Dangerous Lies (9 page)

“I was sort of hoping for hot, charming, ravishingly handsome, all of the above.”

“First you’ve got to ditch the cowboy hat.”

He flashed a crooked smile. “At least
I
don’t smell like manure.”

“Oh!” I threw my head back, laughing. “I can’t believe you went there! Lower than low. That’s it—I declare full-out war.” I climbed across the seat and ran a soiled finger down his cheek. “A taste of what’s to come. You’re out of your league. Step up to the majors,” I added, fluttering my fingers toward myself in a beckoning manner.

“All talk and no walk.”

“Dream on.”

“Game on.”

We looked at each other and we both laughed.

When Chet pulled into Carmina’s drive fifteen minutes later, he said, “I’ll call you about Friday’s game. Best number to reach you?”

“Just call Carmina and ask for me. I’m working on getting my own phone.”

“When do I get to hear about the new job?”

I’d been so wrapped up in locating Carmina’s bike, I’d completely forgotten to give him further details. “I’m the Sundown Diner’s newest carhop. Tips will probably suck, but at least they’ve got AC.”

Chet grinned. “Watch out for the drunk cowboys.”

“Yeah, yeah, nothing I can’t handle.” I knew he was just trying to scare me. “First shift’s tonight. Wish me luck.”

“Don’t need to.” His blue eyes zeroed right in on mine, and unexpectedly, I felt strangely warm and a little breathless. “They’re gonna love you. We should celebrate after Friday’s game. Catch a bite, or see a movie. Up to you.”

I broke away from Chet’s gaze and collected myself. I’d crossed a line just now, and I didn’t like how it made me feel. Chet was my friend, but I was devoted to Reed.
And you shouldn’t need the reminder,
I chided myself.

I said, “Carmina has been stricter than usual after I took the Mustang Saturday night. I’ll have to run it by her.” I didn’t care what Carmina thought, and I definitely wasn’t running my plans past her; I threw in the comment to cover my bases. I didn’t want to commit to giving my entire Friday night to Chet if better plans sprang up later. Assuming I met some people at the softball game, I might get a few more invitations. What I really wanted—what I really missed about home—was a weekend party. Lots of people, loud music, a good time.

Most of all, I didn’t think it was wise to spend too much time alone with Chet. I knew the perils of a long-distance relationship.
The mice will play when the cat’s away.
I wasn’t going to be one of those girls. Reed and I had been through too much to throw it away on a summer fling.

“Carmina’s used to having her way,” Chet said. “But that house of hers is big enough for two opinions. She’ll come around; it just might take time. You doing okay with her?”

“Yeah, we’re peachy. So long as only one of us is in the house at a time.”

“Must be hard, moving from one place to the next, never knowing who you’re gonna land with.”

“Hmm,” I mused noncommittally.

“How long were you in your last foster home?”

“Long enough,” I said vaguely. I hadn’t expected to feel a moral twinge over lying to Chet. The U.S. attorney’s office had given me a cover story for my safety, got it. But Chet and I were on good terms. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. It felt cheap to exploit that, even if I was only here for the summer. “Listen, I should get going. Catch a quick nap before my shift tonight. Well, that and plan my revenge.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

My smile slipped. Chet had meant the words to be funny, but as my thoughts drifted to Danny Balando, who was out there searching for me, I realized Chet’s joke was spot on for me, too.

Dead on.

AT FOUR THIRTY, I CLOCKED
in my time card. Clearly the Sundown was too cheap to upgrade to a computerized system. Dixie Jo put Inny, another carhop, in charge of giving me a tour of the kitchen and what I presumed was the diner’s version of basic training.

I couldn’t help staring at Inny as she waddled across the white-tiled floor with purpose, barking information over her shoulder at me. Cooks’ station, ice-cream machine, malt mixer, storeroom. Her black hair was cut in a choppy bob, and her small eyes seemed permanently pinched in a scowl. She had gangly legs and arms, and she folded the latter over her skinny chest. But below that she was soft and round, her belly straining against the fabric of her camo shirt. Inny, who didn’t look seventeen, was pregnant.
Really
pregnant.

