“Who do we have here?” A happy looking gray-haired man with a beer belly asks as we approach the shiny red truck.
“This is…” Shell begins, and glances at me, a question in her expression.
“Amy,” I say, clinging to the name that is the only thing I’ve managed to keep for six years.
“I’m Roy, Amy. You know how many truckers it takes to pump gas into a rig?”
“Ah…no. How many?”
“None. We make our wives do it.”
Laughter bubbles from my throat and Shell snorts. “He doesn’t make me do anything, honey.”
Ten minutes later I’m at the window seat of the rig with Shell between me and Roy, and my laughter has taken a nosedive. Roy pauses at the exit to check the road and my chest is suddenly killing me, a crushing sensation pressing against it like the big rig I’m riding in is rolling over me instead of the hot pavement.
We pull onto the access road and while I felt regret leaving New York, I feel none over leaving Denver. But there is plenty over leaving Liam. I still want my Godzilla slayer, which is exactly why distance between him and me is good. I don’t know who I’m running from or if I’m wanted dead or alive. I simply know I have enemies and that it’s time I find out why. I will do that by being my own hero and the hero that honors my family the way they deserve to be honored.
Chapter Two
Silver City, New Mexico
Population 15,000
“Where the hell is Amy?”
I rush through the back door off the kitchen of ‘The Dive’ just in time to hear the grumpy question asked by our bald, often cranky, cook. “I’m here,” I reply quickly, hanging my black backpack on the rack on the wall just inside the kitchen. “Ready for my shift.”
“You’re late,” George grumbles.
Grabbing the clip on the outside of my bag, I tangle my long blonde hair into a knot at the back of my head and glance at the clock that tells me I’m actually two minutes early despite a flashback that had brought me to my knees. But I don’t argue, just like I haven’t done anything else to bring attention to myself these past eight weeks. “Sorry,” I offer, and Katy, the bottle-blonde waitress whose been here three years to my two weeks, casts me a friendly, sympathetic look.
Somehow, I force a small smile before cutting my gaze and grabbing an apron to tie around the waist of my pink uniform dress that all the waitresses here pair with laced white tennis shoes. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Katy’s concern. I do, and I like her quite a lot considering I’ve only been here such a short time, but I have no idea if we have anything but this place in common. Nor will I find out. I’m here another week, tops, and then I’ll find a trucker who feels safe, and who stops off the highway, and I’m out of here. It’s my only option until I have enough money and a good enough, well-researched plan that allows me to return to Texas without ending up dead like my family.
George flips a burger on the massive grill in the middle of the kitchen. “If you two are ready to work, then go give the dinner crowd some holiday fucking cheer. We have turkey and dressing on the menu until Thanksgiving.”
“It’s Halloween,” I say before I can stop myself, not ready for the holiday. Not this year. Not for the past six years.
“Close enough to a holiday for turkey,” George grumbles. “I got it at a bargain, so go push it to customers. Now get to work. This ain’t no Halloween party time for you.”
“Who needs costumes and parties?” Katy quips. “We have a monster in the kitchen every night.”
“I’ll show you a monster if I have turkey left over.” George adds a glower to what seems to be his typical grumble.
Katy waves him off and rushes toward me. “The drunks in the dining room are nicer than him,” she assures me as we exit the kitchen behind the long counter where customers can choose to sit rather than at one of the red booths or simple diner-style tables.
“I hope you’re right on that one,” I say, stopping just outside the kitchen, the scents of french fries and bacon mixing like sour eggs. Suddenly my stomach clenches, then rolls.
“Me too,” Katy laughs, turning to face me. “But you’ll get used to him, I promise.” Her brows dip and she frowns. “You okay?”
“I took a vitamin on an empty stomach when I know better,” I say, and as much as I hate the lies that are my life, this one comes easily. The two waitresses on duty head toward us to hand off their duties, and I barely register the exchanges that follow. My mind is in another place, back in Liam’s hotel room when we’d had angry, passionate, unprotected sex. You’re not pregnant. Eight weeks, three cities, one period, and one negative test says I’m not. But my period was barely there, spotty at best.
When I finally head toward my first table, any comfort I’ve talked myself into ends when another whiff of bacon hits me and my stomach knots. Not pregnant, I repeat in my head. I’m not. It’s impossible. Right? Just like the reality of me being in a roadside diner on the run isn’t possible and yet it’s happening. That’s enough to make me decide I’ll go take a test at my dinner break. Until then, I hope for a busy crowd to keep my mind off of the moment I look for that little pink line.
Almost four hours later, I head toward the window behind the counter area that is open to the kitchen to pick up my last order before my break. Thankfully, whatever had affected my stomach is long past, but I still want to take a test to put my mind at ease. Most likely, my lack of sleep, worry, and the incessant flashbacks I can’t control without the acupuncture that travel and my budget do not allow, have made me this way. But I’ll fix that. I’m working on a plan that lets me get settled in Texas, pull myself together, and be on top of my game when I address the past.
“I think every drunk this town has come here tonight,” Katy complains, joining me to wait for her next ticket to come up. “I’ve been groped and hit on all night and that was just the women.”
“Right there with you on that one,” I say, and for some reason I feel the need to promise myself this job, this life, is not my forever. It’s just a means to an end. It’s smart. It’s me staying off the radar and building resources.
Katy pats her apron pocket. “At least the tips have been good.”
“Oh yes,” I agree. “I’m close to my best night ever. And I can use every dime I earn.”
“Can’t we all.” Her gaze flickers over my shoulder and her lips quirk. “And honey, I have a feeling your tips are about to get better. A guy who looks real expensive and good enough to lick asked to be seated in your section as I was headed over here, and sorry, no offense, but I tried to get him for me.” She glances down at her ample cleavage. “The girls failed me. I guess he likes them au naturel.”
I go still at her words, and a familiar, too often repeated, memory of me telling Liam I want to lick his tattoo flashes through my mind. He is not here. It can’t be him. It just...can’t. But isn’t that what I said when he’d shown up at the airport? “Can’t” isn’t a word Liam likes. Can’t never applies to him.
“Order up,” George shouts and shoves two plates inside the pass-through window.
Staring at the plates, I will myself not to overreact. Not to create a Godzilla that doesn’t exist when I have plenty of problems before me that do. Liam is not here. I’ve moved around and paid cash for everything. I’ve found small diners to work for that accept my pitiful little girl with a lost wallet excuse during the paperwork. I promise to replace my ID right away and then write down random socials. Even the phone calls I’ve made to Texas to research my past were done on disposable phones that I ordered with Texas numbers and a pre-paid gift card. I’ve been smart. I am not traceable.