43. Chapter 43

43

Wren

T he bell over Joe's Diner jangles as I burst through the door, forty minutes late and not giving a single fuck. My skin's still tingling from last night's… activities. Christ, I can smell his sweat, the musk of him, like a fucking aphrodisiac. It's hitting me right in the core, my cunt clenching around him, begging for more.

I give myself a mental slap in the face.

Come on, Wren. Get it together.

It's just a good, hard fuck. Not like I've ever let myself get attached before. It's not like I'm that weak.

I sidestep around Joe, giving him a quick glance as I make my way toward the staff room.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Joe growls from behind the counter, his permanent scowl etched deeper than usual. "Nice of you to join us, princess."

I flash him a grin, all teeth. "Missed you too, sunshine."

He snorts, clearly not buying my bullshit. "Dock your pay for this one. Get to work."

I shrug, tying on my apron. The threat barely registers. After last night's gig at the Ritz, I'm flush with cash. More importantly, I'm riding a high that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with a certain Russian asshole with magic hands.

"Yo, Wren!" Rosie's voice snaps me back. She's eyeing me suspiciously, a pot of coffee in one hand. "You're smiling. It's freaking me out."

I school my features. "What? I smile."

"Yeah, when you're plotting murder, maybe," she snorts. "Spill it. What's got you so chipper?"

I busy myself wiping down the counter, avoiding her gaze. "Nothing. Just… had a good night."

Rosie's eyebrows shoot up. "A ‘good night,' huh? That wouldn't have anything to do with your fancy new job, would it?"

I bite my lip, memories of D's hands, his mouth, flashing through my mind. "Maybe."

"Order up!" Joe bellows from the kitchen, saving me from Rosie's interrogation.

I grab the plates piled high with greasy eggs and hash browns that smell like heaven after last night's… workout. As I set them down in front of an elderly couple, I catch the old man's eye. He winks at me, a knowing smile on his weathered face.

"You're glowing today, dear," he says, his voice gravelly but kind. "Must be love."

I nearly drop the coffee pot. "What? NO, I—"

His wife chuckles, patting his hand. "Don't tease the poor girl, Harold. But he's right, you know. You've got that look."

I force a laugh, my heart pounding. "Trust me, it's not love. Just… a really good night's sleep."

Harold winks again. "If you say so, dear."

I retreat, my cheeks burning. Love? Jesus. It was just sex. Incredible, mind-blowing sex, but still. I don't do love. Can't afford to, in this business.

"So," Rosie sidles up to me as I'm refilling salt shakers, "this ‘good night.' Does it have a name?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. It's called ‘mind your own business.'"

She pouts. "Come on, Wren. I got you that gig at the Ritz. I deserve details."

Guilt twists in my gut. She's right. If it wasn't for her pulling a few strings, I'd never have gotten a job that pays so damn well without having to strip.

"Fine," I mutter. "There might have been a guy."

Rosie's eyes light up. "I knew it." She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, spill it. What's he like? Some Wall Street type?"

I roll my eyes, grabbing a rag to wipe down the counter. "Christ, Rosie. He's just a guy, alright? Not some fairy tale prince."

"But he must be something special to put that look on your face," she prods, not letting up.

I slam the rag down harder than necessary. "Drop it, okay? It was just sex. Good sex, but that's all."

Rosie raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. " Uh-huh . And I'm the Virgin Mary. Come on, Wren. I know you better than that. You don't get all hot and bothered over just anyone."

"I don't have a type," I snap, harsher than I meant to. Rosie flinches, and I immediately feel like shit. "Sorry, I just… it's complicated."

She softens. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to tell me everything. I'm just glad you had fun."

I nod, grateful for her understanding. "Thanks, Rosie. Really. For everything."

She waves it off. "That's what friends are for. Now, you gonna tell me why you can barely walk straight, or do I have to guess?"

For fuck's sake.

I swat her with a dish towel, laughing despite myself. "Shut up and get back to work before Joe has an aneurysm."

As if on cue, Joe's voice booms from the kitchen. "If you two are done gossiping, Table 4 needs coffee!"

I grab the pot, still grinning. As I pour, I catch my reflection in the grimy window. I do look different. Happier, maybe. Or just well fucked.

The bell jangles again, and I look up from wiping down the counter. A group of college kids stumbles in, loud and hungover. Great. Just what I need.

"I got this one," Rosie says, grabbing menus. She shoots me a wink. "You look like you could use a breather."

I nod, grateful.

My legs feel like Jell-O left out in the sun. Must be a side effect of having my pussy pounded into oblivion last night.

I grab the coffee pot and head outside to the handful of tables on the sidewalk. The mid-morning sun is warm on my skin, a welcome change from the diner's stuffy interior.

"Refill, hon?" I ask an older woman buried in her newspaper.

She looks up, squinting. "Please. And can I get one of Joe's famous blueberry muffins?"

I pour the coffee, trying not to grimace. Joe's muffins are about as famous as my virginity. "Coming right up."

As I turn to head back inside, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone's watching me. I can feel it, like a physical touch.

I scan the street, trying to look casual. Nothing seems out of place. Just the usual morning crowd—suits power-walking to their offices, moms with strollers, the occasional junkie stumbling by.

Then I see him. Across the street, leaning against a lamppost. Dark sunglasses, crisp white shirt, arms folded across his chest. He's not moving, just… watching.

