The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (8 page)

I laugh at that, and Jen manages to join me.
 

“So Carla went home where she should have been to begin with. Big shock.”

“Who’s the second?”
 

“Abigail.”
 

“Where’s she? Oh, wait. It’s Saturday.”
 

Jen nods. “She’s at the Overlook again. Or … wait. Maybe they’re starting their tour? I don’t know.”
 

I scoff. If Ed had a brain, which he clearly doesn’t based on how frequently he violates sexual harassment laws, he’d have known that Abigail’s time here was at its end weeks ago. Ever since she hooked up with Gavin — and good for her; we can’t
all
be jilted forever — his band’s plans have added to her prospects, which had already improved the moment Danny Ross started giving her weekend shifts at the club. She hasn’t been available on Friday and Saturday nights in forever, and soon she’ll quit entirely. The idea that Ed would have booked her tonight proves that he’s oblivious or sloppy. Likely both.
 

“Can nobody else come in?”

“Nobody that Ed can get ahold of.”
 

“I wonder if I should call someone.” All the servers dodge Ed’s calls. The advent of caller ID and cell phones was death for someone whose calls are never wanted, like my boss. But I dismiss my offer as soon as I make it because I won’t be that person. I won’t be the girl who asks a friend to give up her Saturday night so she can spend it here, getting yelled at.
 

I’m already dismissing the idea, but Jen clearly didn’t take it seriously to begin with. She doesn’t even acknowledge what I said and instead perks an ear toward the front, where we can hear Ed remonstrating.
 

“I have to get back out there,” Jen says. “But I have a favor to ask.”
 

“How many tables do you want me to take?”
 

“Any two, if you could?” Jen is cute when timid. I might as well. I’m decent at my job no matter what Roxanne feels, and Roxanne’s ego will have made her take more than her share of tables anyway. I’d be left with an elevated but not insurmountable load, so I can handle two more if it’ll make Jen’s life less miserable. And besides, I thrive on activity. Anything to keep my mind off what it shouldn’t be considering.
 

Like escaping into bad habits.
 

Like the text I got back about Brownies, which reported that Mac can
absolutely
join, for sure, and they’d be
delighted
to have her — but I know deep down there’s no way I can make the schedules work.
 

Like Chadd, who I both hope and don’t hope will call again.
 

And like Mackenzie, when I left her. She asked about her father again — twice in one day, probably because of all the mother-daughter bonding we did, and a misperception that I’m open to talk about anything. She asked about Brownies, but I diverted to school, to her friends, to her clubs, to how she has plenty of companionship there, in preparation for my needing to drop the bomb later. She got this strange look on her face. One I’ve never seen, at least where school is concerned.
 

The busier I am, the less I have to think about any of it.
 

I head out. Roxanne gives me a snippy remark about how it took me long enough to arrive, but tonight I feel like slapping her perfect face or knocking her perky little tits out of alignment. She has pull with Ed, but he won’t be able to book Carla for weeks and is about to lose Abigail to her boyfriend’s band. His hands are plenty tied. If he threatens me, I’ll threaten back. If I walk, Ed is fucked … and not in the way he seems so pathetically determined to be when he says and does the inappropriate things that pass for normal around here.
 

I feel uncharacteristically bold.
 

Fuck Roxanne.
 

Fuck Ed.
 

Ed could have a whole pile of problems tomorrow. He’s already facing a workplace injury with Carla, but now, if Carla is litigious (she’s not), she could probably sue him for tonight’s stupidity. He’s grabbed my ass more times than I can count. Just let him try something.
 

I take my tables from Roxanne, then re-mark two of Jen’s, on the chart, for myself. I sneak over and tell Jen which two I’m co-opting then get to work. And for a while, I’m unstoppable.
 

Until I start talking to Clinton Deane — the tall, rugged drink of water who owns Stuffy’s Bar and is sitting in my section. Clinton is exactly my type, and I’m sure I’d flirt with him more if I didn’t know how intensely devoted he is to his wife. Insultingly, his loyalty turns me on more, and for a long time I couldn’t talk to Clinton when he came in. But most times, he eats with said wife, and I see how happy they seem, and that helps. Because I think of how they could be me and someone I love, in another life, in another place, in another time when things were different.
 

“Maaaya,”
he says, dragging my name out into something close to a drawl as I approach. I don’t know where Clinton is originally from, but his slight accent makes everything he says a whole lot sexier. The things Clinton says and does would be stupid coming from most people, but they fit him like a Texan’s hat.
 

“Hi, Clinton.” I nod at the pretty woman across from him. “Hi, Taylor.”
 

“So,” he says, doing something with his chiseled, stubbled face that reminds me of chewing on straw, “who do I lodge my complaint with?”
 

Clinton comes in here often enough that I can play with him — asexually, of course, though he never fails to rev my motor.
 

“For the bloodbath earlier?”
 

“Naw,” he says. “For the fact I’m gonna have to have a shit dumpster for a few days on account of you.”
 

That might be the oddest thing anyone has ever accused me of. My forever-present lust evaporates, and now Clinton is a man who’s said something I don’t get. His expression bothers me. Looking over at Taylor, I see that this is a shared joke. On me.
 

I look from Clinton to Taylor. Taylor to Clinton.
 

“’Cause of the dickhead coming home to tend his uncle’s final affairs and clear out that ass house of his on Celebratory Court. Guess he needs the big bin more than Stuffy’s does.”

“What are you talking about?” I came to take their drink order, but I’ve already forgotten the pad and pen in my hands.
 

“She doesn’t know,” Taylor says.
 

