Fate's Dark Shadows: A stand-alone age gap small-town romance Page 2

  My eyes snap to hers. “Excuse me?”

  My boss chuckles. “No time to explain right now. But Silent Doyle started wearing that badge about five years ago, and we all more or less go along with it. We don’t ask too many questions. I promise you, he won’t hassle you. He keeps to himself. Now go on and get to table five. Those boys are cross country truckers, and they can get rowdy if we don’t serve them fast and shove them out the door quickly.”

  I can’t say I believe in monsters, but Ruby’s reassurances don’t make me feel any better. I am dumbstruck and so anxious I don’t pay attention to what I do next.

  When I go back out there to serve other tables, I feel his eyes on me. I absentmindedly pour decaf into one of the truckers’ coffee cups and hand someone else sugar-free pancake syrup when they ordered the real stuff.

  When Silent Doyle catches my eye between tables, his gaze peels back a layer of this shadow that hangs between us. I don’t want to look back, but I can’t help but steal a glance as I work. The boldness in his eyes, a dark, soul-deep thirst I can’t help him satisfy. No. Not me.

  The next time I look up after refilling table three’s water glasses, his stare intensifies, sending waves of self-consciousness rolling up my spine. He craves more than a plate of sunny-side-up eggs, I reckon.

  My insides respond to the call from the empty soul inside of him. He oozes desire. Not for things such as, “let’s go to the movie theater and hold hands.” He wants to do acts that cannot occur in a movie theater without the risk of criminal charges.

  He sees right through me; he sees the things I’ve bottled up and tried to ignore.

  I want what’s not good for me. I crave the kind of touch I don’t understand. My pulse races at thoughts of teeth scraping my skin and rough hands clamping around my throat.

  It feels wrong. It gives me the shudders.

  He continues to stare as I refill his coffee for the third time. I feel like everyone in here can feel the energy between us.

  And yet, this field is not the same as the energy given off by other men who creep me out. Not the way my stepfather made me want to jump out the window whenever he made eye contact with me. That was different.

  Doug’s leering eyes were off-putting in a way that I knew was broken and wrong. The outline of him standing in my bedroom door, his soft hands clasped behind his back as he watched me sleep. Doug’s calm manners could not hide how false he was with my mother. The man wore ridiculous sweaters, slicked his hair back, and laughed with his thin lips closed over his teeth. My mother believed Doug to be a righteous man, but I saw through him. He made my skin crawl. And that’s why I fled on my bike in the middle of the night. I only stayed because I was worried about her, but I could only take so much. And she wouldn’t listen to reason. I love her, but I had to rescue myself. I only hope she comes to her senses someday.

  No, my innermost shadows had nothing to do with that shriveled potato of a stepfather.

  My urges toward men began as soon as I came of age, long before my mother had started dating again after my dad ran off.

  I’ve known since a young age how I prefer to be handled. I want an older man who knows what he’s doing to pin me down and bite me.

  How did I know? Mom was preoccupied after so much loss, and I self-soothed with lots of movies that were too mature for me. Breaking news: Black Swan is not about dancing, and Blue Valentine is not about Valentine’s Day.

  That’s why I wear this cross; it’s a reminder to be careful.

  When my sister and best friend, Tara, passed away after a long battle with cancer, this necklace was all that was given to me. She was deeply devout. I wasn’t. Her faith didn’t save her, but maybe some of her goodness will protect me. Skeptics have experienced weirder things. Maybe my sister’s spirit will protect me from bad people who might take advantage of me, exploit the things I crave but don’t understand.

  When Silent Doyle’s order comes up, Ruby pats me on the shoulder to get my attention. I blush; I’ve been staring at the back of Doyle’s head, fingering the cross at my neck. “I know, it’s weird, but honey, I have a full house, and Paul is already got half the tables. You got this. Okay?”

  I bite my lip and give her a smile, nodding. Outwardly, she’s given me a boost of confidence.

  Inwardly, I am terrified.

  But I do as she says. I suck it up and bring Silent Doyle his eggs.

