resembles that of a creature emerging from a moat.