Terri Austin: Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

I owe my thanks to a lot of people who helped make this book a reality. To Emily Collins, my swim buddy and fellow critter, thanks for NaNoWriMoing with me. See what you started? To all my KCACG ladies — Kim Gabauer, Christina Wilson, Lindy Dierks, Paula Gill, Dawn Lind, and a special shout out to Heidi Senesac. Thank you for your friendship and holding my feet to the fire. To Shannon K. Butcher, an amazing writer and mentor — you’ve helped me more than you know. Thank you, Cheryl O’Donovan, for all your guidance. Kathy Collins, Alta Durrant, Sara Attebury, Sarah Skolaut, Janice McClain, and Barbara Herrin thanks for reading for me and inspiring me to be better. To Ann Charles, a kick ass writer, thanks for reading and blurbing. You are awesome. To Kim Carruthers and Sarah Lovewell, my beta readers, thanks so much. You guys rock. To my fellow chicks in the hen house, Larissa Reinhart and Susan M. Boyer — it’s been fun taking this journey with you. To John Snethen, thanks for all your help on all matters legal and illegal. Jeff and Colter, my go-to guys, first readers, and favorite husband and son — you two put up with my nuttiness and were my biggest cheerleaders. Even though you looked ridiculous in those skirts. But keep the pom-poms, you never know when they might come in handy. And gratitude to my daughter, Austin, who let me have her name — you’re not getting it back, so forget it. A big thanks to Kendel Flaum for all your hard work. Thank you all. You’re the best.

Mondays were known for two things at Ma’s Diner: we poured lots of extra coffee and the tips sucked. After my last customer left, I counted out my money. Twenty-three dollars and sixteen cents. Hmm, food or gas?

I walked behind the counter and had just started to refill ketchup bottles when my friend, Ax, walked in. The bright afternoon sunshine flashed on his wallet chain as it slapped against his thigh.

Axton Graystone — his real name, I swear to God — was usually cheerful, goofy, and extremely mellow due to his natural disposition and the boatloads of pot he ingested. But when he stopped by the empty diner that afternoon, he was twitchy and nervous.

He plopped onto a stool in front of me and swung his overstuffed backpack onto another. His knee bounced up and down like a toddler on a sugar binge and he tapped his fingernails on the counter. “Rose, I need you to do something for me.”

“I’m not giving you my pee.” Axton had a couple of possession misdemeanors. Now the administration at the college where he worked made him take a urine test once a month.

The keys in his pocket jangled with every bob of his knee. “No, not that. I need a favor.” Worry lines creased his forehead and his pale blue eyes were more bloodshot than usual.

I glanced up from my ketchup transfusion, leaned over and stared into said bloodshot eyes. I sniffed the air around him. “You’re not stoned. Are you drunk?”

Roxy Block, my fellow waitress-slash-bestie frowned. “I thought he was always stoned.” Roxy was in a pissy mood. She’d quit smoking the day before and it was not going well. For any of us.

“Where were you last night?” I asked him. “I thought we were going to watch War of the Worlds . I made those pizza rolls you like.”

“Jeez Rose, I told you a million times, it’s When Worlds Collide . It won an Academy Award. It was like, a visual masterpiece.” Tap, tap, tap . He rapidly beat out a rhythm on the counter.

“Whatever.” I reached over and laid my hand on his, forcing him to stop tapping his nails.

Axton hopped down from the stool and went to the picture window at the front of the diner. With his hands on the glass, he glanced up and down the street — left, right, then left again. His breath made a big foggy circle next to the closed sign.

After I twisted a lid on the last bottle of ketchup, I walked to the tables around the small dining room, putting a bottle on each. “So where were you?”

His shoulders jerked at the sound of my voice. “I went to a club. Look, Rose—”

“Like a dance club?” I interrupted, a bottle dangling between my fingers. I’d known Axton forever. We’d gone to school together from first grade through high school at Huntingford Prep and the only club Axton ever attended involved Starfleet uniforms and speaking Klingon.

“I’m trying to picture you dancing.” Roxy smacked a piece of nicotine gum as she pushed a broom across the black and white checkerboard floor. “And in my mind it looks more like a seizure.” Roxy wore a very short, red pleated skirt, a frilly white blouse, and white platform shoes. A lacy headband held back her electric blue hair. Her outfit was not a side effect of cigarette deprivation. She always dressed like that.

Axton glared at her. “It was a private club. Invitation only.” He looked back at me. “That’s not the point.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans that were almost white from too many washings, then stomped back over to the counter and jumped up on the stool.

“It wasn’t the country club, was it?” I gave a little shudder. “I hate that place. I thought you did, too.” I turned to Roxy. “The last time we were at the country club, he set off the fire alarm and the entire place had to be evacuated.”

Roxy smiled around her wad of gum. “That figures.”

“Dude, that was a long time ago. And no, it wasn’t the country club. It was…exclusive. Seriously, can you do me a solid?”

Axton at a Star Trek convention? Yes. Axton, at an exclusive anything? Uh-uh. Something was way off here.

Today he seemed wired for sound, but normally he was just wiry. From his thin, five-foot-seven-inch frame, to the patchy tufts he called a beard, to the dishwater, chin-length waves that swirled around his head. The man loved all things Tolkien and cheesy sci-fi movies. Private clubs where admittance was by invitation only? Uh, no.

“Ax, what is going on? And why are you so hyper?”

His gaze darted past me, to the last glazed doughnut on the cake stand.

Roxy walked up to the counter. “Bet you went to a titty bar. You know the strippers invite everyone, Axton.” She reached out and patted his back. “Not just you.”

He blew out a breath. “It was not a strip club.”

Roxy rolled her eyes and tried to blow a bubble. She wound up with a string of gum stuck to her upper lip.

Axton looked longingly at the doughnut. “Can I have that?”

I lifted the glass dome. “Take it.”

He grabbed it and snarfed it down in two bites. “Thanks. I haven’t eaten all day.” He rubbed his hands together, wiping crumbs from his fingers.

“Hey, dumbass, we just cleaned that counter.” Roxy picked up a rag and swiped at the crumbs.

With a sigh, I took the rag from her hands. “I’ll finish this. Why don’t you take a break?”

She raised a brow. “Like a cigarette break, you mean?”

“Like a fresh air break.” I spun her around and gave her an almost gentle nudge toward the kitchen.

Once she was gone, I faced Axton, pushed aside the salt and pepper shakers, and leaned on my forearms. I gave him a narrowed-eyed look designed to make him spill all his secrets. “What did you do last night and what kind of favor do you need?”