  As I pass by the table with the truckers, I feel pressure on my backside.

  Yelping, I whirl around and nearly spill my tray of plates.

  As I turn, I see the entire table cackling. “That’s for the decaf. We’re settled up now.”

  “Hey!” I seethe through my teeth. “You cut that out.”

  My cheeks blaze in anger, my eyes widen in uncontrollable ire. One of them just patted my ass!

  I had quite enough of that from my stepdad in Gold Hill, thank you very much. Oh, Doug would deny it, say his hand slipped while trying to hug me. He would chuckle and ask, “Now do I look like a bad person to you?”

  In contrast, these truckers are simply blatantly owning the fact that one of them just assaulted me.

  I’m about to open my mouth to set these jerks straight when a black shadow suddenly invades the space between me and the ass-grabbing trucker.

  Silent Doyle has intervened, and he’s right up in the man’s face.

  This? A fight on my first day?

  Oh no. What have I done? I should have said nothing.

  Doyle indeed says nothing—of course—and instead speaks with actions. I hear the crack before I see what has transpired. Doyle shifts his weight, and it’s then I see that the one who touched me is rubbing his forehead, and his cap has landed in his plate of pancakes, doused with syrup.

  Silent Doyle has just slammed that man’s head into the table.

  The trucker curses like I’ve never heard a man curse before in my life. I think my ears might catch fire.

  Ruby marches up, her cheeks matching the blazing red of her hair.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” I say, cringing as I wait for her to shout at me. I knew she was too lovely for a boss.

  Ignoring me, she tells the men, “I think you boys better leave,” she says, calm despite the outrage all over her face. I do not want to be on her wrong side; sometimes, the quieter and calmer someone speaks, the more intimidating they are.

  There’s muttering and scraping of chairs as the group of men rise, take their plates, and stroll out the door. Doyle is wiping down the messy table with wet napkins.

  “They didn’t pay, and they’re taking your plates for no reason!” I exclaim.

  Ruby shrugs. “Those same boys are always causing trouble. I should have told you not to seat them. They were banned a month ago for grabbing the last waitress who quit. It’s my fault. Now they’re banned permanently. I’m sorry that happened to you.” She turns to Doyle with a questioning look.

  He smooths down his blazer and returns to his table after giving her a nod.

  They share no words, but I can see they have this communication down to an art with their faces.

  You okay?

  Yes, ma’am, and sorry about the mess.

  Ain’t nothing. Troublemaker.

  You know me.

  I watch in fascination.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, remembering that I am still in possession of his food. I bite my lip to distract myself from my emotions and set down Doyle’s breakfast.

  My bare forearm brushes his soft blazer as I back away. The touch sends gooseflesh up and down my arm.

  I should thank him, show my gratitude somehow, and also apologize for involving him, but I’m shaken in his presence. His eyes catch mine, and once again, those fierce blues read me like a book.

  He sees my pain, my scars, my ineptitude with life in general.

  Most of all, I sense that he sees the things I hide. The hungry creature that lives inside is looking back at him. He sees me. He wants m
e.

  Well, he can’t have you, says the angel on my shoulder. You’re 19, inexperienced at life, and have no clue how to protect yourself. This man may be temptation on legs, but he’s definitely twice your age. Whatever secrets he has, he could destroy what’s left of your goodness.

  I watch Silent Doyle count out bills for a tip—too much, I can tell from here. He’s out the door before I go and fetch the cash.

  When I pick it up, it’s not a few bucks but a stack. Sucking in my breath, I count out five hundred dollars.

  Nothing is written on his bill that would indicate why he would live such a grossly generous tip. I don’t understand.

  Yes, you do. You say he can’t have you?

  He’s just claimed you.

  And you, little girl, are wet and trembling because this is precisely what you want, too.

  Chapter Three

  Doyle

  I should have known those guys would be waiting for me in the parking lot.

  “Old man, you’re going to apologize.”

  The one whose face I smashed into the table approaches. I should have struck him harder for thinking 35 is old.

