Keeping Allie (Breaking Away #3) Page 10

  Dead. Chase is dead.

  My phone buzzes. I look. It’s not David. It’s Mom, telling me she’s coming now.

  David’s the only person I want to talk to right now. Only he has the answers I need.

  “Come inside,” Marissa urges. She doesn’t really give me a choice, grabbing my hand and dragging me in.

  For the next few minutes she clucks over me, making coffee and putting it in front of me, sitting next to me while I answer texts.

  I feel like someone is draining my guts out through a hole in my heart. Like someone’s hooked a vacuum cleaner hose up to me and is sucking it all out.

  Detective Knowles just texts a single line to tell me they haven’t recovered Chase’s body yet, but he’s sorry to inform me this way. My mom texted, and Marissa texted me nine times in the ten minute walk from the cafe to home.

  Still no text from David.

  I can’t really feel anything. After a while, Marissa takes my cold coffee cup away. Morty wakes up. He works opposite shifts from me, and noon is about when he gets up. I hear him and Marissa whispering furiously in the kitchen, and she comes out with another hot cup of coffee for me.

  Morty gives her a sour look. He’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and no shirt. He leaves the living room and comes back in carrying a big bottle of scotch. He pours a bunch in my cup. The muscles of his chest are so big. He’s a huge guy, impossibly wide, with layers of muscle under layers of muscle and that ginger-colored curly hair.

  “Drink it, Allie,” he insists.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I mumble to him.

  “Allie, honey?” he says in a voice I can’t argue with. “I don’t care if you don’t want it.” He bends down, his eyes firm and compassionate. “You need it.”

  He picks up the cup of coffee and presses it into my good hand. I start sipping. The alcohol makes the coffee bitter. It stings going down my throat, but I don’t gag. The steam is easy to inhale, and bit by bit, sip by sip, I find the void inside of me expanding.

  Growing.

  It’s not so bad like this. Morty goes into his bedroom and comes back out wearing a peach colored tie-dye shirt that is stretched out and has small holes in it. He wanders into the kitchen and returns with his own cup of coffee. Taking a seat on the couch next to me, he peers over the top of my mug.

  “Drink up,” he insists.

  I finish it. The alcohol is making me fuzzy. The giant gap inside me feels a little less cold. It doesn’t change the fact that Chase is dead. It makes that fact a little less raw. But that’s temporary. His death is forever.

  Morty puts his arm around me and I stiffen, then I nestle into him. I’ve never had a big brother before. Morty’s the closest thing to it.

  He just sits there with me. He’s a presence, solid and safe. Stable and just there.

  And when I cry so much half the front of his shirt gets wet, he doesn’t say a word.

  Chapter Twenty

  It’s Monday morning and I’m back at work. Rita called me on Friday to tell me not to bother coming in Saturday, and Sunday was my day off. I spent the last two and a half days drinking Morty’s spiked coffee, crying on his, Marissa, and Mom’s shoulders, and wondering why David abandoned me.

  He never did answer my text.

  The regulars at Sunrise Cafe are being extra nice to me. It feels weird. I can tell they don’t know what to say or do. They care, though. Mostly, they’re showing it with bigger tips, quieter voices, and sad eyes. And hugs. So many hugs. At the rate the hugs are coming in, I’m starting to think they’re using this as a chance to cop a feel. No one’s inappropriate, though. I couldn’t handle that now.

  “Was that your boyfriend?” Mike asks in a mumbly voice. The question sounds like zacherboyfend? and it pings in my head. Over and over, like an echo.

  I just stare at the coffee pot in my hand. My arm has healed enough that I removed the bandage. The ugly red scars taper down to my wrist and lick the thumb joint.

  Was Chase my boyfriend? For a precious time, yes. At the end—no. Definitely no. No matter what he told my mom, he wasn’t my boyfriend. Boyfriends don’t disappear on you. They don’t kidnap you. They don’t deliver you to a drug lord, then rescue you.

  And they definitely don’t disappear again and then resurface in a video where they die.

  I’m so full of grief and so full of anger. How can you love someone so much and at the same time want to smack them upside the head?

