Beneath the Surface by Emily McIntire

1

Lily

“Johnny, there’re a couple of guys who just walked in, I’m about to send some orders,” I holler at my manager.

He sighs, leaning back in the rickety office chair, his normally spiked blond hair matted against his head, and his Dina’s Diner shirt crinkled and stained. Our cook never showed up today, so Johnny was stuck on the line, frying up eggs, and overcooking bacon for the truck drivers that stop through.

We don’t get a lot of regulars here—other than Barrie—a man in his seventies who shows up every morning like clockwork, sipping on his coffee and working on his crosswords.

We’re close enough to the big city for a night on the town, and far away enough to be considered the middle of nowhere. But we’re right on the edge of State Route 60, so we get plenty of people passing through on their way to Phoenix.

My foot cramps against the linoleum floors, and I cringe, the tray of Coke tipping slightly in my hands. Pasting on a smile, I rebalance the weight and make my way over to the table of three grungy men who stumbled in fifteen minutes ago. They’re the only ones here, other than a lone customer in the back booth, tucked away in the corner.

My eyes flick to him. He’s been drinking coffee and reading The Art of War since he walked in three hours ago, and he hasn’t said a single word the entire time I’ve served him.

“Y’all ready to order?” I slide the Cokes down the table, grabbing my notepad from my apron and smacking my cinnamon gum.

“That depends, sugar. Are you on the menu?” The man closest to me leers, his stringy black hair falling over his bushy eyebrows, his mud-caked nails absentmindedly scratching against his forearm.

I smirk, playfully rolling my eyes, pretending like I haven’t heard some variation of the cliched phrase a million times. “Did no one teach you how to read wherever you’re from?” I ask, my head tilting to the side.

His smile drops and his hand stops scratching against his raw skin long enough to reach out and wrap around my wrist.

My body freezes, ants skittering up my arm and dropping into my gut—thousands of tiny legs crawling around inside of me. Just his touch has transferred the itch, and now I’m the one who needs to be scrubbed clean.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, bitch,” he spits. “I’ve got a nice way to shut you up.” His free hand gropes at his crotch, humping the air lewdly. His friends break out in raucous laughter.

I swallow, my eyes glancing around, not wanting to cause a scene. Whether I like it or not, I need the tip this guy and his friends will hopefully still leave.

Besides, it’s not the first time someone less than appealing has thought to take advantage of me.

My eyes lock on the lone stranger in the corner, and my stomach flips. He’s intimidating. And for the first time since he walked in, he’s staring right at me. My breath catches in my throat at the intensity in his gaze, his eyes almost an unnatural golden brown, and I watch as they drop to where the greaseball’s slimy fingers are wrapped around my wrist.

His grip tightens, drawing my attention back. I lean in close until my lips are just a breath away from his ear. “Sorry, sugar, but I’m a special service. Only available for those who know how to eat me properly.”

His muddy brown eyes flare, his mouth opening to say something, but before he can, a shadow falls over the table. I glance up, my breath sticking in my throat as I crane my neck to see who’s towering over us.

It’s the stranger from the corner. He’s taken off his black leather jacket, and my eyes trail along the rainbow of colors that cover every inch of his tan skin.

Who is this guy?

He still doesn’t say a word, the veins in his forearms popping as he crosses them and continues to stare down the table. Slowly, I feel the grip on my wrist loosen until it disappears completely.

“Whatever. None of this is worth the trouble. The food or the used up pussy,” the wrist grabber huffs. He jerks out of the faded red booth, shouldering past me and stomping out of the door. His friends follow, and as I stare after them, the only thought that rushes through my mind is who will end up paying for the Cokes. No way Johnny lets it go, money’s tight enough around here as it is.

Just fucking great.

I spin, my eyes narrowing. “You scared them off.”

The tattooed stranger smirks, his golden eyes sparking, and it makes me want to smack the pretty right off his face—watch his cheek grow pink from the sting of my hand.

“I did you a favor,” he responds.

