Then he flipped the phone closed and tossed it to me.
Automatically, my hands came up and I bobbled it but luckily caught it before it fell to the asphalt at our feet.
“Keys,” he rumbled and I blinked.
“What?”
His big hand came up between us, palm to the sky and I looked down at it to see his black tats and the veins sticking out on his superhumanly muscled forearm.
“Keys,” he repeated.
My eyes went back to his beautiful ones.
“But… it’s my car.”
“Keys,” he said again, same rumble, same tone, no impatience, no nothing and I got the sense he’d stand there all day fencing me in and repeating that word until I complied.
I swallowed.
Hmm.
I was thinking I didn’t want to spend the whole day in the hot sun having a conversation with a mountain of a man where his only contribution was one, one syllable word.
“They’re in the ignition.”
“Passenger seat,” he replied and I wondered if he knew any verbs.
I didn’t think it wise to ask this question. I nodded and noticed he didn’t move. There was a slip of space on either side of him between door and car but only a small slip. He didn’t intend to get out of my way.
I turned sideways, sucked in my gut and squeezed by him, the front of my body skimming the hard side of his, the back of it skimming the car door.
I got free and moved around the trunk to the passenger side.
He’d adjusted the seat and folded his big bulk into the driver’s side by the time I angled in the passenger side.
The second I pulled the door shut, my precious baby roared to life.
He didn’t put his seatbelt on or wait for me to do so as he skidded out, wheels screeching against asphalt and we took off through the waves of heat down the road in front of the prison.
Shit.
*
“Two,” Ty Walker rumbled at the woman who was wearing a yellow waitress dress, white cuffs on her short sleeves, a little white apron, a little white cap on her head, the whole outfit belonging in a sitcom from the ‘70’s.
She had her head tilted way back and she was staring up at him blinking rapidly, easily read expressions moving across her face. Awe. Fear. Titillation. Curiosity. Lust.
“Two,” Ty Walker repeated when she didn’t move then he added, “Booth.” Then he finished, “Back.”
She kept blinking.
I stepped in front of him and waved my hand in hopes of getting her attention.
She blinked a couple of times and her head tipped down so she could look at me but it was still tilted back because I was also taller than her and I would be even if I wasn’t wearing platform sandals.
“Hi,” I said chirpily. “Can we have a booth at the back of the restaurant?”
She stared at me, her eyes flicked up to Walker then they came back to me then she nodded, turned to the hostess stand, grabbed a couple of menus and hustled through the diner to the back where there was an open booth. She slapped the menus on the table and Walker rounded her and sat with his back to the wall. I slid in on the other side.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling at her.
“Coffee,” Walker said over me. “Now.”
She nodded quickly.
He kept speaking. “Bacon, crispy, double order. Sausage links, double order. Four pancakes. Four eggs, over medium. Four slices of bread. Hash browns, double order. After the coffee.”
She blinked at him and it hit me that was the most he’d said (since our hour long ride from the prison to this diner consisted of no talk at all) and it also hit me that maybe he actually didn’t know any verbs since he still hadn’t used any but one and that was to tell Shift he was out but, even so, he’d only used two words to do that.
Then she looked at me.
“I don’t know what I want to eat yet but a Diet Coke would be sweet. I’ll take a look at the menu. If you can get my guy here his food, though, that would be good,” I said to her. “He’s, uh… hungry,” I finished, pointing out the obvious since he ordered enough to feed four.
“We have Diet Pepsi,” she whispered, her whisper holding a tremor of fear, like me not getting Coke would send Walker into a violent rage the bloody results of which would make network news.
“That works too.” I smiled at her again.
She nodded and rushed away.
I looked at Walker. He was looking out the window.
Then I looked at the menu.
She came with the coffee first and I ordered a tuna melt and curly fries. She came back with my diet. Then she came with his food before my tuna melt. Finally, she delivered my sandwich.
By this time, Walker was almost done with his food.
And, I will note, he said not one word throughout.
As I chewed a fry, I figured it was time for me to suck it up and attempt conversation if just to find out what was next.
“Is it good?” I asked as he shoved pancake into his mouth, thinking to ease into it.
His eyes cut to me.