Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Galina

I f you were lonely enough, it was almost like you were never alone. It was a constant, heavy presence that weighed on you almost like companionship, another person. It was a friend I'd grown very acquainted with as the years dragged on, especially after I moved to Desolation and left Vegas behind.

When I ran. Escaped.

And I'd been living with that dark companion for the last two months. How fitting was it that I'd created a new life in Desolation, NY. A new name. A new background. The lie of my life.

But I couldn't hate Desolation, especially this shitty part of town, especially Sal's diner, where I waitressed. It was the only place that hadn't asked me any questions, didn't do a background check, and paid me under the table.

I stared at the old, faded industrial-looking clock that hung on the diner wall to my right. I had no doubt if I pulled it down, it would be coated in an inch-thick layer of grime. Same with about anything in this piece-of-shit restaurant.

The time said it was late as hell, or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it. It was a little after three in the morning, and fortunately I only had a couple of hours left on my shift.

I didn't mind the crappy hours or the depressing aesthetic of Sal's. They gave me as many hours as I wanted, the tips were decent when I worked the rush hour, first thing in the morning, and being here kept me from having to sit in my hole-in-the-wall apartment alone, wondering if they'd find me, if my past would catch up with me.

I'd heard the backstory of Sal's from Laura, one of the waitresses who worked the night shift with me. She told me Sal's had been operating for the last fifty years and had once been owned by a husband and wife, Sicilian immigrants who'd gotten their American dream of owning their own business.

But sadly, when Marianna—the wife—passed away, her husband Sal had followed not long after. And then, surprise , a private organization—AKA no doubt a shady business who was more than likely using this place as a front for money laundering—had swooped in pretty damn fast and taken ownership. I put the latter together myself, given my background with less-than-notable affiliations.

And here I was, two months after running from Henry and his sick plans for me to pay for my father's debt. I was living the dream, let me tell you, but pushing greasy-as-hell burgers, flat colas, and three-day-old apple pie slices to drug addicts, sex workers, drunks, and anyone else who wanted a place to get off the street since we were open twenty-four hours every day of the year was better than the alternative.

I wasn't Galina Michone anymore. I was Lina Michaels. The fake ID had been easy enough to get in Vegas, and my life here in Desolation was eerily similar to being back "home," so I'd assimilated fine.

"Can I get some fucking service over here?"

I exhaled wearily and rubbed my eyes before heading over to the clearly drunk customer who'd just come in. I'd seen him plenty of times before, and he was always obnoxious and demanding—not to mention intoxicated. It was clear he thought women were beneath him by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes when he addressed the opposite sex. He was like every other asshole I'd come in contact with during my life.

I could smell the booze pouring off him before I even got to his table but tried to put on a professional smile, even if I knew it no doubt looked forced and wouldn't help with this asshole's tipping. Because he never did.

He glared at me, and I pulled my pad and pen out of my apron. "What can I get for you?"

For a second he just stared at me with bloodshot, glossy eyes and a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead, causing his hair to be damp at his hairline. He also smelled like he hadn't washed in a while and had only consumed alcohol for the last twenty-four hours.

"Burger and fries. Beer. And make sure it's cold." He spit out the last word, and I didn't respond, just nodded and turned to leave.

He reached out and snatched hold of my wrist, his grip unyielding. Instantly my defenses went up even more, and my body tightened.

"Make sure my beer is fucking cold." His words were slurred and sloppy, just like his appearance.

"Let go of me," I said low, feigning strength I didn't feel like I really had. Surprisingly he did without a complaint. I wanted to rub my wrist but didn't want to let him know it bothered me as much as it did. "I'll bring over your stuff shortly. But next time, keep your hands to yourself." I left quickly, not giving him a chance to respond.

After I put in the order, I stood behind the wall, the only privacy I'd get during my shift. Assholes like him didn't bother me so much, not when I'd lived in Vegas and dealt with pricks on the daily. But they still got under my skin at times, now more than ever, and I felt more vulnerable than I had in a long time.

