The REASON Series - the Complete Collection (2 page)

But I don’t want to dwell on it anymore; I know I'll just end up in a crying heap on the floor. I take a deep breath and stand. Tying my apron around my waist, I stuff my hoodie and bag into the locker and head back out to the dining room, grabbing my timecard along the way and punching into the ancient time clock. It's four in the afternoon. I can already tell it's going to be a long night.
 

When I step back out into the diner, I’m greeted by the classic fifties diner décor in black, white, chrome and red. It no doubt looked great at one time, I suppose. Red faux leather booth benches, white tables with chrome trim that now sport a weathered, well-used look. On top of every table, jukeboxes and bottles of ketchup and mustard sit alongside sugar packets and napkins in old-school metal holders. The black and white checkers on the floor continue up the side of the counter that separates the dining room from the kitchen. The countertop itself is white with cherry red trim.

"Viv, there's a gentleman in the corner that just came in. Would you mind?" Laura says as soon as I clear the swinging door. I'm pretty sure Laura makes a point of giving me as many tables as she can because she knows I need the money. It's either that or laziness. Either way works fine for me; I'll take what I can get.

"Sure." I reach for a menu and head over toward the far side of the diner.
 

As I approach table twelve, I realize that its sole occupant is wearing a rather expensive-looking suit and tie. Having come from trailer parks in the middle of Podunk Nowhere, Everywhere, my idea of an expensive suit is something you’d find at JCPenney. But this...this looks to be more than that.
 

"Good afternoon," I say, my southern accent echoing through the diner. You usually can’t hear the accent, but it seems to come out when I'm trying to be friendly. I set the menu down in front of him.
 

"Thank you." His voice is deep, raspy. A bit of an accent rolling off his tongue. He grabs the menu and opens it. I cringe internally when I notice something stuck to the front cover. Ugh, that's so disgusting.
 

I shake off my mortification at the dirty menu and tell him, "Today's special is roasted turkey, mashed 'tatoes, gravy, with a side of veg’table medley."
 

I see him shake his head. "Would you eat that?" His question throws me off guard and I scowl at him. Right now I'm so hungry I'd eat a cow. Raw.
 

"Of course," I say softly. He is quick to catch the reverence in my voice about the mention of food. His head snaps up, hard, and he looks straight at me. His eyes are a deep blue-green. Ocean-like. Piercing straight into me. His gaze has me feeling like all my secrets are pouring from my body. It's unnerving and I try to tear my eyes away, but it’s like he’s got me under a spell. After a few heartbeats he releases me from his stare.
 

"So the special is not your favorite thing on the menu. What would you eat?" he asks, his voice rasping again. I still can't place the accent, but it's definitely not American. Irish maybe.

"The barbecue bacon burger is really good. With fries." I lean in a little and whisper slightly, so I'm not overheard by Radar-Ears Laura. "Avoid the slaw," I advise him. Having lived in Georgia a good portion of my life, I can say with authority that this slop Bartie calls coleslaw is a travesty. He nods in response and I find it hard to pull away. His scent has registered on me and I'm immediately drawn to him even more. It’s warm, clean. He smells of leather and a delicious cologne. Committing the scent to memory, I back away. "You want a few minutes?" I ask.

"No," he says, sharply, and with a strong sense of authority. "I'll have the barbecue bacon burger, no slaw." I smile. "Fries, a Coke, and a side of mayonnaise."
 

I write down his order, though I don't need to. It's committed to memory, but my ass-hat of a boss has this thing about proof. He seems to think everyone is stealing from him. "Anything else?"

"No." That authority is back in his voice. It's strange: His tone isn’t threatening or demanding, it just projects a sense of confidence and maybe even a little cockiness. Nonetheless, something tells me that this man knows what he wants and is not to be messed with.
 

