The only reason I’m asking for eating suggestions at all is because the Quickie Stop is on the opposite side of town from where I grew up, so I’m not familiar with the food prices around here, and I don’t feel like driving across town just to eat.
Ogling Owen leans in, happy to help. “Your best bet is Latecomers Bar & Grill. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they got really good food and lots of booze.” He wags his eyebrows, like he’s hoping I’ll get hammered tonight and beg him to take me to bed.
Seriously. Pigs.
“I can give you directions,” he says, reaching for a pen.
“No, that’s okay. I can look it up.” I wiggle my phone at him so he sees that I don’t need help—and that I have a way to call 911 if he decides to get extra creepy on me.
I might be dirt-poor, but I always find a way to pay my phone bill.
And besides, I already know where Latecomers is. I’ve never been inside before but I remember the area well enough to know how to get there.
“But hey, um…” I shift my weight and try to muster up the courage to ask my next question. “Do you have any discounted room rates here? Like, buy two nights get the third night half off or anything?” My voice shakes, actually shakes, on the last word. Super pathetic.
He looks intrigued. “You thinking about staying longer?”
I try to keep my face neutral. “Possibly.”
His gaze roves over me again as he spits back into his chew cup. “We don’t have nothing like that here. Weeknights are fifty-five a pop. Weekends are sixty-five. But”—he leans in and gives me another yellow-toothed smile—“I could probably make an exception for you.” His eyes graze over my chest. Again.
“That’s okay.” I take a step back. “I don’t want you to bend any rules.”
Men who offer you favors simply because they find you attractive aren’t offering you a favor at all. They’re offering you a silent contract with a dozen strings attached. I don’t do strings.
Desperation crosses his face. “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all—”
“No really. It’s fine.” I smile tightly. “Thanks.” I spin around and speed-walk out of the drive-thru lobby without another word.
Ogling Owen and his greedy eyes unsettle me. And the fact that he knows where I sleep is unnerving as hell. A shiver runs down my spine as I get in my car and lock myself inside before pulling out of the parking lot. I cannot wait to get out of this town.
When I reach Latecomers, the bar is packed so I have to drive around the parking lot for five minutes before finding a free space.
The moment I step inside, the aroma of savory dishes greets my nose and my mouth starts to water. But looking around at all the people waiting to be seated, my excitement wanes. I probably won’t be getting a table anytime soon.
Four middle-aged men at a table near the door halt their conversation when they see me, but not in a slimy way. In fact, they seem to be trying not to look at me as they shift in their seats and take gulps of their drinks. But they’re men and my DNA was designed to draw male attention.
I turn away, facing the other side of the restaurant where two women seated by the front window glare at me. I give them a nervous little smile. Their eyes travel over me and they look away with disgust. Like I somehow forced my boobs and butt to curve out the way they do and pranced into this restaurant with the sole purpose of displaying my beauty. In a baggy T-shirt and ratty jeans.
I can’t win with women. I just can’t.
They see me and either hate me immediately for being born the way I look, or don’t hate me but also don’t bother to get to know me because they assume my looks mean I’m a bitch.
My eyes drift about until they fall on an open seat on the far end of the bar and my hope lights up. I shuffle through the crowd with several mumbled apologies. A guy already seated at the bar eyes me lewdly as I walk by. I look away and quickly make my way to the open seat. It’s at the dark end of the bar, which doesn’t thrill me but at least I’ll be able to sit by myself and not draw attention.
Beside the open barstool sits a couple; a brawny guy with several tattoos and a raven-haired girl with big hoop earrings. They laugh together as they enjoy their beers.
As I slide into the open barstool, the girl eyes me and I smile. “Hi there.”
She gives me a dirty look.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, lifting off the barstool. “Is this seat taken?”
“No,” she sneers then whips her attention back to her date.
I pause, half on and half off the barstool, slightly confused and a little offended. Why are girls rude like that? It’s not like I’m here to steal her boyfriend.
With a shaky breath, I resume my seat and try to relax as I scan a small plastic menu on the bar. All I want to do is enjoy a hot meal and forget about this whole day. And maybe make a plan for my life.
Last year I was in nursing school, barely scraping by, but at least I had a future ahead of me. And now I have no money to go back to college and if Big Joe ever finds me he’ll probably beat the twenty-thousand-dollar debt out of me.
I stare at the bar menu and try to contain the panic rising in my chest.
A pretty bartender with long red hair and large blue eyes comes up to me with a warm smile. “How are you doing tonight?”
“I’m good.” I smile back, grateful for the distraction from my dreary thoughts and pleased she doesn’t seem to hate me like the girl beside me. “How are you?”
“Busy and bustling.” She cocks her head. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
She looks familiar to me too, but so do a lot of people in this town.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” I say. “But I used to come to Copper Springs in the summertime and stay with my dad, so maybe we’ve seen each other before?” I say. “I’m Kayla.”
“Kayla… Turner?” She covers her mouth. “Your daddy. Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
My smile becomes strained but I force it to stay in place. “That’s very kind of you. Thanks.”
“Can I get you a drink?” she says, setting a black napkin down in front of me. LATECOMERS is stamped in copper lettering across the top. “It’s on the house.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I’m Amber, by the way.” She smiles.
My smile becomes easy again. “Nice to meet you.”
She grabs a rocks glass. “So what’s your poison, sweetheart?”
Before I can reply I hear, “Yeah, sweetheart. What’s your poison?”
Turning to my other side, I see that the dark corner of the bar is not as vacant as I thought. There’s one more barstool capping off the end, and in that barstool sits a pair of dark brown eyes and a wrinkled purple shirt.
So much for forgetting about today.