  “Did you hear me? Are you deaf?”

  “Maybe he don’t speak English,” says one of them.

  “He’s all in fancy black clothes in the middle of the day. Maybe he’s a vampire,” another one of them cackles.

  The lack of basic comprehension about vampire lore that they are nocturnal is lost on some people. If I were such a monster, these three would be dead and ripped apart in a puddle of their own blood by now. The fact that one of them laid a hand on Maya makes me irrational on a level that far exceeds the damage they did to her. Homicidal is how I feel.

  “Hey,” says the one in the cap who grabbed Maya. “You’re early for Halloween, little man.”

  So now I’m old and little. I’m not going to apologize, and I’m not going to escalate this situation. I turn around and keep going on my way. Maybe they’ll just think I’m a coward and let me be.

  No such luck. A boot nails me square in the back, knocking the wind out of me. The one whose head I slammed into the table has kicked me in the back, and I fly forward before pounding into the asphalt. There are three of them, and I don’t have time to scramble to my feet before another one of them kicks me in the ribs while the third one stomps on my spine. My lungs, back, and ribs explode in pain; I blindly snake across the ground, trying to scramble away long enough to gather my strength. As I manage to rise to all fours, another blow sends me skidding. Grit scrapes down my face. I could outlast one of these idiots, but not three.

  Shouts. Scuffles of feet. A dog barking. I hear all these things as I gather my strength; my attackers seem to be taking a break.

  Dirt and blood blind me, but it’s then I hear a woman shrieking and sirens wailing. Shit. Someone called 911. Now the entire town is gonna know the weirdo they call Silent Doyle got his ass handed to him in Ruby’s parking lot.

  When I rise to stand, I’m lightheaded from my head hitting the pavement, and I stumble. Someone is wrapping my arm around their shoulder to keep me upright. A small, delicate frame. Whoever this is cannot hold me up for long.

  “I got you. You’re okay.”

  Shit. No. Not her. Not Maya. She cannot see me like this.

  The next thing I know, I’m sitting on the bench in front of Ruby’s, my angel Maya holding my hand while the fire chief is cleaning glass and grit out of my face. When I can finally see again, Rex the mechanic, and those retired farmers Rin and Marlon are holding the three attackers, waiting on backup. Rex no doubt noticed the scuffle from his shop next door. Rin and Marlon practically live at Ruby’s; they each have one trucker in a headlock—not bad for a couple of 70-somethings.

  Sheriff Mooney has arrived to load up and haul them away, one at a time. “This is the most excitement we’ve had since that kidnapping and shooting about a year ago; the deputies are so bored, they’ll be here lickety-split.”

  I can feel all eyes on me from inside the restaurant. I’m seated at the plate glass window, so of course, this whole scene will be rehashed, discussed, and picked apart for months.

  At least these people know I like to be left alone.

  Except for her. “D-Doyle? Are you okay?”

  Despite Maya’s youthful inability or unwillingness to understand my vow of silence, the quietness in my head is once again remarkable with her here next to me.

  The firefighter finishes bandaging me up, gives me a thumbs up after signing a form refusing transport to a hospital, and leaves.

  I don’t answer her, but I stand up to go home and forget this humiliation.

  Footsteps follow me. The short, hurried stride works to keep up with mine.

  “I’m sorry to ask you to break your vow of silence or whatever, but you’re kind of a mess. Let me walk you home.”

  I say nothing but continue walking. Walking and wincing at the pain in my rib. We’re on the sidewalk now, headed toward the tiny ramshackle downtown of Fate. I cannot have this woman following me all the way to my house like a lost puppy.

  I’m not a charity case.

  I whirl around and point my finger in her face. She stops, shocked, staring wide-eyed up at me with those round, curious eyes. I gesture at the ground, indicating I wish for her to stay here.

  She looks appropriately intimidated, for a few seconds. Then, Maya folds her arms across her chest, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but as a grown 20 year old woman, I don’t take orders from you. Further, I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you have to communicate with people. You’re not okay, and I’m walking you home.”

