Chapter 2

“Happy little clouds,” I murmur to myself as I swirl my finger along the top of my touchpad, wishing for the millionth time that I could do this again with real paints and canvases.

But real art equipment costs money, and money is something I don’t have. So instead, I use GIMP, which is free, and pray my laptop doesn’t die again before I finish college.

Right now, I’m working on my own version of the Mona Lisa ... if Gal Gadot were posing for the famous painting. Well, that and my color choices are a little surreal, but I sort of like the idea of putting light green clouds in a lilac sky behind the eternally smirking diva.

It’s a lot more colorful than my real life, and I can go for a little bit of that before I have to slog my way through another day.

An insistent meow on my left gets my attention, and I look over to see Nirvash, my cat.

Technically, it’s my best friend Mia’s cat, but her former apartment lease didn’t allow pets, so when she brought me the little ball of fur and begged for me to watch after it, I couldn’t help myself.

Now, the miniature monster is mine, and I probably wouldn’t give her back even if Mia begged. Not that she would. She knows what this cat has come to mean to me.

Sometimes, I wonder if Mia didn’t plan the whole thing to trick me into getting a pet for my own good.

“Thanks, Vash. It’s that time?”

Vash meows again, and I get up off the couch, stretching a little. Vash takes the opportunity to climb onto the keyboard, though she knows she’s not allowed, and looks at the screen before turning her nose up and walking away.

“Humph... everyone’s a damn critic. Well, I’m not done with it yet.”

Meow.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, feed you before you get angry,” I reply, heading into the kitchen and picking up the quarter-carton of nondairy creamer on the counter.

It, like a lot of the food I’ve got, is scraps from The Gravy Train’s kitchen, since they can’t keep opened containers overnight. I’m not sure that’s a real rule, but Elaine had vehemently insisted it was true as she foisted the creamer and a large to-go bowl of soup on me.

She means well, and though it was a hit to my pride, I had taken it, knowing it’d help. The creamer is Vash’s little treat and she loves it. “Is this what you want?”

Meow.

“Fine, fine... but you only get a little along with your real food,” I reply, filling the shallow bowl Vash uses for food.

I check my clock and see I’ve got five minutes to be out the door before I’m late for my first class of the day. I toss the carton back in the fridge and hurry to the bathroom.

It’s my own damn fault, really. When I’m painting, I’m able to escape, let my mind relax, and not worry about all the crap that’s weighing down my life, even if only for a few minutes.

But that also means I let time get away from me, and as I quickly brush my teeth and pull a brush through my hair, I’m rushing.

“Okay, Vash baby, be good and keep the mice company!” I toss over my shoulder as I grab my bookbag and rush out to my little scooter.

The morning air’s chilly, but until we get snow or rain, I need to be frugal, and using my scooter instead of my car saves me several dollars a day on gas.

As the wind blows in my face, numbing my lips, I curse myself for forgetting to use Chapstick before leaving. I’ve got some in my bag, but it’ll have to wait until class. I just don’t have time.

Like a lot of my life, I just don’t have time for a lot of things. I barely have time for friends. I don’t have time to take care of myself. I don’t have time for anything except work and school.

I don’t have any family left. The closest thing to family I have is Mia, my other bestie, Charlotte, and a cat that earns a good portion of her food through keeping the neighborhood rat population under control.

Other than that, my life’s empty.

No time for self-pity though. I console myself with the idea that soon enough, I’ll be able to take the next step after I finish my degree. Just one more year like this and then everything will be better.

The thought doesn’t comfort me much when I hear an approaching truck motor and see Russell driving up in his Chevy. “You’re up early,” I mutter, tugging on my helmet and palming my keys. “Must really be running low on meth.”

Russell comes to a stop next to me, putting his truck in park but leaving the motor running. “Izzy, where’s my money?”

I growl, buckling my helmet. “You told me last night that I had a week, Rusty.”

I’ve known Russell since I moved into this house, and I know for a fact that he hates that nickname.

Still, I’m just too tired and too hungry to think clearly about poking the bear, or honestly, to give a rat’s ass about his bullshit this morning, especially since I’ve got class soon.

Russell’s face reddens at the name, and he rubs at his cheek, where it looks like he’s been doing the junkie shuffle all over his face. A shiftless kid who spent most of his teenage years trying to score beer and terrorizing the neighborhood middle-schoolers, he hasn’t improved with age.

He scored his first drug conviction at twenty-two, but Russell’s father got him out of those charges. Russell Senior had owned a lot of land on the outskirts of Roseboro, and as the town grew, he flipped a lot of the flat, empty pastures that weren’t worth much to housing developers who needed easy plots for subdivisions. It’d made him bank, and money makes you powerful.

