Something tells me if I screw up and get people nosing around the operation, my next place will make a Medieval dungeon look like the Marriott.
My stomach growls, returning me to the task at hand. I start the engine, then decide to head to a cafe across town. Laziness has been getting the best of me lately. Time to start circling wider before I become a regular to some waitress.
Thirty minutes later, I pull into a cafe parking lot. My brain is pulsing. Damn hangover.
Inside the cafe, the scent of hot coffee and grease greets me. I take a seat at an empty table near the door. A small check-out counter sits in front of the pass bar. Only two people are in sight, and one—an older guy—is adding up pennies. He uses a finger to jerk them aside, his mouth moving as he counts.
The woman, about the same age, spots me, grabs a menu from a rack on the side of the counter, and crosses the small room.
“Can I get you something to drink?” She lays the menu on the table. “Coffee? Orange juice?”
“Yes, both.” I don't open the menu. “Blueberry pancakes, bacon well-done, hash browns.” I think of the cougar bartender and grin. “And eggs, over easy.”
The waitress nods, takes back the menu, and strolls away.
My pocket vibrates. I dig out my phone and touch the screen. I have a text message.
Just wanted to apologize for leaving in a rush this morning. -Syd
What the shit?
I scowl and type back. How the hell did you get my number?
After pressing send, I realize it's not the smoothest way to handle the situation, but a terrible feeling is brewing in my stomach. And it's not just the lack of food anymore.
My phone vibrates again.
Oh. When you were freshening up, I grabbed your number off your settings. Sorry if that bothers you.
If that bothers me? Why the fuck was she snooping around my phone?
Another message comes in from her. Sorry. I know it sounds terrible.
I reply. It's fine.
Nothing a call to the phone company won't fix. Change of number, and goodbye Syd.
Hopefully she isn't bold enough to show up to my place uninvited, since I didn't get to be the morning-after asshole. God dammit.
The waitress brings coffee, creamer, and a glass of orange juice. She leaves without a word. I stare at my phone, trying to understand how Syd had deemed it appropriate to lift my info.
I text her again. Why did you take my number?
A moment later, she replies. I thought you said it was fine.
I lied.
The text messages stop coming in. I probably upset her, but I don't feel bad about it. She rifled through my shit.
No more house guests. I knew better, but I have no idea how to explain a hotel charge to Karl. Time to figure that out.
The waitress brings the plates of food, and my attention focuses on the meal. Fluffy blueberry pancakes topped with a swirl of whip cream. Bacon cooked to a crisp. Hash browns … Well, they aren't really hash browns. Country potatoes, but it's all good with a little Tabasco.
I pick up my fork to dive in, and my phone vibrates. So Syd decided to reply after all. With an irritated sigh, I poke the screen to read the message.
I can explain it better in person. Want to meet for lunch?
No, I do not. I want her to stop ruining the fun reel of last night replaying in the back of my head.
I text without even picking up the phone, I'm over it. Have a good life.
If she doesn't take the hint soon, I actually will have to change my phone number—and come up with an excuse to tell Karl. Dammit.
I pull my plate closer and cut into the pancakes. They really are magnificent.
The phone vibrates again.
I drop my fork, snatch up the phone, and press the dial button. The line rings once.
“Dimitri?” Syd sounds taken aback.
“For fuck's sake, woman, what in the name of Beelzebub do you want?”
She makes an “uh” sound. Then she seems to collect herself.
“I'm not trying to be that girl. I know it was a one-night stand. But, I do feel bad for taking your number, and—”
“So stop using it,” I snap.
I hang up and go back to eating.
The phone vibrates with an incoming call.
I growl and answer it. “Go away, Syd.”
“Now you're just being a jerk.” She sounds angry, but her voice quivers. “A lot of shit has gone down in the last twenty-four hours, and I just wanted to apologize to you. Go to hell.”
She hangs up.
My eggs are getting cold.
I hate cold eggs, but I hate being the bad guy more so. This is one of the few times I'm not forced to be, even though I would really like for her to get lost.
I finish my pancakes, then resign to calling her back.
She answers on the third ring. “What now?”
She sniffles.
“Have you been crying?” My mouth slams shut.
I don't want to know. I don't want to know if she was crying, or why she made off with my phone number, or anything else about her or her life. She has taken all the fun out of our drunken shaboink.
“Why are you calling me, Dimitri?”