My breath stutters, not expecting the deep rumble of his voice. Like it scraped over gravel before it passed his lips, creating a rough, but oddly enticing sound.

I scoff. “I’ve had enough favors to last a lifetime.”

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” he asks, his brow arching.

“That’s my way of saying, mind your fucking business.” I smile wide as I hiss through my teeth.

He cocks his head, and I lift my chin, refusing to fidget under his gaze.

It’s absolutely ridiculous how tall he is. I feel small enough on a normal day—barely passing five foot two—but with his frame, he could pick me up and put me in his pocket, or break me in half without even trying.

“I’m adding their drinks to your bill.” I slip my pad of paper back in my apron.

He grins slightly before something passes over his face, making his entire demeanor change. With a sharp nod, he spins, walking back to his table and picking up his book.

Good.Prick.

An hour later, he finally leaves. I walk over to his booth, cleaning up his dirty mug and wiping down the table. He was the last person here, but he never said another word after our encounter, and now that my irritation has died down, I feel like a bitch. He was only trying to help.

That guilt triples when I lift his mug and find a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill underneath.

My chest squeezes, and maybe I should feel guilty for what is clearly a sympathy tip, but I don’t. Because this means I’ll be able to put food on the table. Real food.

Realistically, I should be putting that money straight into savings. There isn’t a bill that exists in this town without my name on it. But I can’t stop myself from dropping by the twenty-four-hour corner store and picking up some treats. Ingredients for homemade pancakes, Cool Whip and chocolate chips. And then I grab some cookie dough ice cream, too.

Just because.

My legs ache as I walk the six blocks home, and there’s a crick in my neck from the long hours and the lack of adequate sleep, but I ignore it as I knock on Susan, my next-door neighbor’s, front door.

“Hey, Susan. Sorry it’s so late,” I speak low.

Susan yawns and smiles. “No worries, honey. Good night?” Her brow raises as she glances at the few bags dangling off my arm.

I shrug, the corner of my lips twitching. “Yeah. It was a good night.”

“Well, he was an angel, as usual.” She yawns again before disappearing.

My heart swells three times its normal size when she reappears, my gaze soaking up my baby boy. I miss him so much when I’m gone. His little fists rub into bleary eyes, his black hair, identical to mine, sticking up in random patches. His gaze swings around and locks onto me.

“Mommy!” he squeals, jumping into my arms. I stumble back, trying not to drop the bags as I wrap my hands around him.

“Hi, baby.” I kiss his forehead.

“What’s that?” He peers down at the bags on my arm.

“It’s a surprise.” I widen my eyes. “Only good three-year-olds who brush their teeth, and go straight to bed get to find out what it is.”

“I’m thwee!” he whisper-shouts.

I nod, juggling both him and the bags in one arm, unlocking our front door with the other. “That’s right. I guess you better be good.”

“Okay!” He shimmies down, racing to the bathroom, water turning on before I even make it to the kitchen.

After brushing his teeth, I settle him into bed, picking out our favorite nighttime story. The one I’ve read every single day since we came home from the hospital. He snuggles under his Spider-Man covers, his fluffy head resting against my side. He’s asleep before we even hit the fifth page.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby, you’ll be.” I whisper the last lines of the book, closing the pages delicately as his soft snores fill the room, and just like that, everything drains away.

My throat swells with gratitude. I may have been a bitch to the stranger, but I’m not too proud to acknowledge help when I get it. I don’t know who he was, but he’s the reason my kid is smiling tonight, and the reason he’ll be smiling tomorrow, with a full belly and chocolate chip smudges on his face.

A treat we don’t ever get to have.

In moments like these, in the deep dark of night, right after I put my baby down to sleep and am feeling the sting of loneliness—that’s when I miss my brother the most. When I regret running away the way I did all those years ago.

Thoughts creep into the forefront of my mind and I wonder where he is, what he’s doing… if he still thinks of me.

I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

Running my hand over my baby boy’s hair, I lean down, kissing his forehead.

“Good night, Chase. Sweet dreams.”