“’Course she knows.” But then Clinton looks right at me, and something softens in his charming blue eyes. He’s a lovable loudmouth, and part of going to Stuffy’s is understanding that Clinton is going to shout ostentatious hellos to everyone as they enter, that he’s going to drink with those who can hold their liquor and sometimes fight with those who can’t. But right now, I can see that he feels he’s put his foot in that big mouth of his. He’s spoken out of turn, assuming I was in on whatever this is, but now sees that he’d blown it.
 

“What don’t I know?”
 

“Aw, I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I guess he’s meaning to surprise you. I figured you’d know, or I wouldn’t’a said anything.”
 

Something about that makes my heart beat double. I look at Taylor, all thoughts of serving forgotten.
 

“Who’s going to surprise me?”
 

“Just a rumor, Sweetie,” Taylor says, giving me a little head tilt that apologizes for the town, how it gossips, how it is with information that’s none of its business. “But after Ernie Harglow died last week, we figured you’d … ”
 

She trails off.
Ernie Harglow.
Why do I know that name?
 

Then it hits me because few people know many Ernies, outside of Bert’s roommate.
 

“What did you hear?” I ask. “Is … ”
 

“Well, old Ernie didn’t really have nobody to come back and clear out for him,” Clinton says, now almost timid, “’cept for your old guy, Grady.”
 

CHAPTER 9

And of course, Chadd shows up again.
 

I manage to competently juggle my tables, I think, after hearing a bombshell like the one dropped on me by the Deanes. The diner’s a mess, and to my delight, Roxanne seems to have acquired a table of jerks who are immune to both her death stare and her feminine wiles. Usually, intimidation and sex appeal blend to give Roxanne superpowers over anyone, but I’m seeing none of it today. She seems pissed, and for once it’s not at me.
 

I go about my job, trying to keep Grady from my mind. I honestly don’t know how I feel. Part of me is excited, for sure, but the larger part of me, wielding dignity as a weapon, finds that part weak and pathetic. Most of me is angry, jilted, annoyed, enraged, righteous, indignant. All Grady did to me, in the end, was rub salt in my wounds. When I needed him most, he decided to be selfish, so he ran without looking back. It doesn’t even matter that my parents, when they find out, will likely forgive him. Because
that’s
logical. Because hey, doesn’t the Bible teach forgiveness? Something they never had to give me until I got knocked up, because their first-strike weapon — guilt — was so effective in keeping me in a farce of chains.
 

But then I see the stunningly sexy, grinning form of Chadd at one of my tables. Not even holding up a menu. Just looking at me, as if we have an understanding. As if he realizes how I’ve been thinking about him all day, part of me regretting deleting his message and losing his number. As if he thinks my sadness and guilt and fear and insecurity are truly lust and desire, which is how they come out around men like Chadd. As if he doesn’t know that tempting me when I’m weakest is like offering an alcoholic a bottle to soothe her pains.
 

Like a coward, I trade.
 

Jen takes Chadd. She doesn’t ask why. I like Jen a lot, and suspect that she gets me on a level I’m afraid to admit. Maybe Jen is like me, with a wild side that she keeps obsessively hidden, like I do. If this town had a prize for most responsible, most chaste, most go-out-of-her-way-helpful good mother award, I’d win it. In a way, everyone’s expectations make me feel worse about who I truly am. Because someone like that shouldn’t ever scream with lust. A girl as reserved and charitable and aboveboard as I seem to be should never be down on her knees, even for her husband, with a man’s cock in her mouth.
 

But Jen, without saying or implying a thing, seems to understand. She takes one look at Chadd and another at me then simply agrees. And when I breathe a too-relieved “Thank you,” she doesn’t even ask why it means so much to me.
One handsome man. One waitress who’s booked to serve him.
It shouldn’t be a daunting scenario, but Jen just accepts it.
 

I focus on my other tables. I start to sweat, feeling like a pig. I’m wearing my skirt uniform because the slacks were dirty, and at some point God decides it would be hilarious to have the back stick to my skin too high up, leaving half of my ass hanging out. Ed brushes past me, and I’m made aware of my wardrobe malfunction when his hand brushes me. It sickens me because even though the top half of my mind knows this is just Ed being lecherous, I’m wired enough that my base half imagines the hand as Chadd’s, going where it doesn’t belong. Where I crave it.

I try to focus on Mackenzie. On doing the right thing.
 

But then I make a mistake. I’ve been steering clear of Chadd in ways that are downright ridiculous, going through the kitchen to hit the back tables instead of walking by him. Avoiding any glances in that direction. But by ten o’clock I’m frazzled enough to slip. And Chadd is waiting.
 

He looks at me. I meet his dead-sexy eyes. All of my triggers are already sprung. There is no safe haven in my thoughts because all roads lead to something that’s troubling me, and I always seek comfort when bothered. I escape from my problems. And as far as this alcoholic is concerned, I’ve been running through a bar all night, smelling whiskey with every shaking breath.
 

I have nothing left when I see him. No reserves. No restraint. No self-control. Everything defaults to something base within me, and despite all the trouble, I feel nothing but throbbing. I can’t take the trouble, but I can take the immediate, pressing sensation of lust.
 

“Hey,” Chadd says.

And that’s all it takes.
 

CHAPTER 10

I’m transparent. I can’t even hide what’s filling me. I can feel the diner’s fans somehow wicking up under my dress, creating imperceptible movements in the plain cotton bottom hem of my panties. My skin feels flushed; I’m sure my hair, at the hairline, is sticking to my scalp. I want to run to a mirror to see what kind of a wide-eyed travesty I’ve become, but I’m finding it hard to move. And Chadd, for his part, seems not to care if I look amiss.
 

Possibly, I don’t look amiss at all.
 

Possibly, I look like an animal in heat.