By the time Russell’s parents died five years ago, a heart attack behind the wheel that resulted in a fiery crash that killed them both, Russell had inherited over a million dollars.

And he’s burned through it all. Literally. A certified smoke hound, if you can put it in a pipe and smoke it, Russell Carraby’s put it in his lungs. Quite a few rumors say he’s moved on from smoking to straight up injecting poison into his body. All in all, it makes him unpredictable and desperate, which worries the shit out of me.

But money buys you lots of friends, and since Russell hasn’t yet shit where he eats in terms of drug violence, the local cops don’t do anything to stop him. I have a feeling the influence his money has bought is coming to a firework-worthy finale though.

He’s down to his house and the deed to the land that my house and a few others sit on. He’s like the slumlord of outer Roseboro, but with only the small pool of our row of old homes to dip into. And he’s digging in with a damn shovel, trying to squeeze out every last drop he can get.

And that’s what I owe him, a freaking land lease that I never had to pay to his parents. They had charged a small annual sum, more for show than anything, but when Russell inherited it, he used his connections to get a court order saying I have to make up for back payments. Stupid me never had a contract with Russell Senior, having just continued the deal they’d always had on the property and trusting that would always be the case, an honorable verbal agreement between all involved parties.

Russ isn’t nearly the reasonable businessman his father was though. He’s desperate for money, and I know it. He probably doesn’t even remember telling me I had a week just last night, whatever memory he once had ruined by chemicals. The fact that he’s back here so quickly tells me he’s looking for a fix before the next payment is due.

Danger warnings ring in my head. Technically, I’m meeting the agreed-upon court ruling with my monthly payments to him, all documented carefully because I’m no fool. But the fact that I do owe him the money, at least legally, does cloud matters because if we go back to court, they could order me to pay it in one lump sum. And I’d be done for. So keeping him at bay is imperative, even if it means making smaller weekly payments rather than a monthly sum.

Because he still holds a lot of the cards in this little scam he’s trying to run on me. And for all his drugginess, he’s still smart. Sometimes.

Like now, he’s technically not on my property, staying outside the fence, but the intimidation is just as effective and even more of a threat than taking me back to court.

“I said, where’s my fuckin’ money, bitch?” Russell says again, slapping the hood of his truck. “What, you want me to fuckin’ go in your place and just take what I need to even us out?”

I see the blinds across the street twitch, and know the neighbors are watching this showdown. But they’re just as scared of Russell as I am because he holds the land lease on their homes too. In a perfect world, we’d all band together and fight the evil slumlord. The reality is, they’ll happily leave me to the wolves if it means the wolf isn’t trying to blow down their house.

So I’m on my own. As always.

“You take one step through that gate and I swear I’ll call the cops!” I yell back, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. “I’m sure they’d love to offer you a field sobriety test, maybe search your truck?” I toss out the threat, hoping it’s enough to scare him off because sure as the sun sets in the west, there are drugs in that beat-up ass truck of his.

He presses right up to the fence, hands on the top like he’s considering vaulting over it. I measure the distance between me and the front door, deciding that my better bet would be to bean him with my helmet if he comes over the fence. “You owe me, and one way or another, I’ll collect!” Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth as he yells, his eyes narrowed and mean.

“I’m calling, Rusty. Nine, one, one.” I press at the black screen, feigning that I’m dialing because I know that even if I call, no good will come of it.

He throws his hands up, backing off. “Fine, but your bony little ass better get my money. Or else.”

He drives away, and my hand shakes as I put my phone back in my pocket. As I do, I have a moment of hysteria that a junkie just called me skinny. Looks like Elaine’s help isn’t doing as much good as I’d thought. Vaguely, I wonder how Russell manages to stay so soft and round when all he does is smoke, putting every dollar to drugs and none to food.

My mind clears and I realize just how badly that whole interaction could’ve gone. Don’t get me wrong, yelled threats and almost dialing 911 are serious. But Russell is escalating and I need to watch out for that. He knows I’m here alone, he’s getting more desperate for money, and it’s reaching the point where he has nothing to lose. The thought that he could get worse terrifies me. I’m so frightened that I nearly run my scooter into the fence, and it’s only a last-second jamming of my brakes that prevents me from not going to class today at all.

My scooter stalls, and I push it a few steps back, looking around to make sure things are clear before I restart it. As I do, I do a double-take, swearing I see Russell’s truck again, but despite them both being the same shade of silvery-gray, this one’s a Ford, not a Chevy. I haven’t seen it before and it’s parked in front of Old Mrs. Petrie’s house. She never has visitors other than her son, who lives a few towns away and drives a red Camry. I remember seeing the blinds twitch at her house and wonder if maybe she has someone over.