  “Um, no,” I finally say to Mike. He just nods and goes back to staring at his coffee cup. The guys at the counter are starting to shoot me looks that go beyond concern. They think I’m unraveling.

  They’re right.

  “What happened to your arm?” Joe asks. He’s just sat down and I pour him his cup of coffee and pivot, grabbing an ice water for him. His eyes are on the shiny, waxy skin.

  “Burned it.”

  He snorts. “No shit. I mean, how?”

  How.

  How do I explain that I was being rescued from a motorcycle compound by a disguised DEA agent and fell off the bike? How do I explain how tired I was, how my ankle got caught on the bike, how Chase was fighting my mother’s old man in order to get me out of there?

  I can’t. The second I start to open my mouth and tell even one, single truth it all sounds like I’m lying.

  The truth sounds more like a lie than any fake story.

  “Cooking oil,” I mutter, and turn back to the line. Tito’s got two plates ready. I deliver the breakfasts to Mike and some new guy, a friend of Mike’s. He’s about my age and has razor burn, wide eyes and dark hair that’s super short. He taps his fingers constantly on the counter and has had three cups of coffee already.

  “You did that here?” Joe asks. Oh, boy. He’s curious today.

  I smooth my hands over the dirty dark green apron I wear when I work. A giant bulge of quarters and other change in one pocket hits my hand. I go home lopsided like this every day, my front pocket filled with about twenty bucks in coins.

  “No. At home,” I say. Every word is hard to speak. I stare at the scar and the next words just pop out, unplanned. “They’re really ugly, aren’t they?” I add. “There goes my modeling career.”

  His face sort of folds in on itself. Crumples, like a paper bag. “Oh, baby. No, Allie. No. You’re beautiful, sweetheart. No scar will change that.” He dips his head down, like now he’s ashamed of himself for asking about the burn.

  “It’s okay,” I say, fighting back tears. Great. Now I’ve upset him. Joe doesn’t worry me. He’s older than Jeff, first of all, and he’s not my type. When he calls me names he’s just kidding. When he tells me I’m beautiful, he’s just being nice. I know the scar is nasty. I’m marked. Forever.

  El Brujo did this to me, in a way. So I’ll never forget him. I may have escaped, but did I really?

  Joe looks like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. I wish he’d stop asking me questions. Bill comes in and I give him his coffee and water. Now all the counter seats are full with the regulars and their friends. This gives me a feeling of satisfaction.

  Life is back to normal.

  At least, here at Sunrise Cafe.

  Joe nudges Bill and says, “We’re asking Allie about those nasty burns on her arm.” His eyes narrow in a funny way. “Says it’s cooking oil.”

  Bill gives one hard nod, his chin going up, eyes on me. “Did cooking oil cause the scars on your forehead, too? And the one on your jaw?” Bill asks.

  They’ve clearly been talking to each other about me. They think someone did this to me. Hurt me. They’re right, but it’s not what they think. It’ll never be whatever they’re thinking.

  I freeze, my body filling with a numbness I can’t feel right now. Can’t. Tito and Rita are understanding, but my job is all I have right now that is keeping me sane. And keeping me employed.

  “No. I fell off my bike,” I say. Not a lie.

  “You don’t have a bike,” Bill says. “I’ve never seen you ride o
ne.”

  “It got bent in the accident. Back home,” I whisper. Another truth. I remember the shack. How Chase tenderly took care of me. The way his hands cleansed my wounds, how he was so gentle and caring. That’s the Chase I can’t stop loving.

  And then there’s the other Chase.

  Luckily, two tables come in. An old couple and some backpackers. I light up. Both tend to be good tippers. I leave Joe and his questions and get both tables set up with water and coffee. They’re easy: all four want the 2-2-2 special.

  After I deliver their order to Tito I grab two coffee pots and double-handed, refill the entire restaurant full of mugs. I get shy smiles and boisterous thank yous, hands covering cups for those who are done, and two requests for more cream. That’s easy. I deliver the little silver pots and run to the bathroom. When you’re the only waitress, you have to plan everything in advance. Happy customers mean good tips, and even a bathroom break can screw everything up.

