As she comes full circle, Gary, mouth full of pancake, gulps his coffee, gives her a nod, and holds out the cup. Gary doesn’t drink coffee.
For the umpteenth time in the last hour and twenty minutes, I ladle out a measuring cup full of scrambled egg mixture from a metal container sitting by the grill, listen to the sizzle, and slide six slices of bread into the toaster. I study the woman working the breakfast crowd with more experience than she should have, if I’m correct about her age. Her looks tell me late teens, no older than twenty-one. Her demeanor, conversations with my customers, and the skill with which she uses her body to incite the reactions she needs from both the men and women, tell me to add another five years. That may be because I would like to drag her all the way out of puberty and a hell of a lot closer to my age, thirty-one.
One minute she smells sweet, ripe, all coconut oil and youth, and then I catch that special scent, the one that’s deep, dark, and cold. I’ve been rolling it around on my tongue all day, but can’t place it.
I can smell it now as she packages a slice of apple pie for a customer standing in front of the register to pay. It reminds me of a smell from my childhood; the basement of one of my high school neighbors. His father owned a crematory furnace. That one second when the body is quickly inserted into the retort and the heat ripens it before the door closes and takes the scent to the bitterness of ashes.
When she’s not close, I wonder why she’s still here. Why I allowed her to be here. Why I don’t want her to leave. When she’s close, all I can think about is devouring her.
***
Two hours later, I’m once again contemplating the young woman filling salt shakers and chatting with the two remaining customers and realize it’s been several hours since CeCe walked into my establishment and stirred the beast in me. I can’t shake the feeling this is going to be a day I will live to relish—and regret. Something is not right with this chick. But then, something is not right with me, either.
Chapter 3
CeCe
“Who are you?” Gaire asks me as he flips the open sign on the door to closed. “And how old are you?”
“Aren’t your customers going to wonder what happened to you?” I flash him a smile. “It’s not even noon.”
Gaire raises a brow. “I’m only open for breakfast. Don’t avoid my question. Who are you?”
“It’s such an open ended question. Obviously I’m a woman, and someone’s daughter, sister—I have a few friends—but I’m definitely not someone’s wife, significant other, or parolee.”
“You want to expand on that a bit? Maybe your full name, address, what the hell you’re doing here?” He flips off two switches on the wall by the door, and walks across the room toward me.
“I believe I was giving a very attractive man a hand, and I realize we haven’t had time to do the I-ask-you-ask, stuff people do when they’re interested in each other. I mean, clearly there’s chemistry going down. But jeeze, you just flipped the door sign. I’d like to take a breath, have a cup of coffee, and, oh, I don’t know, talk?”
Gaire puffs out his cheeks and blows air.
Did he just puff frustration at me? And his damn eyebrows are all bunched up over his nose. And why the hell does that make me upset? Catch and release, remember?
“Look, I’m over nineteen, legal, and where’s your sense of adventure?” CeCe’s eyelashes fan her tan cheeks.
“Are you telling me you want a date before you explain your behavior today?”
“Well, no, of course I’m not.” Yeah, right? I’m jaking for a date, one that leads to us both getting naked. Why am I having such a hard time using this body to get that point across? This is definitely going to turn out badly, but … cold rotted flesh be damned, his smile stirs something deliciously dark in me, the doppelganger under human flesh. “I simply walked in your diner to feed my starving body—”
Don’t want CeCe carbon-copy to start looking Night of the Living Dead-ish.
“—and found you in a bad situation. Being the girl my daddy loves, I stepped up to the plate. Pardon the pun.”
For the first time ever, I wonder if I’m going to really feel something for this guy when we touch. Crap! I didn’t sign up for emotions. In the human world, emotions always end up misplaced, trashed, or trampled on.
He opens his mouth to speak.