But the blinds are in place now. Still, I feel like I’m being watched, and as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I try to get a better view of the truck since it’s the oddity in our same-shit-different-day neighborhood. The sun’s at the wrong angle, though, and I’m forced to ride by it slowly to see inside. When I do, I see it’s empty, and while that should relieve me, for some reason, it doesn’t.

The Gravy Trainbeckons like the vampiric temple that it’s been for the past three years for me. The long, train-car-like exterior glimmers in the late afternoon sunlight, and after four hours of classes this morning and some study time at the campus library, I’m not looking forward to slogging through another six hours of waitressing.

But if there’s any chance that I’m going to keep Russell off my ass, I need to hustle and bust my butt for the tips. Dinner’s the best time to get tips too.

Still, the next six hours will require me to keep my mind in a special place, clicking along as I work and provide smiling service even to surly customers—because trust me, the customer is definitely not always right—while simultaneously not focusing on the looming thundercloud of debt over my head. As I walk in the door, I’m not sure if I can keep it up.

The smell of the grill and the fryer, which probably makes most people’s mouth water, smacks me in the face, making my stomach roil. In hunger or disgust, I’m not sure which. After three years, six days a week of that smell permeating every pore of my skin, it oddly feels like home, but some days, I swear I’d give anything for a salad. Unfortunately, fresh produce is a luxury I can’t afford. Not if I’m going to keep Russell at bay and my school payments up to date.

And there I go already, letting the storm take over. I take a deep breath, letting the French fry-scented air fill my lungs as I shake my head, willing the dark thoughts away.

Smile, Izzy. You can do this. You always do.

“Hey, Elaine, order up!” a big voice hollers from the kitchen, and I sigh. Henry’s the head cook at The Gravy Train, and while normally, he’s an overgrown teddy bear, for the past month or so, he’s been increasingly short-tempered. He says it’s an ulcer, and I guess if I were a forty-year fry cook who had an ulcer, I’d be upset too.

“Hold yer horses, Henry, I’m comin’!” Elaine, the head waitress, tosses back as she throws me a wave. “How’re you doin’, Izzy?”

“Is that Izzy?” another voice calls from the back. “Tell her to come back here!”

Elaine rolls her eyes, since obviously, everyone in downtown Roseboro heard it. She tilts her head at me, adopting a faux fancy voice like she’s a phone operator at one of the big skyscrapers downtown.

“Martha’d like you to stop by her office.”

I grin at her over-the-top antics, appreciating the levity, and head back to the office, which is more like a storeroom closet with a desk, where I find Martha. Short and heavyset, she’s the business manager while Henry’s technically the owner... but we all know who really runs the show, both in their marriage and around here.

“What’s up?”

“Hey, I just wanted to tell you I put you down for a double on Sunday,” Martha says, typing away at her computer and not bothering to even look up at me. “Apparently, the new girl decided the Taylor Swift concert this weekend is more important than her job.”

I sigh, nodding. I don’t feel any pity for the new girl. She was here so short a time that I didn’t even have a chance to learn her name. And I did tell Martha to let me know if she needed coverage for any extra shifts so I could make some more money.

Unfortunately for me, that’s meant Martha penciling me in without really consulting me. It’s fine, I need the shift, but the thought of another Sunday double, with cheap tippers after church and a basically dead dinner rush, doesn’t sound like a worthwhile investment of my time.

“Is that a problem, Izzy?” Martha asks, sounding concerned. “I can always ask someone else, but you told me you wanted as many hours as you could get.”

“No... no, I did say that, and I do need it,” I reply, trying to keep my voice cheerful and utterly failing. “Thanks, Martha.”

I get changed quickly. Thankfully, The Gravy Train did away with the ridiculous skirts for uniforms a long time ago, and black jeans, a diner T-shirt, and an apron are all I need. Coming out, I double-check that I’ve got my order pad and my two pens ready before sagging.

I just can’t take this anymore.

No . . . no, I have to.

Why? So Russell can take all your money and still take the house?

“It’s all I’ve got left,” I whisper, wiping away a stray tear. I know I shouldn’t be crying. It’s just a broken-down old house that probably isn’t even worth the wood it’s made of anymore, but it’s my ‘inch.’

“Izzy, don’t tell Mommy we’re watching this, okay?”

Daddy smiles and hands me the bottle of lemonade, and I grin as I take a sip. Of course, Mommy knows that Daddy sometimes lets me watch ‘grown-up’ movies, but she says it’s okay because they’re on cable.

