Beneath the Surface by Emily McIntire
Mason
Glancing around the motel room, I sigh. After telling Lily that I was staying at the Motel Eight, I felt like a piece of shit for not actually staying there, so I checked out of the room just outside of town and checked into this shithole instead.
Lily’s morning shift started two hours ago, and I want to give her a couple hours before I head in to see her. At this point, I know her waitressing schedule like the back of my hand. It never changes. She works Thursday through Tuesday, taking Wednesdays for herself.
Flicking on the TV while I get changed and ready, I turn it to the local news—not because I actually give a damn about what’s going on in the world, but because the quiet is stifling. Silence allows the ghosts from my past to whisper in my ear, and the noise takes it all away.
Usually.
Grabbing my rings from the counter and slipping them on my fingers, I plop down on the stiff mattress, sighing again when I realize I’ll never be able to get a decent night’s sleep with a bed that’s half the size of my body. But that’s alright, I’ve slept in much worse places for longer.
The bed frame creaks under my weight as I lean forward to lace up my black boots, rolling a toothpick between my lips.
“In presidential news, there are a few surprising hopefuls putting their name into the ring.”
The TV drones and I roll my eyes. Of course this is what they’re talking about. Fucking politics. I’ve never understood why we have to start hearing about presidential candidates nineteen months before they actually become president. Who fucking cares?
Blowing out a deep breath, I push down the disgust that’s crawling through my stomach.
This is why I never watch TV.
Before leaving to head to the diner, I grab my phone and check my email, seeing one from Don, asking how things are going. It’s vague, because he knows better than anyone that we can’t speak about anything work related on an unsecured email. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to tell him anyway. No way in hell I’ll let him know I’ve found the mark and am doing fuck all with the information, choosing to stick around and get to know her instead of collecting my cash and moving on.
Don is the one who taught me about this business, and I owe him… everything. He retired two years ago. Fell in love with a dime piece from Nashville, whisking her away to some small tropical island off the Caribbean, and hasn’t been back since. But every once in a blue moon I’ll get an email or a phone call. It’s nice to know that he still cares, because whether I want to admit it or not, sometimes, I miss the hell out of him. This life is a lonely gig.
But I’m okay with solitude.
Grabbing my wallet and keys, I swing my legs over the seat of my bike, revving the engine and heading to the diner. As I ride, a new plan formulates in my mind over how to handle the Lily situation.
I can’t believe I told her my name was Alex. Fucking ridiculous.
If I was a smart man, I would stay away. My line of work—my life in general—demands it.
Parking my bike, I glance up, Dina’s Diner flickering in yellow against the faded lime green sign, my new plan slotting into place in my brain.
I’ll watch Lily in plain view from now on. Just for a little bit, so I can make sure that giving up her location is what’s best. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn. My loyalty only lies with the person who’s paying me, but there’s just something about this girl that I can’t let go of. I need to make sure that calling her brother won’t be detrimental to what she’s got going on here.
And that’s yet another glaring red flag blowing in the breeze. Don would tell me to get my shit together before things come back and bite me in the ass. I don’t do personal relationships. I don’t feel things for anyone. It’s the only way to ensure everyone’s safety. The last thing I’d want is to drag somebody into my murky past—get them tangled up in webs they have no business being in. The same webs I’ve tried to keep from being caught in for the past decade.
I don’t even know this girl, but yet, here I am, my chest pulling tight as I walk through the doors and she comes into view. Her eyes narrow as she notices me slipping into the booth in the corner, pulling my paperback from my jacket and laying it next to me.
She walks up, a fresh pot of coffee in her fist, her dark hair contrasting vividly against the mustard yellow of her Dina’s Diner polo shirt.
“Back again, I see.” She props her hand on her hip, smacking the gum in her mouth.
I smirk. “Is that a problem?”
Her eyes trail down my body, lingering on my exposed arms, her gaze like a needle, reopening my scars until the ink bleeds. I shift, suddenly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
“That depends… coffee?” She lifts the pot and I nod, flipping over the mug that’s upside down on the table. She hums as she pours and I attempt to keep my eyes on the steam that’s swirling from the liquid, instead of on her.
Finally, I tear my eyes away and glance back to her face. She fidgets and pastes on a grin. “You gonna eat today or just lurk in the corner reading that old paperback?” She nods toward my book on the table.
The Art of War.The first book I read after leaving home, and the only one that has stuck with me years after. “Maybe you should read it. It’s a good book.”
She shrugs. “I’m not much for reading.”
“What are you much for?”
Her lips twitch and she bounces a bit on her toes. “Plenty of things.”
My brow raises, and I grab a toothpick from my pocket, unwrapping it and rolling it between my lips. “Care to share with the class?”
She tilts her head, blowing a bubble with her gum, the faint scent of cinnamon wafting from her mouth and into my nostrils.
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I don’t tell my life story to strangers.”
I take a sip of my coffee, the heat scalding my tongue. “And we’re still strangers?”
She frowns. “Yes, Alex. We are.”
The name splits my chest and twists my heart, showing me just how right she is.
I nod, leaning in. “Well, what do I have to do to not be a stranger?”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you hitting on me?”
I grin, amusement swimming through my veins. “You’re cute as hell, but no, I’m not hitting on you.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t need a friend.”
“Everyone needs a friend.”
“And you think that person is you?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
“Lily. Order’s up. Let’s go.” The gruff voice cuts into the moment, and she glances behind her, cringing before twisting back to face me. “Gotta go. Let me know if you get hungry.”
And with that, she bounces away, a lightness in her step and a grin on her face that hides the history of someone who ran from their family.
A history that I’m suddenly dying to know. And once my curiosity is sated, then I’ll tell her brother and get the fuck out of Dodge.