Smacking her gum, she eyed me up and down. “Know the difference between French and ranch dressing?”

“Sure.”

“Things gonna get real busy round here at six. You’re not gonna have a mental breakdown on me, are you?”

I plastered on a false smile, because I knew what she was doing. She was trying to put me in my place, but I didn’t feel intimidated by her. I wasn’t intimidated by anyone in this town.

“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” I said.

Inny slapped an order pad in my hand. “Take down orders, give ’em to the cooks, then take the food out when it’s done. Need me to repeat any of that?”

I took an apron off the row of hooks beside the swinging doors, tied it around my waist, and tucked my order pad in the front pocket.

“This here’s the carhop door,” Inny said, walking me over to a side door beyond the cooks’ station. A rack of laminated menus hung to the left of the door, which had a porthole window encased in it that offered a view of the side street. “Stand here and keep an eye out. Someone should drive up soon.”

I leaned a shoulder against the door and kept my eyes on the road. A couple of minutes later, a truck pulled up and honked its horn.

“The hungry beep—that’s your signal,” Inny hollered at me while balancing four salad bowls in a row up her arm.

I pushed through the carhop door. I was halfway to the truck when I realized I had no idea how to greet a customer, much less take an order. Since I wasn’t in the mood to have Inny laugh at my ineptitude, or give me a General Patton–like dressing down, I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder and tried out an impromptu greeting.

“Welcome to the Sundown Diner. I’m Stella and I’ll be your server today. What can I get you?”

“Two chicken fried steaks and an order of fries and coleslaw each. No drinks. You got that?”

“Got it,” I said, scribbling it down as fast as I could. “I’ll put that right in.”

Inside, I clipped the order to the cooks’ wheel, but before I could sigh in relief over getting through my first order smoothly, I heard two more hungry beeps from the curb.

“Let me know when your hands get full,” Inny called from the other side of the kitchen. She stepped out of a large freezer, as big as a room, that shelved rows of frozen food in bags, canisters, and plastic buckets. Frosty air rushed through the open door, which she promptly shut. I had a feeling if the air conditioner didn’t kick on in the kitchen soon, I was going to have to come up with an excuse to visit the walk-in freezer frequently.

By six thirty, I was too busy for nerves. Every parking space beside the diner was taken; the minute one car backed out, another shot into its place. My hand was beginning to cramp from furiously scribbling orders, and my shoulders ached from carting trays of food between the kitchen and the street. The standard tip was a flat two dollars, which would have been scandalous in Philly, but it wasn’t like I could complain. Who was going to listen? Inny worked alongside me, methodically stuffing her tips into her pocket without comment. I wondered what she was saving for. It was probably judgmental, but I was sure she’d have no trouble getting some kind of government handout for teen parents.

Inny snagged me by the sleeve on my way outside. “I should warn you, that’s Trigger McClure’s truck that just pulled up.”

I glanced at the carhop door. I was too far away to see clearly out the porthole window. “Who’s Trigger McClure?”

For the first time all night, Inny’s expression softened. Wagging her head, she gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Don’t let him scare you. And don’t let him walk all over you.”

I pushed through the carhop door and headed for the red truck parked nose-first to the curb. The guy at the wheel looked about the same age as Inny and me. Definitely high school. Based on Inny’s warning, I’d expected someone older with crooked teeth and mean, alcohol-glazed eyes. One of Chet’s drunk cowboys, maybe.

Trigger McClure had a lazy, impish smile that played across his bow-shaped lips. Bright red-gold hair fell into hot blue eyes. A few freckles dusted his creamy skin, and I found myself shaking my head to break out of a trance. He looked like a model for a sporting goods store. No wonder Inny had warned me about him. He probably had girls fawning over him regularly. Hard not to let that kind of attention go to your head.