I don’t quite know what she means by that, but that’s okay. It’s just a reason for me to hang out with my Daddy.

And on the screen is one of his favorite movies. A tired-looking old man in a red shirt and black jacket is talking to a bunch of football players, and as he talks, the players get more excited.

“On this team, we fight for that inch,” the man says, and the players cheer. He keeps going, and while I don’t understand all of it, I still giggle as I hear where the bad words were changed for TV. There’s a lot of them in this movie.

“I am still willing to fight, and die, for that inch. Because that’s what living is! The six inches in front of your face!”

In my head, I can see my daddy on the couch, eyes on the screen and mouth moving along with the famous speaker I later learned was Al Pacino. Okay, Daddy, for you, I can keep going.

Even if those six inches seem impossible.

“Izzy, you okay?”

I look over and see Elaine with her head through the swinging door, a concerned look on her face. She’s a diner lifer, and I’ve appreciated her sassy, occasionally foul-mouthed mentorship.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay, Elaine. Just got offered a double shift on Sunday.”

Elaine whistles, but her face is still lined with concern. “You sure? You came in looking like you were ready to pack it all in already, honey. You need a break, at least a solid day to do absolutely nothing but laze around with cucumbers on your eyes and conditioner in your hair.”

A sad smile twists my lips as I think about wasting a cucumber that way. If I had one, I’d probably just bite right into it, maybe with a little Tajin seasoning.

I follow Elaine back out into the main diner area, nodding. “Yeah. It’s not only the work. Rusty’s being a jerk again.”

“What? Didn’t you say that boy gave you a week just yesterday?” Elaine asks, her brows knitting together. “You know, his parents weren’t exactly what I’d call the best apples on the tree, but ooh, he’s just a rotten one.”

“Yeah, well, Sunday’ll help,” I reply. “I’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine, always is.” I’m trying to convince myself as much as her.

“Hmph. What you need to do is kneecap him with a Louisville Slugger the next time he comes around your way,” Elaine says. She lowers her voice. “By the way, seems you’ve got a fan.”

“Huh?” I ask, following Elaine’s pointed gaze.

It’s him. The guy from yesterday. He only ordered a plain meal, burger and fries, but in the few moments that we talked and our eyes met... I swear I’d felt human for the first time in ages, not like an automaton going from one job to the next.

No, not human. I’d felt like . . . a woman. Something I haven’t had a moment to be in way too long. Elaine’s chatter breaks into my daydream of what a man like that could do with and to a woman.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm... and I used to think the mud pie was the yummiest thing in these four walls,” Elaine says teasingly. “But that man looks so good I wanna just sop him up with a biscuit.”

My eyes are locked on the man, but I can hear Elaine making smacking sounds like she’s devouring something delicious.

“Come on, he’s just a customer,” I murmur, but I sound fake as hell and I know it. The man’s so handsome that my heart’s already hammering in my chest, with piercing brown eyes, a boyish curl to his lips that seem to promise an eager smile even when he’s looking serious, and just enough scruff on his cheeks that he looks...

Well, to steal one of Elaine’s weird sayings, like I’d love to sop him up with a biscuit.

“Uh-huh,” Elaine says. “The man came in a half hour ago, ordering just coffee... again. I bet if you go over there and bat those pretty brown eyes of yours at him, though, he’d order a meal. Or if you’re lucky, make a meal of you. I’m just sayin’.”

Just saying. Meanwhile, my brain and my primal urges are saying something else, that it’s been a long, long damn time since I’ve looked at any man and felt more than a tired toleration of him.

But this guy, I don’t even know his name, and I’m feeling fluttery inside.

I feel like a teeny bopper at a Justin Bieber concert just looking at him. I swear I have to hold my arm at my side so I don’t hold it in the air, waving around as I yell, “Pick me, look at me!”

I’m not that girl, never have been, but suddenly, I think I could be if only for a moment. Which is a sure-fire sign that I need to slow my roll. Guys are the last thing I have time for. Even for a one and done.

“Elaine, I—”

“You’re going to go over there and take his order,” Elaine says with a laugh, pushing me lightly. “Go on now, git!”

My heart in my throat, I nod and approach the man with my pulse roaring in my ears. “Hi. Can I take your order?”

He looks up, and again our eyes meet. My God... he’s gorgeous.

“Yes, you can.”

It’s only three words, but in those words I can hear a promise. Maybe Elaine was right, that he was waiting for me. But why? No matter. The way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel something... something I haven’t felt in far too long.