"Okay, darlin’, I'll be back with your Coke," I say and turn toward the counter. As I walk back, I can feel his piercing eyes on me. I’m tempted to turn around just to show him I’m not one to be intimidated by a stare-down, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, he might get the wrong impression and think I’m flirting with him. Friendly maybe, but nothing more than that; I’m in no position to be flirting with someone intentionally.

"You were over there a long time," Laura says to me as I reach for a glass.
 

"He was having a hard time deciding what he wanted to eat," I say back, trying really hard to not be rude.
 

"Oh reeeaaallyyy..." she says, dragging out the last word.
 

I look up at her, shocked by her reaction. "What?" I say.
 

"You mean to tell me you weren't checking him out while you were over there?" I just shake my head and go back to filling the glass with ice and Coke. "Well he was sure checking you out."

"What's your point, Laura?" I say, and she glares at my tone.
 

"My point, Vivienne, is that he was checking you out and you flat-out ignored him. He's gorgeous. What is your problem?"

My eyes prickle with tears. My problem is that I'm broken and damaged and I don't need some deranged man to lust after right now. "I have a lot on my mind," I say out loud. Laura is insanely nice and sweet and — lest we forget — motherly. She doesn't need to know all the gory details.
 

"You always have a lot on your mind. You’re twenty-two years old, what more can be on your mind than going out with friends and having a good time?"

Oh, if you only knew.
"You know that's not who I am," I say as I turn back toward Mr. Suit. I look up in his direction. He most certainly is watching me, his eyes a bright light in his otherwise dark features.
 

I finally take a moment to really look at him. He looks to be not much older than me, actually. Maybe twenty-five or twenty-six? His hair is black, slicked back except for a stray strand falling into his eyes. His jaw is hard and sharp, leading into a very strong, square chin. His lips are a soft pink, full, and he has deep-set, bright blue eyes. There’s an intensity to his gaze that has me so transfixed I nearly trip over my own feet as I make my way back to his table.
 

Damn it, Vivienne, get your head out of your ass
, I scold myself as I approach his table. Tripping over my own feet and spilling Coke all down this guy’s front is just the kind of thing that would get me fired, and I can't afford to lose this job.

"Can I get you anything else right now?"
 

"No, I'm good, thanks," he says, his eyes still boring into me with that intense stare.
 

Luckily for me we get busy, and aside from bringing him his food and his check I manage to pretty much ignore him for the rest of his meal. Which is why it surprises me when I go to clear the table and find a thirty percent tip.

TWO

No sooner do I set foot in the diner the next day for another shift than Mr. Suit from the night before shows up again. Our food is not that good. I can't imagine what on earth is bringing him back here again.
 

Laura takes to seating him, and I, of course, get left with the table. Tonight he asks me how I am, and we converse a little bit. Nothing too exciting. He orders the same thing as last night, and again I don't get to spend much time with him because we get busy.
 

He pays his tab, gives me another thirty percent tip and leaves.
 

Finally Thursday rolls around and I'm beyond exhausted. I've worked every day since Sunday. But I do what I need to in order to survive. I make squat for an hourly wage, and I lose a lot of money when it comes to tips paid with credit or debit cards because they're taxed through my meager paycheck. But luckily most of our customers pay cash, and I usually manage to walk out with about fifty dollars a week.

I find myself slightly disappointed when I'm in the diner for more than an hour and Mr. Suit from the last two nights hasn't shown up yet. Then I beat myself up for actually hoping he would come by again.
 

I head off to the back to grab some more silverware for the wrapping Laura and I are working on, and when I come back, I nearly drop the tub all over the floor.

Sitting at table twelve is none other than Mr. Suit himself. Looking as dashing as ever tonight in another suit and tie. If this man can afford to dress like that, why on earth does he eat here?
 

I look to Laura, who nods encouragingly, and I head on over to the table. Ironically enough, he has the same menu from the other night, the one I’d forgotten to clean. Obviously no one else has cleaned it, either.
 

"Hi there. How are you tonight?"

"Great, thanks. I'll have the same - if you remember." He smiles.
 

