Under my scrutiny, she fidgets and tightens her smile. “Can I get you started with a drink, appetizer, or do you already know what you want?”
“Water and the turkey club. No fries.” I hand her the menu and she leaves.
While waiting for my food, I stew with what to do. It isn’t like I can stride into the employee room and carry Morgan out of here. Her boss and owner of the Lounge, Hugh ‘Shug’ McIntosh, arrives soon after and I watch Lorna and Todd share an anxious look. Morgan must still be out.
Lorna returns with my meal. “Here you go. Can I get you anything else?”
“The last time I was here, an auburn-haired woman served me…I can’t remember her name. I want to say it starts with an M—”
“That would be Morgan.” She bites at the corner of her mouth, partially turning from the table and clearly signaling she doesn’t want to talk about her friend.
“Yeah, that’s it. Is Morgan here tonight?”
“Um, she might be in later. Enjoy your meal.” The server practically runs from the table.
I pick up the sandwich and on the table, my phone vibrates with an incoming call from Hazel. A call? Strange, she usually texts. I put in my earbuds and answer.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why’d you ask that?” The tight, higher pitch to her voice tells me she’s on edge. Great. When isn’t she?
“You called, but you usually text.” I bite into the club sandwich and enjoy the multitude of smoky, savory flavors.
“I do too call…sometimes.” She’s defensive. Again, this is normal for her. The poor woman’s tightly wound, and given what she’s lived through, it’s understandable. “I just felt like calling. What’s wrong with that?”
I mumble, “Nothing,” around another mouthful of food.
A flash of auburn hair by the bar kicks up my heart rate.
Morgan.
Then she’s gone.
“Where are you? It sounds noisy. Is that music, and are you eating? With someone?” And there you have it. Hazel’s cutting, intrusive questions explain why I prefer being alone.
Despite wanting to help people, they always want more, and I have only so much to give before I’m overwhelmed and shut down. Hazel isn’t any different. Her need is endless.
“You still there?” Her insistent tone severs my thoughts.
“Yeah. I’m grabbing a bite. On a job.”
The Lounge is busier as the dinner and nighttime crowd comes in, and her response is low and hard to hear with the music and laughter around me. “Oh, Zero, you’ve done so much to help people and I hate that there’s no end in sight.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s true and she’s a case in point. I helped her, set her up to stand on her own two feet and yet, she still wants more. And I can’t.
I’m all too familiar with what she’s been through, and even with therapy, she wants more. I’ve thought about cutting ties, but… Abandoning her would only set her back, or worse, destroy her.
No.
Abandonment isn’t the answer. That’s another kind of cruelty, and I won’t inflict that on her.
“Speaking of your job, have you made up your mind yet?” she asks.
I dump what’s left of the sandwich on the plate and push it away. Hazel’s one of only a handful of people I’d call a friend…well, that’s a bit much. More like an acquaintance, a nosy one. And sometimes, she can be a pest, kind of like now.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I rest my head against the cushion of the booth and grunt into the phone, regretting that I told her about having to choose between HC and the FBI.
“I was thinking, if you’re still undecided, you should break things down into pros and cons.”
I survey the growing throng of people, hoping to spy Morgan, but nothing. Only that one glimpse and it probably wasn’t even her. Depending on how many pills she took, she might still be out.
“And my question to you is…” She babbles on, oblivious to my disinterest. “Are you sure you want to work with either of them? You’re better off on your own, you know. If you work for HC or the Feds, you’ll no longer be your own boss.”
Bam. The lady has hit the target on the first try.
While either job affords me the opportunity to continue to bring down predators with the added bonus of more resources and a team at my disposal, there’s a catch.
A big one, and it’s the one thing that keeps tripping me up—someone else gets to make the decisions.
Griffin’s assured me I’ll call the shots and run all technology intelligence aspects of HC’s Human Trafficking division, but I’m skeptical. I’ve learned through trial and error that people tell you one thing, what they think you want to hear, and the reality is another. Isn’t that how life goes?
Hazel softens her voice. “Are you still there?”
“We aren’t talking about this.”
Off in the distance, Morgan sidles up to the bar and chats to the bartender, more with it than when I last saw her. But she looks tired, worn out.
“I’m only trying to help.”
Is she though? While Hazel prattles on, at the bar, Morgan loads drinks onto the tray.
Once again, her voice slices into my musings. “You should really rethink this. You’re best as your own boss.”
I wait for her to say how I don’t play nice with others, but she doesn’t, and as the seconds tick by, her words sink in. I’m here playing detective or stalker because I haven’t figured out my next move. I’m not ready to give up control and the freedom to call the shots because… Because what?
Bullshit.
I sound like both a psychiatrist and the fucking patient.
The truth is I can’t get Morgan Rothwell out of my head. Not after hearing her pleas for help, not after looking into her past, not after realizing she’s set on destroying her life.
Unfortunately, I know far too much about survivor’s guilt, and if I can help Morgan in any way, I have to try, and if it takes my mind off the crap job decision I’m faced with, even better.
Morgan saunters across the room, holding a tray loaded with drinks, and I can’t look away. She stops at a table full of young guys and though I’m way too far to hear anything said, it’s plain to see the men are flirting, each of them vying for her attention.
“Hazel.” My terse tone stops her chattering midsentence. “Gotta go.”
5
MORGAN
Head pounding, body heavy and slow, I move through my shift as if stuck in a vat of molasses. Normally, I enjoy my time at the Emerald Lounge, and the “work” comes naturally. I like to socialize, and the hours go by faster if there’s great music to go with the conversation.
But not tonight.
Tonight is a tough slog. I shouldn’t have taken the Xanax before my shift. A dumb move though I had cause. The stranger at the shooting range pops into my head. Again. He was the reason I needed a chill pill.
The man had me jittery with both my worst fear and greatest anticipation. Was Randy finally making his move? Not directly but through a random guy who I’d never see coming.