Rocked

By Clara Bayard

Kindle Select Edition

Copyright©2013 by Clara Bayard

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ding-ding! Ding-ding!

"Order up!"

I sighed and put down the towel I was using to wipe off the counter and walked the few steps to roll my eyes where he could see me. "Darrell, I'm right over there and we only have one customer. I don't think the bell and the yelling are necessary."

My boss shrugged and pushed the plate of eggs across the pass at me. "Sorry, kiddo. This old dog ain't learning nothing new. I been ringing that bell for a hundred years and I'll be ringing it on my way down to Hell."

I couldn't help but laugh. As much as working all night left me tired and out of sync with the rest of the world I did enjoy Darrell's folksy weirdness. Over the past month we'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm to keep each other entertained while the diner was basically empty.

"You're not that old, boss," I reassured him as I grabbed two slices of toast to deliver to the only other person in the place.

Ding-ding! Ding-ding!

Darrell rang the bell again to get my attention. "God hates liars, kiddo. I'm older 'n dirt and just as sour." He laughed and went back to humming along to the radio that played softly in the kitchen.

I put the plate down in front of our customer and asked if she needed anything else, wondering idly if dirt was actually sour. That would probably depend on what kind and where it came from. There could be sweet dirt and spicy dirt. Sour dirt and bland dirt.

Depressed at the fact I was even thinking about it so much, I shrugged my shoulders a few times to clear my head. We needed to get the television fixed so there'd be something besides the all night oldies station to distract me before I went crazy (crazier?) and started taste-testing from the empty planters.

Trying to maintain what was left of my sanity; I checked all the napkin dispensers and straightened up the prep area. By the time that was done our only customer had finished and left and all was even quieter. I collected my twenty-five cent tip, showed it to Darrell with a sarcastic happy shimmy and sat down on a stool at the counter to wait for the sun to rise. Outside I could see a steady stream of people heading away from the diner. The concert venue down the street had just let out and the audience was clearly energized by the show, but not enough to want a middle of the night grease fix.

Darrell saw where I was staring and sniffed. "They used to flock in here. Sleep in the booths, puke in the restrooms, but it was fun to watch. Now they hit the fast food down the road and never even turn this way."

"That's a shame," I said automatically, not really paying attention. My mind was elsewhere, imagining I had the kind of life that involved concerts with scores of friends and wandering down the street towards home together, high on the show and whatever we'd ingested during it. I missed having my pack of friends around me for nights of fun and laughing ourselves breathless. I could imagine the kids I saw out the window doing that, dancing until they collapsed and fell asleep with smiles on their faces. But that was not my life.

I shook off the fantasy as the door opened and someone stepped inside.

"You still open?" he asked the mainly empty room.

"Uh, yeah. Sit anywhere." I stumbled getting up and darted around the counter awkwardly to grab him a menu.

The guy sat down right in front of me and flashed an exhausted, but bright smile. I stared at him like a lobotomized fool. He was insanely hot. Like magazine cover hot. Tall and thin but with clearly defined lean muscles under a tight black t-shirt. His hair was dark and slicked back, or maybe just wet. It framed a tanned face and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. His mouth was almost femininely full and red, but that wide smile was slightly crooked in a way that made my insides turn to molten lava. There was a smudge of what looked like eyeliner or mascara under his left eye and it took all my self-control to keep from reaching out to wipe it away.

"So, can I see that or do I have to guess what's in it?"

"Huh?" I looked down at my hand and realized I was gripping the menu like a security blanket. So uncool. "Oh yeah. Sorry." I handed it over and when his fingertips brushed mine a shock went through us both.

"Oops." He laughed and dropped the menu, unopened. "You okay?"

"Uh huh," was all I could manage.

"Sorry about the shock. Happens a lot after shows."

"Oh, were you at the concert?"

He narrowed his eyes as if he thought I was making fun of him or something. "Yeah…"

"That explains the makeup under your eye."

"Oh shit. I am not a normal guyliner wearer, I promise. Just lost a bet." He swiped at his face a couple of times, managing to miss the little smudge completely. "Did I get it?"

I laughed. "Not even close. You can use the bathroom to check if you want."

"Thanks," he replied. "But I'm starved. I'll order something first."

"Okay. I'll give you a minute with the menu." I went to leave but he reached out a hand and touched my arm. His fingers were long and thin, but strong. Three had silver rings with mysterious symbols on them. I thought one might be a bird of some kind.

"Wait. Forget the menu. Tell me what's the best thing for a late night hunger."

I stared at him for a moment and thought the best thing for my late night hunger would be a long session involving the two of us on a bed in a dark room. But aloud I recommended the french toast and bacon.

"Yeah? How come?"

"Sweet and salty. Perfect for this late hour. Plus we make the bread here. Very yummy."

"Works for me. And a big glass of water, please."

I scribbled the order down and then shoved it at Darrell, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet so far. He arched an eyebrow at me and then turned to the griddle, still not saying anything.

I shrugged, poured the water and delivered it to the new guest star in all of my future sexual fantasies. "Anything else?"

"Nope. I'm good-uh, what's your name?"

"Liss."

"Nice to meet you, Liss," he said, sticking out his hand to shake. "I'm Joe."

I took his hand and he shocked me again. This time it actually kind of hurt.

"Shit, sorry. Again." He pulled back his hand and placed it on the counter. "Which way's the bathroom?"

I pointed and he smiled as he stood. "I guess our chemistry is electric, Liss."

If Darrell hadn't laughed at me I would have stood there the whole time Joe was gone with my mouth hanging open in surprise. Was he flirting? With me? Nah, impossible. He was a sexy, too cool for school type with incredible eyes and stunning good looks. I was a chubby waitress with messy hair and mustard on my apron. Definitely not flirting. Right?

By the time Joe at back down I'd thoroughly convinced myself it was ridiculous to even consider that he might be interested in me and settled back into my night-long funk. When I brought over his food he smiled and dug in. Not wanting to hover, I stood over by the register and looked at my watch every five seconds to keep from staring at him.

However, he did notice and looked kind of hurt. "Um, I am I keeping you guys open?"

"No." I laughed weakly. "We're twenty-four seven here. I was just, um, trying to figure out how long I've been up."

Joe grinned, mouth full of food, with a drop of syrup caught in the corner of his mouth. On anyone else it would be gross, but he made it work. The drop of syrup sliding down his chin helped. I wanted, with all of my heart, to lick if off for him. Oh my god, I felt terrible. Practically drooling on myself like I'd never seen a man before. But the truth was I suddenly felt like I hadn't. At least not one that mattered. Joe was art in human form and close enough to touch.

"…know what you mean. Last week I was up for like forty-five hours straight. I think I might have started hallucinating. Weird colors everywhere."

I had no idea what he was talking about, having been lost in a reverie of feeling bad for myself and my underutilized ladyparts. It's possible that my habit of referring to them as "ladyparts" was a big part of the problem. That and most of the men I met at work were either over the age of seventy, long haul truckers or really skeevy. In some cases all three at the same time. The diner served good food but considering the neighborhood the clientele wasn't exactly A-list.

Of course, neither was I. Most of the girls my age were either off in college, married with kids or working real jobs downtown. Me and my oversized thighs were stuck out here where the entrance of Joe was the most exciting thing to happen all year. Possibly for all of my life.