  I finish my business, wash my hands, and go back on the floor. There’s another guy now, sitting alone at the smallest table in the tiny cafe, his back turned to me. He has dark, wavy hair cut short and a man’s blue business shirt on. Khaki pants. Nice, thick leather shoes. He looks like one of the guys who works at the computer firm down the street, the ones who eat at Starbucks and Panera. Definitely not the typical diner here, but we take anyone as long as you pay.

  “I’ll be with you in just a minute!” I call out, and go behind the counter. Three plates are under the hot lamp and I deliver those to guys at the counter. They grunt their thanks and I make sure they all have coffee. Joe needs his orange juice.

  “Heya, Girlie,” he says, tapping the back of my hand with one finger. Girlie. That’s what Frenchie and Galt used to call me. I suppress a shiver and try not to panic. Joe doesn’t look like Frenchie. He isn’t Frenchie. And yet that word...

  I am not going to dwell in the past. What’s done is done. Chase is dead, Frenchie isn’t here, and I am fine. Fine.

  Once I’m done, I grab an empty mug, a coffee pot and a pre-filled ice water from a tray and hustle over to the new table.

  “Hi there!” I say, putting on my waitress smile. I set the mug and ice water down, and hold up the coffee pot. The guy stares down at his hands. “Coffee?”

  He looks up just enough for me to see his full profile.

  Oh, my God.

  It’s Chase.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Okay. I am losing it, because Chase doesn’t dress like a preppy college guy. He doesn’t have deep, chocolate-colored hair. He doesn’t have—

  “Shhh, Allie,” he says.

  Oh. Omigod it’s really him?

  “Don’t say a word.”

  That’s not hard, because my throat has closed up and my heart has stopped. I’m seeing a ghost. I’ve gone off the deep end. It’s like my nightmares where I invent insane scenarios that can’t be real.

  I am hallucinating this new, changed Chase.

  I need help. The kind that comes with pills and straitjackets.

  “Don’t say my name,” he says. “Just pour me a cup of coffee and call me Tim.”

  Tim?

  “Sure,” I hiss, pouring the coffee with a shaking hand. He turns his head and watches me pour. I see his jaw harden and his nostrils flare.

  “What happened to your arm?” he asks through gritted teeth.

  “I hurt it playing Barbies. What do you think?” I finish pouring the coffee and set the pot on the table. I can’t move. My feet are cement blocks. He’s radiating heat and it’s pulling me in. It’s like he’s the earth and I am the moon, pulled to him by gravity. Or something. I’m not exactly up on the laws of physics right now. My brain keeps screaming Chase Chase Chase Chase and I am about three seconds away from having my mouth join in.

  “Thanks,” he says, finally looking up. Those brilliant topaz eyes. Oh, sweet Chase. It is him. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s—

  “What the hell happened?” I snap. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “That’s right. So, what’s the special here? You got hash browns or home fries?” he says in a normal tone of voice. Like he’s pretending we’re having a different conversation than the one I want to have.

  “Quit acting like I’m just your stupid waitress!” I whisper, pulling on his shirt.

  He gives me that fake smile again. “I have to pretend until we’re alone. I can’t make a scene. You can’t, either. I’m in hiding.”

  Hiding.

  “You’re what?” I ask, trying to understand.

  “Hiding. I have to remain as unobtrusive as possible,” he explains.

  “So you came here? To my workplace? A call or a text would have been nice,” I say back.

  “Can’t. Electronics might be monitored.”

  “A note at my front door would have been good.”

  “You’d have thought it was a sick joke.”

  He’s right.

  “As soon as you’re off your shift, meet me outside, by that bench,” Chase says. He points to the park bench where old Mike sleeps sometimes if he can’t get into a homeless shelter. Our 2-2-2 special is what he buys when he panhandles enough money.

  I stare blankly at the bench.

  “Just don’t make a scene. Please,” Chase emphasizes. My hands are shaking and I feel like this is too much. First my Mom dies, then she turns out to be alive. Then Chase dies and he turns out to be alive. It’s not quite the cast of The Walking Dead, but it’s just too weird.

  “Hey!” Joe shouts over to us, holding up his empty coffee mug. He looks at me and winks. “Sugar Tits! I could use a refill.”

  Chase stands and is across the tiny cafe faster than I can blink.