Trigger leaned his gym-chiseled body out the driver’s window and crooked his finger impatiently at me. “I’m next,” he hollered.

I walked over, catching a whiff of male perspiration. That, along with his sweat-soaked T-shirt and the baseball glove on the bench seat beside him, told me he’d probably come straight from practice.

“Where’s Inny?” he wanted to know.

“Inside. I’ll be taking your order tonight.” I held my pencil poised over the order pad, showing him I was on a schedule. Not that he noticed, but the car beside him had backed out and a new one had filled its place. Twin toddlers in the backseat whined and thrashed their legs while their mother tapped the steering wheel and fixed me with a
hurry-up
glare.

Trigger scratched his thumb across his forehead. “Listen up. . . .” His eyes perused the front of my shirt, and I couldn’t help feeling like he was ogling my boobs. “No name tag?”

I shifted my pad higher. “Would you like to hear our drink list? Pepsi products, lemonade, sun tea—”

“Mountain Dew and a chicken fried steak, Miss No-Name.” A sultry smile curved his lips as he addressed me with a hint of flirtation.

“I’ll put that right in.”

“You like this, don’t you, making me work to get your name?” He flashed teeth as white and straight as piano keys. I couldn’t say why, but something about him felt vaguely familiar. A ridiculous thought to have, since I’d never laid eyes on Trigger McClure before. But I couldn’t brush the nagging thought, and it made my guard rise a notch.

“I like doing my job,” I said, pulling on a bland mask of politeness. If Trigger wanted to learn my name, there were multiple ways—like strolling inside, cornering Inny, and asking her. It wasn’t that I
didn’t
want him to know my name. Despite how I was sure it looked, I wasn’t being cagey. It was just that his strange familiarity had chased a chill up my spine, and until I had time to sort it out, instinct told me to keep my distance.

“You’re a coquettish little thing, aren’t you?” Trigger went on, ramping up the charm in his good-ol’-boy smile.

Coquettish. I had always hated that word. And while he wouldn’t believe me, I wasn’t stonewalling him on purpose. But—

The more I stared at him, the more rapidly the synapses at the back of my memory fired. I
knew
this guy. I just couldn’t remember how.

Hoping to get away and clear my head, I skirted his truck and headed for the ragged-looking mom with twin toddlers.

“Making you nervous, aren’t I?” Trigger drawled after me. “I’ll get your name, girly-girl.”

With only half my mind present, I scribbled down the mother’s order, then hustled inside. It was going to drive me crazy, trying to place Trigger McClure. His name didn’t ring any bells, but his face certainly did. It had changed since the last time I’d seen it—whenever that had been. He’d grown up a bit, trimmed out that baby face, which was why I hadn’t recognized him at first—but at some point, Trigger and I had crossed paths. And I couldn’t fathom how. When would I have met a country boy from Nebraska?

It would have been long before I became Stella Gordon. If I knew Trigger, he might know me—the
real
me. He was a potential breach in my cover story.

Unless he didn’t remember me. It was a possibility. After all, it had taken me a moment to recall him. No, not recall. I still hadn’t placed him. I was beginning to doubt I’d ever met him. Maybe, years ago, I’d sat across the aisle from him on a plane, and I was confusing a simple glance in passing with a deeper, more prolonged connection. If I couldn’t remember how I knew Trigger, there was a good chance he wouldn’t remember me, either.

I knew I should tell Carmina. Deputy Price would want to know about this. But if they thought there was a breach, they’d probably yank me out. Thunder Basin hadn’t grown on me, but the last thing I wanted was to relocate to another middle-of-nowhere town. I had a job here. I was beginning to learn my way around. And I had Chet.

The instant I thought Chet’s name, I wondered why I had. Sure, he was friendly, but he wasn’t a reason to stay. I supposed I liked how he had a funny way of making me forget I didn’t want to be here.

I just had to make sure our relationship didn’t stray over a certain line.

After hanging my new orders on the cooks’ wheel, I picked up a food tray and started to carry it outside.