Page 2 of A Sublime Casualt
“Wow. So poetic and pathetic all at the same time.” She shakes her head at me. “I will never understand you, Charlie Neville.” She takes a few anxious gulps from her mug before rising and snatching her backpack off the couch. “I’ve got English lit at nine. Care to sit in?”
Every now and again Gabby has let me crash a class with her. She says her professors don’t mind a bit, and being that the Foxworthy family makes a sizeable donation to the university every year like tax-deductible clockwork, she doesn’t mind breaking a few rules a bit either. Gabby is a graduate student working toward her MBA in hopes to run the family hotel empire one day, and I’m sure she will. I’m also sure she and Jackson will tie the knot soon. Her obsession with all things bridal has hit a crescendo over the last few months. And soon thereafter, I’m sure she’ll start popping out adorable babies with matching mossy green eyes that will leave the world spellbound by their beauty. The hotel industry might have to wait for her to take her throne. It’s a rosy outlook for her either way, and I realize that my time as a freeloader is quickly coming to an end. With lousy tips and siphoning as much as I can out of the registers, I’m still well below the poverty line. I’ll most likely be homeless again come May. It’s a bleak thought that immediately dampens my spirits. I’m not sure what kind of life I thought I’d end up with after, but dumpster diving and visions of homelessness weren’t anywhere on the horizon. After. My life only has two markers: before and after. After promised to be so much better. It is, but not in the way I had hoped.
“What time is abnormal psych again?” That’s the one I like. An entire hour focused on how twisted and depraved the human mind can be. The professor is an odd man, handsome, but too thin, and you could bet money he’s hiding something dark behind that painted-on smile. It never leaves his face. Like a rash he can’t get rid of. Creepy. I’d bet good money he has particular tastes in the bedroom. I’ve thought about taking him up on that silent offer he’s sent my way. Interested to learn more about me than my ass. On second thought, that’s probably exactly what he’s interested in learning more about.
“One!” Her voice hikes with glee as she hits the front door. “Are you coming?”
“Maybe next week. I’m scheduled eight-to-five.”
“That means you’re free for dinner!” She bubbles with laughter as she shuts the door. “I’m making it happen!”
Gabby would love nothing more than for me to date Theo the cop. I shake my head at the thought. I’m sure there are a number of people who would love for me to have a date with a police officer, and a much longer relationship with a warden at a state-run penitentiary. A dull laugh ripples from me as I take a sip from my coffee. Can you make wishes from hell?
I shower, dress, and head off to work. The only date I’ll have tonight is at the public library to speak with Peavey and Devyn.
I made a wish from hell a little over a year ago. And I got exactly what I asked for. I managed to escape the infernal fires and sent someone else there instead.
* * *
The Hideaway Caféfirst caught my attention for its ironic name. It was exactly that for me for so long. Joe Morris, a heavyset man with a lantern jaw, an overall unhygienic look about him, houses an entire assembly line of dumpsters behind his restaurant, just close enough to the stucco building to hold in a minuscule amount of heat at night. It was July and the sun was still heavy, burning with summer anger as it straddled the country. If it were winter, I would have frozen in the snow. I wish I could say that’s why I waited to do what I did, but that’s not the case. The cauldron was getting too hot. I saw a window of opportunity and had just enough time to map out a plan. Premeditated murder could most definitely lead to life in prison. Peavey and Devyn understood I had no choice but to run.
The Hideaway Café, a squatty dirty building with poor signage, is exactly point six miles from the Steel Eagle Condominium Complex. And it’s exactly point two miles from Conrad University. Go Eagles. The entire building is overrun with coeds and their noisy boyfriends. It’s mostly populated with females—an odd segregation of the sexes, but I’ve noticed during my short twenty-one years on the planet that people have a way of doing just that.
Wakefield is full of forests and neatly manicured lawns, odd in general to me since the part of the state I hail from is flat lands, dirt fields, and liquor stores. But I like the woodsy feel of it here. You can smell affluence in the air by way of the gallons of French perfume the girls at Conrad bathe in. One would assume that since the Hideaway is within walking distance of a major university that it would feel the effects of the money pouring through this town, but no such luck. The students generally flock to the strip malls that surround the school like a brick and mortar fort. No offense to Joe, but the food offerings are on an entirely different level there. Gabby is vegan, and her boyfriend Jackson is doing Keto. And if their eating habits are indicative at all of anyone at Conrad, then I’m betting there’s not a very big demand for all day breakfast. Theall-you-can-eatpancakessign might as well readcarb lovers delight!The cube steak and endless omelet combination aren’t exactly hitting it out of the park either. I’ve even heard the cooks complain about the lack of culinary diversity on the menu, but Joe is nearing his seventies and he’ll tell anyone who will listen that this is the kind of food that built this good nation. Joe is all about God and country and a decent helping of biscuits covered in bacon grease. I think back to my time in Strafford, eating warm bologna from a cooler on most days. I have to side with Joe on this one. Peavey, Devyn, and I would have lost our carbohydrate-starved minds if we could have eaten all the pancakes we wanted. But they eat well now and so do I.
