Keeping Allie (Breaking Away #3) (13 page)

I freeze, my body filling with a numbness I can’t feel right now.
Can’t
. Tito and Rita are understanding, but my job is all I have right now that is keeping me sane. And keeping me employed.

“No. I fell off my bike,” I say. Not a lie.

“You don’t have a bike,” Bill says. “I’ve never seen you ride one.”

“It got bent in the accident. Back home,” I whisper. Another truth. I remember the shack. How Chase tenderly took care of me. The way his hands cleansed my wounds, how he was so gentle and caring. That’s the Chase I can’t stop loving.

And then there’s the other Chase.

Luckily, two tables come in. An old couple and some backpackers. I light up. Both tend to be good tippers. I leave Joe and his questions and get both tables set up with water and coffee. They’re easy: all four want the 2-2-2 special.

After I deliver their order to Tito I grab two coffee pots and double-handed, refill the entire restaurant full of mugs. I get shy smiles and boisterous thank yous, hands covering cups for those who are done, and two requests for more cream. That’s easy. I deliver the little silver pots and run to the bathroom. When you’re the only waitress, you have to plan everything in advance. Happy customers mean good tips, and even a bathroom break can screw everything up.

I finish my business, wash my hands, and go back on the floor. There’s another guy now, sitting alone at the smallest table in the tiny cafe, his back turned to me. He has dark, wavy hair cut short and a man’s blue business shirt on. Khaki pants. Nice, thick leather shoes. He looks like one of the guys who works at the computer firm down the street, the ones who eat at Starbucks and Panera. Definitely not the typical diner here, but we take anyone as long as you pay. 

“I’ll be with you in just a minute!” I call out, and go behind the counter. Three plates are under the hot lamp and I deliver those to guys at the counter. They grunt their thanks and I make sure they all have coffee. Joe needs his orange juice.

“Heya, Girlie,” he says, tapping the back of my hand with one finger.
Girlie
. That’s what Frenchie and Galt used to call me. I suppress a shiver and try not to panic. Joe doesn’t look like Frenchie. He isn’t Frenchie. And yet that word... 

I am not going to dwell in the past. What’s done is done. Chase is dead, Frenchie isn’t here, and I am fine.
Fine
.

Once I’m done, I grab an empty mug, a coffee pot and a pre-filled ice water from a tray and hustle over to the new table.

“Hi there!” I say, putting on my waitress smile. I set the mug and ice water down, and hold up the coffee pot. The guy stares down at his hands. “Coffee?”

He looks up just enough for me to see his full profile.

Oh, my God.

It’s
Chase
.

Chapter Twenty-One

Okay. I am losing it, because Chase doesn’t dress like a preppy college guy. He doesn’t have deep, chocolate-colored hair. He doesn’t have—

“Shhh, Allie,” he says.

Oh.
Omigod
it’s really him? 

“Don’t say a word.” 

That’s not hard, because my throat has closed up and my heart has stopped. I’m seeing a ghost. I’ve gone off the deep end. It’s like my nightmares where I invent insane scenarios that can’t be real.

I am hallucinating this new, changed Chase.

I need help. The kind that comes with pills and straitjackets.

“Don’t say my name,” he says. “Just pour me a cup of coffee and call me Tim.” 

Tim?

“Sure,” I hiss, pouring the coffee with a shaking hand. He turns his head and watches me pour. I see his jaw harden and his nostrils flare.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“I hurt it playing Barbies. What do you think?” I finish pouring the coffee and set the pot on the table. I can’t move. My feet are cement blocks. He’s radiating heat and it’s pulling me in. It’s like he’s the earth and I am the moon, pulled to him by gravity. Or something. I’m not exactly up on the laws of physics right now. My brain keeps screaming
Chase Chase Chase Chase
and I am about three seconds away from having my mouth join in.

“Thanks,” he says, finally looking up. Those brilliant topaz eyes. Oh, sweet Chase. It
is
him. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s—

“What the hell happened?” I snap. “You’re supposed to be dead.” 

“That’s right. So, what’s the special here? You got hash browns or home fries?” he says in a normal tone of voice. Like he’s pretending we’re having a different conversation than the one
I
want to have. 

“Quit acting like I’m just your stupid waitress!” I whisper, pulling on his shirt.