I rested my head on the wall, staring straight ahead at the shelving that held a few supplies. I heard the back door open, and I glanced to the side to see Laura coming through, her tattered island satchel hanging off her shoulder. Her long, dark-blonde ponytail was a little askew as if she'd been running, and when I glanced at the time, I realized she probably had been since she was a few minutes late.

Laura, like me, mainly worked the night shift, but she'd been picking up more hours to save up for classes at the community college. If I had friends, she'd probably be the closest one I'd put that label on.

She glanced up and noticed me, a genuine smile moving over her face. "Sorry I'm late."

I shrugged. What did I care? Things weren't busy right now, and aside from the drunk asshole, there hadn't been much "excitement."

She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up beside her satchel on the hook that was nailed to the grease-stained wall. She grabbed a "clean" apron, put it on, then stopped in front of me. "The night is that bad already, huh?"

I laughed and shook my head. "Not really. Just the regular drunk asshole."

She screwed up her nose. "Which one? We get so many of them nightly."

So true.

She gave me another smile before exhaling and looked out to the front, her nose wrinkling again. "I have to work a double today. I can't complain, because the tips will probably be good, but Lina… I hate people."

I laughed, the sound shooting out of me before I could stop it. "Same."

We both turned and headed back out to the front. I followed behind, seeing if the drunk was still out there… optimistic that one of these times he'd stumble out and never come back in. But there he was, glaring at the wall, probably thinking of all the ways he could get back at someone who'd wronged him years ago. Because men like him were mean while drunk, but sober… he was probably a nasty bastard.

I was checking to see if his food was ready when I heard the diner's front door open. I glanced over my shoulder, my heart immediately skipping a beat before taking on an erratic note as I watched who walked in. The man was one I'd seen here many times over the past two months.

And he was a man who instantly had every survival instinct in me kicking into gear.

I didn't know him, not his name, age, occupation. He always paid with cash, always kept to himself. He never spoke more than what was required to order his food. And his expression never gave anything away. No frustration, no exhaustion. No pleasure or hatred. Nothing. It was as if he had no emotion, this blank slate that saw nothing but took everything in.

He was tall, with short dark hair, and he carried an air around him that couldn't be mistaken for anything but danger. The power he wielded was breathtakingly clear in just the way he walked, in the way he held himself. And the strength in his body was evident despite the dark clothing that shielded it from view.

But I didn't have to know him, didn't have to speak with him to recognize the type of male he was.

Dangerous.

Deadly.

Someone I had no business being curious about.

I'd been around many men like him in my life, men who killed with their hands and moved on to the next task. It was their nature.

I watched him take the same seat he always did, the one at the back of the diner that faced the entrance. He always made sure the wall was at his back. That was another sign of the type of man he was… one who'd seen enough violence that he'd never be caught off guard.

The sound of the cook hitting the little bell, indicating my customer's meal was ready, drew me out of my thoughts. After taking the plate with the burger and fries, I grabbed another beer, noticing how the drunk had already—not surprisingly—drained the first.

I set his plate down in front of him, the beer bottle to follow. He said nothing, just started digging in with disgusting, sloppy sounds leaving him. As soon as I turned and faced the dark and dangerous man sitting in the corner, my belly tightened, that internal warning urging me to run the other way, rising up almost violently.

But I was familiar with that little voice, that sixth sense, and I pushed it down and moved closer. Because although I knew this man was someone I didn't want to get involved with, I also couldn't lie and say my sick curiosity wasn't far stronger.

"Welcome to Sal's," I said automatically. "The usual?" He always got the same. Ham and swiss sandwich on sourdough. Side of fries. Cup of coffee. Black. No sugar.

He nodded, his dark eyes locked on mine, his face giving nothing away. I felt like an animal trapped in a snare and facing off with the hungry predator. I gave a weak nod and an even weaker smile in his direction before I turned and headed toward the cook to put the order in, but I felt his gaze still on me, as if he were reaching out and tearing my clothes away, baring my flesh before he took that cold, serrated knife and cut me open.

It was terrifying.

So why did I yearn for more?