  I can’t be here anymore. I wave her off and turn back around, stalking away.

  I no longer hear footsteps behind me. Good.

  I continue down the street, and out of the corner of my eye, a yellow bicycle matches my speed. I look, and It’s her. Of course, it’s her.

  Maya waves.

  I try to ignore her, but the more I walk, the more I realize I’m in trouble.

  Everything around me turns blurry, and my head feels heavy.

  “Whoa!”

  I don’t know who says it, whether it’s Maya or me.

  But everything goes black.

  The next thing I know, I’m lying on the sidewalk, and she’s chattering away, looking down into my eyes. Her long hair has fallen out of her bun, and the soft locks brush my face. I could reach up, grab a handful and pull her to me. Maybe that would be enough to scare her off. But I don’t do that. She’s taken pity on me, and I just want to be alone.

  “You need looking after. Where do you live?”

  I wish for no conversation about this, and I also wish to be rid of her in a hurry. I do, but I don’t. I’d love nothing more than to take her home and discipline her for consistently and willfully breaking my vow of silence. But at the same time, I hate that she’s fawning over my weakened, pathetic state. I’m pitiful, and I won’t be fussed over. I heave myself to sit upright and then point to the square.

  “The courthouse?”

  Frustrated, I look around, but I don’t see the dry-erase tablet I take with me everywhere. I reach into the front pocket of her apron. She gasps in surprise. I realized too late that I’ve just touched her groin area over her clothes in my snatching of her pen and paper pad. Doesn’t matter now, I think, as I scribble out directions.

  I’m almost free of this torment.

  A few minutes later, we’re standing in front of my house.

  “Wow! You live here? Are you Gru?”

  I have no desire to linger outside long enough to find out what she’s talking about. Maya pivots to face me, and despite myself, I need to stare at that face. That pure, radiant face that assesses me with no judgment. “You know. Gru. From Despicable Me. You’re dressed in black. You’re kinda grumpy. You live in a gigantic black mansion. You see what I’m saying.”

  I blink back at her.

  Her soft lips form an O as she realizes
I’ve never seen what she’s referring to. The shape of her mouth, in that expression, makes me think about the things I should not think about. About making her moan, about dipping my finger into her sweetness and making her suck it off like candy. About watching those lips own my rock-hard cock. At least then, she’d be quiet.

  You are the worst, Doyle Adams.

  None of these thoughts is a good idea, but it would make my head blissfully quiet. Despite the inexplicable hush that comes over my clanging mind, any involvement with me can’t be good for her.

  “Let me walk you up the stairs at least,” she calls after me as I rush to my door.

  I have to get away from her.

  If I don’t, bad things will happen. Dirty things that will shock her and scare her.

  She’s following me up the stairs, close behind me. I can smell her jasmine scent, and hints of bacon grease and coffee.

  I unlock the door and push in, immediately turning around to shut the door in her face, but she’s fast. She’s already inside.

  I shoot her the meanest look I can muster.

  She laughs. I’m infuriated. “Listen. I think you have a concussion, so you’re stuck with me.”

  The paramedics already checked me for a concussion, and that’s not the problem.

  I point to the street, but she’s just standing there, looking determined. A little scared, mostly amused, but determined.

  Damn, this girl.

  I shouldn’t touch her, but she’s going to make me.

  Gripping her under her arm, I escort her outside and point at her bicycle.

  She’s warm where you’re touching her. You’re imagining the blood pumping just under the surface. You’d love to pin those arms above her head and bite that tender flesh…

  I manage to shut the door before she can follow me back inside.

  I stalk up to my room, the touch of her arm still burned into my palm.

  As I skulk up the wide, walnut staircase, I look down at that hand. Don’t do it, you filthy old man. Don’t do it.

  And yet, that’s precisely what I do. I lift my fingers to my nose and inhale the scent of her underarms. Sweat and pheromones. My mouth salivates. My eyes water, my cock twitches, and my blood boils.