Shit, what if it's one of the Russians? My heart starts thumping like a fucking bass drum as I keep my face neutral.

I force myself to breathe, to act normal. I head back inside, my mind racing. Should I call D? No, fuck that. I can handle this myself.

"Wake up, Wren!" Joe's gruff voice snaps me back. "Table 6 wants their check, and where's Mrs. Henderson's muffin?"

"On it," I mutter, grabbing a muffin from the case. As I pass Rosie, I lean in close. "Hey, can you take a look outside? Tell me if you see a guy in sunglasses across the street."

She frowns but nods, heading to the window. I deliver Mrs. Henderson's muffin, then drop off the check at Table 6. My skin is crawling, every instinct screaming danger.

Rosie sidles up to me as I'm ringing up Table 6's payment. "There's a guy out there," she whispers. "Looks like he's waiting for someone. Why? You know him?"

I shake my head, relief washing over me. "No, just… thought I recognized him. It's nothing."

She eyes me suspiciously but doesn't push it. "Alright. Hey, can you take Table 3? They've been waiting for their Trucker's Special for, like, ten minutes."

I nod, grateful for the distraction. The Trucker's Special—a heart attack on a plate. Three eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and a stack of pancakes that could choke a horse. I grab the massive plates from the kitchen window, balancing them carefully.

As I approach Table 3, I plaster on my best fake smile. "Here we go, boys. One artery-clogger, extra grease."

The two truckers at the table laugh appreciatively. One of them, a redhead with a beard that could house small animals, whistles low. "Damn, sweetheart. You're a sight for sore eyes."

I roll my eyes but can't help the smirk tugging at my lips. "Save it for your wife, Red. You need anything else?"

His buddy, a bald guy with arms like tree trunks, chuckles. "Maybe your number?"

I cock an eyebrow at the two truckers. "Keep dreaming, boys. I've got standards, and grease-stained fingers don't make the cut."

The bald one clutches his chest in mock pain. "Ouch, darlin'. You wound me."

"You'll live," I toss back, already turning away. "Enjoy your heart attack on a plate."

Their chuckles follow me as I weave between tables, but my mind's already elsewhere. That guy across the street is still bugging me…

As I grab the coffee pot for a refill round, my eyes dart to the window. The guy in the sunglasses is still there, leaning against the lamppost like he's got all the time in the world. His posture is relaxed, one ankle crossed over the other, but there's something about the set of his shoulders that screams "alert."

I force myself to look away, focusing on Mrs. Henderson as I top up her cup. "How's that muffin treating you, hon?"

She beams up at me, crumbs clinging to her wrinkled chin. "Delicious as always, dear. You tell Joe he's outdone himself this time."

I bite back a snort. If Joe knew how to bake, I'd eat my apron. "Will do, Mrs. H."

As I move to the next table, I catch Rosie's eye. She jerks her head toward the window, mouthing, "Still there."

I give her a barely perceptible nod, my mind racing. Who the hell is this guy? And why do I get the feeling he's not just waiting for a bus?

I grab a rag, pretending to wipe down an already clean table near the window. From this angle, I've got a clear view of Mr. Mystery without being obvious about it.

He shifts, reaching into his pocket, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he's going for a gun. But it's just his phone. He brings it to his ear, turning slightly away from the diner.

I strain to hear, but the traffic noise drowns out his words. His body language is casual, but there's an intensity to the way he's speaking that sets my teeth on edge.

Just as I'm about to give up and head back inside, a flash of color catches my eye. A woman in a bright yellow sundress is waving frantically from across the street, her face lit up with a megawatt smile.

Mr. Mystery turns, and even from here, I can see the tension drain from his body. He raises a hand in greeting, ending his call and pocketing the phone.

The woman practically skips across the street, throwing herself into his arms. He catches her easily, spinning her around as she laughs.

I feel like an idiot. All that paranoia and he's just a guy waiting for his girlfriend.

Christ, Wren, get a grip.

"You planning on polishing that table into oblivion?" Joe's gruff voice makes me jump.

I turn, forcing a smile. "Just making sure it's up to your exacting standards, boss."

He grunts, but I catch the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Table 5 needs menus. And tell Rosie to stop gossiping and start working, or I'm docking both your pays."

I salute lazily. "Aye, aye, captain."

As I head back inside, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. Maybe D's paranoia is rubbing off on me. Or maybe…

A low rumble catches my attention. An SUV, sleek and black with windows tinted darker than my future, crawls by the diner. It's moving slowly, too slow for the mid-morning traffic.

I freeze, my hand on the door handle. The SUV comes to a stop right in front of the diner, engine idling.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the passenger window rolls down, just a crack. Not enough to see inside, but enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I can feel eyes on me, boring into me from behind that tinted glass. My heart's pounding so hard I'm surprised the whole street can't hear it.

"Wren?" Rosie's voice seems to come from far away. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I open my mouth to respond, but the words die in my throat as the SUV's engine revs. It peels away from the curb, tires squealing on the asphalt.

As it speeds past, something flutters out of the cracked window. A piece of paper, dancing on the wind before settling on the sidewalk.

Before I can think better of it, I'm moving. I snatch the paper off the sidewalk, my fingers trembling slightly as I unfold it. The handwriting is messy like it was scrawled in a hurry:

"1408 RIVERSIDE DRIVE. 10 PM. COME ALONE IF YOU WANT TO SEE JOHN DAVIS AGAIN."

Fuck.