He gives me that fake smile again. “I have to pretend until we’re alone. I can’t make a scene. You can’t, either. I’m in hiding.”

Hiding.

“You’re
what
?” I ask, trying to understand.

“Hiding. I have to remain as unobtrusive as possible,” he explains.

“So you came here? To my workplace? A call or a text would have been nice,” I say back.

“Can’t. Electronics might be monitored.”

“A note at my front door would have been good.”

“You’d have thought it was a sick joke.”

He’s right.

“As soon as you’re off your shift, meet me outside, by that bench,” Chase says. He points to the park bench where old Mike sleeps sometimes if he can’t get into a homeless shelter. Our 2-2-2 special is what he buys when he panhandles enough money.

I stare blankly at the bench.

“Just don’t make a scene. Please,” Chase emphasizes. My hands are shaking and I feel like this is too much. First my Mom dies, then she turns out to be alive. Then Chase dies and he turns out to be alive. It’s not quite the cast of
The Walking Dead
, but it’s just too weird.

“Hey!” Joe shouts over to us, holding up his empty coffee mug. He looks at me and winks. “Sugar Tits! I could use a refill.”

Chase stands and is across the tiny cafe faster than I can blink.

His eyes are half-mad. He looks like he’s ready to rip Joe’s head off and scramble it on the grill like it’s a dozen eggs. Chase is in Joe’s face, inches away, breathing hard.

“No! Uh, Tim. It’s okay. Joe didn’t mean anything by it,” I say, grabbing his hand. My skin feels like melting butter and hot lightning when we’re connected like this.

I’m touching Chase again. I want to pat him down. Pet him like a dog I can keep. Just keep touching him. 

But right now he and Joe look like they’re about to tear each other to shreds.

Joe stands and gives Chase...er, “Tim” the once over.

“What’d you say to me?” Joe asks.

“Did you call her ‘Sugar Tits’?” Chase demands.

“Who’s this guy, Allie?” Joe asks. He lifts his baseball cap up, runs a callused hand through his hair, and sets the hat back down on his head. His eyes are open and confused. 

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” Chase says as seven guys step off their counter stools and start coming over to back up Joe. All of them—Joe included—have hard eyes and clenched fists. They’re ready to fight. I’m not sure why. Somehow, I’m at the center of all this. 

And then Chase just hauls off and punches Joe in the jaw. It’s a clean, hard hit that makes Joe’s mouth spray blood everywhere. All over the plates of eggs, bacon and toast people are eating.

I scream. Tito and Rita come running out from the line waving spatulas. Joe’s breakfast regulars try to get their hands on Chase, who is now brawling with Joe.

“Stop it! Both of you!” I yell.

“Don’t call her Sugar Tits, you fucking tool,” Chase shouts at Joe.

Bill gives me a confused, furious look as he tries to pry Chase and Joe apart. “Who is this guy, Allie?” he asks.

“I’m her boyfriend, asshole,” Chase spits out.

All movement in the room halts.

Bill’s holding Joe, who’s struggling to be let go. Bill drops him and Joe puffs up, eyes crawling from me to Chase to all the other regulars in the room. Out of the corner of my eye I see the elderly couple slowly slink out of the cafe. Great. There goes that tip. 

“That true, Allie? This guy your boyfriend?”

It’s so complicated. But it’s easier to lie, because otherwise there’s going to be a brawl worse than the one back at Jeff’s bar, because Chase is hyped up for a fight. He’s practically vibrating with rage.

“Don’t call her Sugar Tits, you motherfucker,” he growls at Joe.

“That’s right, boy. I fucked your mother real nice. She begged for it,” Joe snaps back, spitting at Chase’s feet. 

He has no idea what he’s just said.

Chase charges him, right down the middle, and his head hits Joe’s ribs. With powerful thighs and the kind of balance you only get from riding a motorcycle most of your life, he lifts Joe up into the air and back, knocking into the row of guys next to and behind Joe.

It’s like Chase is bowling, and Joe is the ball.

All the guys are the pins.

“Stop! Stop!” I’m screaming, over and over. Rita runs right into the middle of it and starts hitting Chase in the back of the head with the end of a spatula, hard. She beats him until it sounds like the lashes of a whip. 

Cell phones come out and the backpackers grab their packs and race out the door. I’m sure they’re calling the police.

Police.

There’s no way Chase wants the police involved.