  His eyes are half-mad. He looks like he’s ready to rip Joe’s head off and scramble it on the grill like it’s a dozen eggs. Chase is in Joe’s face, inches away, breathing hard.

  “No! Uh, Tim. It’s okay. Joe didn’t mean anything by it,” I say, grabbing his hand. My skin feels like melting butter and hot lightning when we’re connected like this.

  I’m touching Chase again. I want to pat him down. Pet him like a dog I can keep. Just keep touching him.

  But right now he and Joe look like they’re about to tear each other to shreds.

  Joe stands and gives Chase...er, “Tim” the once over.

  “What’d you say to me?” Joe asks.

  “Did you call her ‘Sugar Tits’?” Chase demands.

  “Who’s this guy, Allie?” Joe asks. He lifts his baseball cap up, runs a callused hand through his hair, and sets the hat back down on his head. His eyes are open and confused.

  “Your worst fucking nightmare,” Chase says as seven guys step off their counter stools and start coming over to back up Joe. All of them—Joe included—have hard eyes and clenched fists. They’re ready to fight. I’m not sure why. Somehow, I’m at the center of all this.

  And then Chase just hauls off and punches Joe in the jaw. It’s a clean, hard hit that makes Joe’s mouth spray blood everywhere. All over the plates of eggs, bacon and toast people are eating.

  I scream. Tito and Rita come running out from the line waving spatulas. Joe’s breakfast regulars try to get their hands on Chase, who is now brawling with Joe.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” I yell.

  “Don’t call her Sugar Tits, you fucking tool,” Chase shouts at Joe.

  Bill gives me a confused, furious look as he tries to pry Chase and Joe apart. “Who is this guy, Allie?” he asks.

  “I’m her boyfriend, asshole,” Chase spits out.

  All movement in the room halts.

  Bill’s holding Joe, who’s struggling to be let go. Bill drops him and Joe puffs up, eyes crawling from me to Chase to all the other regulars in the room. Out of the corner of my eye I see the elderly couple slowly slink out of the cafe. Great. There goes that tip.

  “That true, Allie? This guy your boyfriend?”

  It’s so complicated. But it’s easier to lie, because
otherwise there’s going to be a brawl worse than the one back at Jeff’s bar, because Chase is hyped up for a fight. He’s practically vibrating with rage.

  “Don’t call her Sugar Tits, you motherfucker,” he growls at Joe.

  “That’s right, boy. I fucked your mother real nice. She begged for it,” Joe snaps back, spitting at Chase’s feet.

  He has no idea what he’s just said.

  Chase charges him, right down the middle, and his head hits Joe’s ribs. With powerful thighs and the kind of balance you only get from riding a motorcycle most of your life, he lifts Joe up into the air and back, knocking into the row of guys next to and behind Joe.

  It’s like Chase is bowling, and Joe is the ball.

  All the guys are the pins.

  “Stop! Stop!” I’m screaming, over and over. Rita runs right into the middle of it and starts hitting Chase in the back of the head with the end of a spatula, hard. She beats him until it sounds like the lashes of a whip.

  Cell phones come out and the backpackers grab their packs and race out the door. I’m sure they’re calling the police.

  Police.

  There’s no way Chase wants the police involved.

  “HE’S MY BOYFRIEND! STOP THIS NOW! I WILL LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK IF YOU TWO DO NOT STOP FIGHTING RIGHT NOW!” My voice bellows, louder than I’ve ever spoken in my life. It rings through the tiny little restaurant and all movement freezes.

  “I mean it!” I scream. “Sugar Tits is long gone. Allie is getting out of here. You men are crazy! All of you! I’m so done!”

  Rita’s mouth is hanging open. So is Tito’s. I am standing there, holding a broom I must have grabbed. I’ve lifted it high in the air and it looks like I’m about to beat Chase and Joe with it.

  “Get up! Now!”

  They jump to their feet. Bill steps between Chase and Joe as a safety measure. I mentally remind myself to give Bill all the free orange juice he wants for life.

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” I say to Chase and Joe.

  “He was disrespectful to you,” Chase mutters, rubbing his red jaw.

  “And this asshole decked me!” Joe says.