Hours drag by as I force myself to run circles around the establishment. The décor itself leaves a lot to be desired, old wooden tables and chairs with a smattering of expletive-riddled etchings. The black and white terrazzo flooring gives off a dizzying effect that makes me sway on my heels after four hours, and the walls are painted a thick coat of avocado, the paint curling and pocked, tempting customers to chip away at it as they wait for their meals. There’s a stainless counter that runs the length of the place like a long steel tongue with a register seated over it near the front door. Joe’s wife Ana had an affinity for quirky wall clocks, so every square inch of the place is covered with cats whose eyes move back and forth, cuckoo clocks that sing and chime, and they all go off at indiscriminate times. Not one clock in the place tells the right time, and Joe suggested once it was purposeful. He never wanted anyone to clock watch while they were in here. He heard that in Vegas they block off all natural light and don’t display the hour so that gamblers will lose track of time and spend all their money. I’d hate to point it out to Joe, but in the restaurant business, he should be far more interested in turning tables than in keeping the loafers glued to the cheap seats. But then again, if the all-dayers didn’t take root to the furniture, the way they’re prone to, the place would be empty half the time. As it stands, there are only a handful of brave new souls that give the place a chance each week. Very few ever come back.
Dena and I work the floor. Dena is an older woman, late sixties, has worked at the Hideaway since she was a teenager. Her hair is spun into a beehive with the texture of cotton candy. Black with white roots. We have that in common, but you can trade blonde for her gray. She smells like a toxic combination of peppermints and Lysol, and strangely I find this comforting. Not sure what odor she’s trying to mask, but if she were running on the theme of the other employees here, it’s not a legal one. Never married, two cats. I see my destiny etched on the lines of her face and I don’t mind all that much. I like cats. They’re aloof and all around content to be alone, like me.
It’s not until after the sun starts to go down that I’m jolted from the comfortable trance that gets me through a long shift. In walks a tall, dark, and intimidating wall of steel, robed in the most frightening shade of navy. The shiny gold badge on the left side of his chest winks my way as if acknowledging the malfeasance I’ve committed. My bones seize and my muscles tighten to stone, making it impossible to move. He comes this way with me pinned behind the counter, trapped like an animal. I shoot a quick glance to Dena who is happily chatting to an all-dayer who likes to spread her secondhand books around the table like old friends.
I swallow hard as he comes my way with an affable smile. Dark hair, eyes as bright as a colorless sky, all teeth and dimples. Hell, if he weren’t in uniform, my hormones would be shooting off right about now. They are anyway.
“You go by Charlie?” His deep voice penetrates me intimately, and for a brief moment, I feel as if I were just violated on some level.
Go by? My heart drums up my throat, into my ears, as my entire body pulsates with the erratic rhythm. My mind screamsrun. My feet, however, remain oddly nailed to the floor.
His brows furrow. “I’m sorry. I just assumed. I mean, you’re not wearing a name tag.” He winces, and something about the action washes away the hardness of that inky uniform. A gun sits in its holster like a steel threat. My eyes bolt to that shiny gold badge once again. An oblong herringbone pattern of some kind is printed over it. I’m too far away to properly make out what the image is. And then, just as if he heard, he closes the distance between us and I readTheo StavrosandPolice Officer. The wordWakefieldrounds out the rim of the badge.
Theo. A flood of relief washes over me, stealing the heat from my body and replacing it with an icy chill.
God, this is Gabby’s setup. The totallyniceguy. Jackson’s cousin.
“Yes, that’s me.” A dull laugh escapes me as my flesh slaps cold from sweat. “I’m Charlie.” I’m going to kill Gabby. And coming from me, it’s a bona fide threat. “So, are you here to arrest me or just interrogate me for a while? But then, you’re a mind reader, so you don’t need to do that, right? I mean, you knew my name, and like you so astutely pointed out, I’m not wearing a tag.” Always, always remain calm in the presence of law enforcement. I’ve read enough true crime stories to know what lands someone in the hot seat, and silence and a serious lack of humor buy you a one-way ticket straight to the penitentiary. I loathe flirting with another human being. I loathe most human beings in general. Smothering Gabby in her sleep with that ratty stained pillow of hers is completely on the table.
He belts out a short-lived laugh, his chest bobbing up and down as if he were actually enjoying my presence, but I magnetize to those blue gray eyes of his that seem to shift color—at the moment they favor steel gray, dove gray, pencil gray. The dark stubble lining his cheeks makes my fingers twitch to touch it. He’s handsome in a rugged way, alarmingly so. The entire female population in this greasy spoon is leaning in his direction. The men have taken notice, too, but they’re eyeing his gun. The girls are eyeing a far more destructive weapon, though, just as prominent, below that. I can’t help it. When you spend a year trying not to look people in the eye, their crotch is a natural place to fall.
“They’re seeing a movie tonight. Jackson and Gabby.” His brows dip with a hint of remorse for having to stoop to ask.
“I hate movies.” It’s true. But the words bubbled out without my permission, and now I’m fearful that I’ll accidentally unleash my entire life’s story—and so soon after I’ve finally harnessed it in.
“That makes two of us.” He shoots a cool glance to the rest of the establishment. “She said you get off at five. You have time for a bite? We could head across the street if you like, or here if you want.” He offers an easy smile, dotting the pleasant invitation with a happy face. Not only is Officer Theo Stavros comely as hell, and he is clearly a charmer, but there is a boyishness about him, a quasi-shy demeanor that makes me want to linger.
Bullshit rule number four hundred fifty-six: Never leave a cop with a negative vibe about you.
“I’m off now and here is perfect.” The next bullshit rule reads: Never let him take you to a second location.
We head over to the back near a window, a secluded area that makes working the loop in this place a little more tedious. My evening replacement, a middle-aged woman named Tara, waves as she walks through the door.