“HE’S MY BOYFRIEND! STOP THIS NOW! I WILL LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK IF YOU TWO DO NOT STOP FIGHTING RIGHT NOW!” My voice bellows, louder than I’ve ever spoken in my life. It rings through the tiny little restaurant and all movement freezes.

“I mean it!” I scream. “Sugar Tits is long gone. Allie is getting out of here. You men are crazy! All of you! I’m so
done
!”

Rita’s mouth is hanging open. So is Tito’s. I am standing there, holding a broom I must have grabbed. I’ve lifted it high in the air and it looks like I’m about to beat Chase and Joe with it.

“Get up! Now!”

They jump to their feet. Bill steps between Chase and Joe as a safety measure. I mentally remind myself to give Bill all the free orange juice he wants for life.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” I say to Chase and Joe.

“He was disrespectful to you,” Chase mutters, rubbing his red jaw.

“And this asshole decked me!” Joe says.

Bill’s eyes narrow. He looks at me. Looks at Chase. Looks back at me. Looks at my arm, then my face.

“Allie,” he asks slowly, “did this guy do
that
to you?” He points to my burn and to the scars on my face.

Now all the regulars are breathing hard again, and Rita looks like she wants to murder Chase.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Do what?” I ask, confused for a second.

“The burn. The scars,” Joe says, eyes filling with a red rage. He wants to have a reason to hit Chase again. “Did he hit you? Guy with a temper like that could do a lot of damage to a sweet girl.” The group of men in the room make a low, rumbling sound. It’s the sound of justice. 

“I would never hurt her,” Chase insists.

That’s not exactly true, but right now, with a restaurant full of guys who could literally beat Chase to a pulp and who are looking for any excuse to do it, I need to answer very, very carefully. 

“No. He didn’t do any of this to me. In fact, he’s the person who saved me. I...” My eyes fill with tears and I dip my head.

The tension in the room cuts by a lot.

I sniff. “I...Ch—Tim made it so this wasn’t worse. He rescued me,” I say, catching Chase’s eye.

He’s breathing hard, half the buttons of his fancy shirt popped off, and he has a big coffee stain down the right side of his chest. His eye is red and swelling, and his jaw matches, too. He’s not afraid of any of them. His eyes are blazing and aimed straight at me. He’s fighting for me. Protecting me. 

When he smiles there’s blood in his teeth.

I’m breathing hard, too, and I can’t stop. The push of air through my nostrils feels like I’m breathing through stone. My burned skin feels tight and aching. The nerves tingle. Someone walks in the cafe’s front door and takes one look at the overturned chairs, the one table on its side, the splashed coffee on the floor. Do they see the blood on the plates on the counter?

They turn around and leave.

“Allie?” Tito says, his voice carrying a hint of accent from his home country. “Is he really your boyfriend? Just defending you from big mouth Joe?”

Joe looks like he wants to head butt Tito. He opens his mouth to argue, but Rita whaps him on his shoulder with the spatula.

“Yes,” I say. It’s the easiest answer.

The truth is way more complex.

“Then get the man a 2-2-2 and some coffee,” Rita bellows. “And you! All of you!” She points to the men. “Clean this shit up!”

Remarkably, they do.

“And you!” Tito says, coming over to me and putting his arm around my waist. He looks at Chase and says, “You don’t get to hit me for doing this. I’m old enough to be her grandfather.” 

I give him a kiss on the cheek. He’s a sweet old man. Chase wipes his mouth with a napkin and winces as he cleans up. He’s sweating and red, still so angry, but he gets Tito’s meaning.

We’re protective of Allie around here. You gotta prove yourself. 

I haven’t worked at the Sunrise Cafe for very long. It feels like home already. Having Chase be here—be alive at all—makes my life complete.

He gives me a long, slow look. It says so much. His eyes blaze with passion, then apology. The way his cheeks move up in a look of earnest appreciation makes me warm inside. When he closes his eyes and swallows, I feel his pain and anguish. And when he smiles a half-smile at me and tilts his head, he’s asking me to accept him.

To welcome him back.

To be with him again.

Tito gives me a squeeze. Rita looks at him, then me. Something passes between the two of them. When you’ve been married as long as they have, I think you don’t need words anymore. 

“You go with Tim,” Tito tells me.

Who’s Tim?
I wonder for a second, and then realize he means Chase.