1
The night I killed a man, it was blistering hot outside. It felt like hell was bubbling up and drowning the grimy Kansas City streets with fire.
The air-conditioning at Dick's Diner was broken, so it smelled like body odor and breakfast. My boss was a cheap bastard who didn’t care if we were sweating our asses off. We had every window in the place open and prayed for a midnight breeze.
"This coffee tastes like shit, Juliet!" Rick, one of our regulars, shouted at me as I passed by.
My annoyance erupted into a loud huff. "You order the same shitty coffee every night, Rick. If you hate it so much, stop ordering it," I snapped back. These customers didn’t come here for the service or the shitty food. They came here because they had nowhere else to go. We were a diner poised in the hearts of those who lived, breathed, and died in this town. We were a poor man’s paradise with scratched vinyl booths and burnt food.
Rick took a sip of said shitty coffee and rolled his eyes at me. My spine was slickened with sweat, making my work uniform cling to me. I almost didn’t show up for my shift, but Grams’s meds needed refilling, and they weren’t cheap. Sinemet sure was an expensive ass drug, and the side effects were a bitch: nausea, dizziness, confusion, and hallucinations, to name a few. It often made me wonder if the treatment for Parkinson’s was worse than the disease itself.
"It’s hot as hell in here," another customer complained while fanning themselves. I grimaced. A busted AC meant pissy customers, and pissy customers meant no tips. No tips meant my trip to our local pharmacy this week would be fraught with tears, anxiety, and begging.
A sticky tiled floor held the bottoms of my stained, black tennis shoes as I clutched the carafe full of coffee. My short black skirt was riding up, and the top of my tank was stained with tomato sauce. Every muscle in my body ached from being on my feet all day. I was fairly athletic and curvy, but by the end of my shift, I was ready to get off my feet. Salty sweat kept dripping into my brown eyes, and my long brown hair was soaked. I needed a shower and a vacation.
A strong, stoic guy sat crammed in the middle booth. His muscular body was almost too big for the seat. The red vinyl he sat on was faded and ripped, a striking contradiction to his crisp Armani suit. He had a large skull tattoo on his neck, and bulging veins that pulsed. That rigid spine of his was like steel. He seemed frustrated tonight. Rogue huffs of annoyance escaped his lips every three minutes, making everyone within earshot aware of how mad he was. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had shades on his hard face, despite it being eleven o’clock at night. He wore those Gucci sunglasses like a mask.
"You sure are huffing and puffing up a storm tonight," I observed, knowing damn well he wouldn’t respond. He never responded. "Is it the AC? You know, you could take off that suit jacket you’re wearing. It’s miserably hot in here, and that added layer is probably making it worse. I’d strip naked, but it’s not that kind of place. I’d probably get better tips that way, though."
He grumbled and shifted in his seat.
"Or not," I quickly added. He watched as I poured him a cup. "How was your day?" I asked playfully. No response. I paused, pretending like he was actually speaking and not just silently willing me to leave him alone. "You don’t say?" He was like a silent wall. Nothing amused him. Nothing intrigued him. "I swear, Stranger. You sure are chatty tonight."
The man had sweeping, light brown hair, a jaw sharp as a blade, and a scabbed cut just above his brow. He looked just a bit older than me, but carried this incredible weight of experience that made him seem timeless. He was handsome, in a devious kind of way.
Dangerous and observant, he sat in the same spot in the same booth every Thursday night. Despite the terrifying familiarity, I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know who he was. I just knew that he had a job to do. His nose flared in annoyance.
He wasn’t here for the mediocre food or to breathe in the Americana air and get grease splatters on his button-up shirt, he was here to protect my best friend: Vicky.
I rarely spoke to him but was feeling bold tonight. "Enjoy your coffee," I said with a bright smile. He licked his lips and hunched over the cup like my attention made him uncomfortable. It was one of our unwritten rules: I ignored Vicky’s bodyguard, and she ignored the dark circles under my eyes.
"Are you done taunting my shadow?" Vicky asked in a brief tone. "I don’t know why you bother giving him coffee, he is such a snob. Prefers the finest Australian roast." Across the table sat my best friend. She was picking at a plate of french fries with her fork and had a blank expression on her face. She wore all black. She had a black choker necklace with a single diamond in the middle on her long, slender neck. Flared black jeans ripped at the knees. A black T-shirt. Black eyeliner. And a black watch wrapped around her wrist. Her pale blond hair was tied up in a classic bun—with a black elastic band, of course—and her glossy lips were pressed into a thin line.
I couldn’t imagine my silent stranger being a coffee snob, but now that I thought of it, he never did touch the food or coffee I put in front of him.
"I’m just trying to stay awake. I’m dead on my feet tonight," I replied with a lengthy sigh. I needed a full night’s sleep and some hard-core self-care. Maybe even a self-induced orgasm or two.
It was my best friend's nature to be arrogant and destructive. Her nails were always perfectly manicured, and her porcelain skin never was marked up from work. The makeup on her eyes was always smeared, as if she put it on in the morning with the intention of feeling fierce but had cried it off by midday. Tonight, she looked tired and bored. I was supposed to get off work an hour ago so we could chat, but Candy, one of the other waitresses here, had to go home early to take care of her sick kid. I was covering her shift until midnight.
"You know you don't have to stay here," I said in a low voice. It was embarrassing that my extravagant friend had to meet me at this dump once a week. "I'm sorry I have to work later. I tried to text you, but—"
Vicky rolled her eyes and stole her silent companion’s untouched mug of coffee. "I don't mind waiting here. It's better than going home," she replied in a soft, faraway voice. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her what was wrong, but I swallowed my concern and let it boil in the acid of my stomach. There were three rules for being best friends with a Mafia princess.
1. Don't ask any personal questions.
2. Don't show up at her house unannounced.
3. Don't ever, ever let anyone know you're friends.
"I get off at midnight. I need to get home and check on Grams, so I probably won't be able to talk for too long."
Vicky waved her hand. "It’s okay. I’m used to watching you work your cute little butt off all hours of the night in this poor excuse of a diner. It’s painfully normal, and I love it. Shut up and go give that creeper in the corner some coffee before he stabs you in the parking lot. Actually, that might be kind of cool. You could feature him on your podcast." She nodded in the direction of the man she mentioned, and I followed her gaze. He had a seventies mustache and wore a stained shirt.
"I could interview him mid stab," I replied while wagging my eyebrows. "Brilliant." Not a lot of people got our dark humor, but then again, not a lot of people grew up surrounded by death and danger.