"Barbecue bacon burger, fries and a Coke?"

He smiles again. "You got it."

"I'll be right back."

After what seems like an eternity, I finally make it back to his table. The dirty menu is staring me in the face once again. "Here you go," I say, setting down his glass and pulling a straw from my apron. I reach for the menu, determined to go and clean it off. I realize as I reach out that my hand is shaking. This fact does not go unnoticed by Mr. Suit. He tries to reach for my hand. I pull it back quickly, clutching the menu.

"Do I make you nervous?" he asks in his usual stern voice. I shake my head. "You're shaking like a leaf." I look quickly at his face. His jaw is set into a hard line, his lips pursed. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

"This morning," I say quickly. It's true: I ate a hot dog for breakfast this morning. Cold, straight from the refrigerator.
 

"You should eat something," he says, attempting to soften his tone.
 

"Thank you, sir." I watch his nostrils flare. "However, I assure you, I'm fine."

"It's not you I'm worried about," he says, staring coldly at me.
 

"Excuse me?" There's no way. How could he possibly know?
 

"Forget it. I shouldn't have intruded."

I try to gather my thoughts. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Yes," he says. His eyes rake up and down my body from head to toe. Rest assured, he's not seeing anything worth looking at twice. I wait patiently for him to go on, but nothing comes.

"What would that be?"
 

"A duplicate of what I just ordered. For yourself."

I shake my head. "It's not allowed."

"And you need to eat," he all but growls at me.
 

"I appreciate your concern, but I can
not
afford to lose my job. So, thank you for your offer, however, I respectfully decline. Now if there is nothing else I can get
you
," I say, adding emphasis, "I will be back in just a few minutes with your food."
 

I turn quickly before he can trap me again with his stare. The look on his face is hard, unyielding. Something tells me that he’s going to find a way for me to lose this argument.
 

When I return to the counter, Laura starts in with the Spanish Inquisition about my conversation with Mr. Suit.
 

"He saw my hand shake when I picked up his menu. Then tried to order a burger for me to eat."
 

"When was the last time you ate?" she asks.
 

"Jeez, stop. This morning, alright?"
 

"No, Viv, it's not alright. You need to eat, you’re nothing but skin and bones."

I roll my eyes at her and turn to grab the washrag so that I can clean this stupid menu. "One meal won’t solve that problem," I mutter bitterly.
 

"So let him buy you a meal," she says. I shake my head stubbornly. "I won’t tell Bart."
 

"No, Laura. You know damn well he will find out, and when he does he will think I conned a nice customer into buying me food. It's not worth losing my job over."

"You say that as though your life means nothing," she says dryly.
 

I shrug. Lately I'm not sure how much I care about myself or my life.

"Damn it, Vivienne, what the heck is wrong with you?"

I just shake my head. "Stop. Please, Laura. I get it. I'll try and eat."

She just shakes her head and goes about her business. Antonio hits the bell on the pass-through, telling me that Mr. Suit’s food is ready. I go grab a tray, wipe it off with the rag and put the plates on it, hoping and praying I don't get caught in his stare, trip and fall on my face and make an ass of myself on the way back to his table.
 

I make my way there, feeling a little more confident because I haven't actually looked at him. I quickly place his burger and fries on the table, followed by the bowl of mayonnaise. "Anything else?" I ask, not looking at him.
 

"Will you join me?"

"I..." I shake my head. "I can't."

Suddenly I feel a hand at my back, causing me to jump slightly, and Laura comes into my peripheral vision. "Is everything alright?" she says quietly and quickly.
 

"I asked her to join me," Mr. Suit says to Laura. Fantastic.

"Oh, what a fabulous idea. Vivienne, why don't you take a break," she says, more as an order than as a request.
 

"I just started. I don’t–"
 

She cuts me off. "You're fine. Have a seat. No one else in here anyway," she says and walks away.
 

I look toward the man in the booth. He has a smirk of satisfaction on his face. "Now you have no excuse. Take a seat."