Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(12)
“Take your time. I got nowhere to be.” She wondered how bad the “rush” was in Angels Rest and spun sideways on the stool so she could study the otherwise empty diner and the street outside while watching the old man—Grampa, presumably—drop the fryer basket in the hot oil.
He raised his voice over the resounding sizzle. “You in town for the start of muzzleloader season?”
Geez, had she really been on the road and in Vegas so long? She had forgotten how rural life revolved around the hunting seasons. She shook her head. “Just visiting.”
He poured a coffee then ambled toward her, grizzled brows shooting up high enough to make up for the rest of his missing hair. “Long way from Vegas for a day trip.” He slid the pitch-black sludge in front of her.
She frowned. Ugh, Vegas. She was trying to forget that place for a little while. “How did you know…?”
He gestured at her lapel, and she put her hand over the What Happened In Vegas? button pinned to her jacket. Her manager had stuck it on her on the way out of town, wishing her luck with her writing. She knew he was worried about the next album.
Hell, she was terrified.
“Oh yeah,” she said sheepishly. “I was actually hoping to stay in town for a bit. Got a suggestion for a B&B nearby?”
The timer on the fries went off and he held up one finger—not the middle one this time—for her to wait. She took a sip of the sludge and decided one cup would probably keep her up long enough to finish the song brewing in her head.
Just a dozen or so more to go…
Grampa called, “You want the gravy on the side?”
“No way.”
“Thatta girl.” He returned with the plate piled with golden potatoes and a healthy—or unhealthy, technically—serving of gravy overtop. Small chunks of onion and sausage thickened the white cream. “Tough time to get a place here, what with the season just starting. Motel’s full, so’s the RV park. Everybody in town with an extra room already has a cousin in it. But let me think…”
Was her getaway over before it began? She swabbed a fry in gravy and popped it in her mouth. “Oh yum. This is great. Like my grammm…”—she slanted a glance across the street—“granddad used to make.”
Grampa smiled. “Where your people from?”
“Other side of the country. Kentucky and West Virginia area.”
“I hear country in your voice, for sure,” he said.
That comment would’ve bothered her, back when she’d been struggling to find her voice. And it was kind of bugging her again. Apparently you could take the girl out of the country and not the other way ‘round. In the end, she was gravy, through and through. Couldn’t put a Vegas shine on that, no matter how hard she tried.
Defiantly, she had two fries at once and washed them down with the black coffee. “I have a van,” she said. “So I don’t really need a bed. Just a place to park and the necessaries. I can pay, of course.” It had been years since Willow Raleigh and the Eagle Boys had to rough it. It would be easier not having to share the space with boys, at least. She definitely couldn’t go back to town and admit defeat.
“Let me make a call, see what I can do,” Grampa said. “You sit tight and enjoy those fries.”
She would, dammit. Since she didn’t have any other choice.
The thought of going back to the city turned the gravy to mud in her mouth, and she let the fries sit while she nursed the coffee, staring blindly out the window. The slanting light warned that the end of day was coming. Where would she go? How far could she chase the songs before she had to admit she’d never catch them again?
Preoccupied with her own woes, she didn’t even notice two guys pausing at the front door until the bell jingled. God, even a diner door made better music that she did…
Then her attention focused. Big dudes in black T-shirts, with crisp movements and shaggy hair, they reminded her of Diesel. Ugh, she didn’t want to be reminded of that any more than her failed songs. One of them lifted his head and met her gaze sharply.
She spun back on her stool to face the kitchen when Grampa returned to the other side of the counter.
“Just waiting for a call back,” he said. “But I think we can find you a place to rest for awhile. This is Angels Rest, after all.” He patted her hand.
She dredged up a smile. “Thank you, really.”
He patted her hand again and hustled off to deal with his customers with a cheerful, “Heya, fellas. Got tired of that bullshit quiche across the street?” She sneaked a glance after him and saw the two guys at one of the booths. One had his phone out, but he was looking at her.
A nervous zing went down her spine. She was good at judging people, and these guys were triggering her alarms. She was glad she hadn’t parked the van right out front of the diner; she didn’t want them knowing what she was driving. She’d wait until they got their food and then sneak out. She might’ve forgotten about hunting season, but she remembered how to deal with guys like this. She was as quick and efficient with her mace as any hunter with an eight-pointer in his sights.
Grampa refilled her coffee when he walked past again. “I forgot to ask if you wanted cream or sugar.”
“I’m good.” She hesitated. When a family of five walked in, the three children chattering about what kind of soda pop they’d get, she lowered her voice and asked, “Do you know those guys who first came in?” When Grampa looked at her curiously, she added, “I thought they looked familiar.” Yeah, too much like a guy she’d slept with, not that she was saying that aloud.