That Girl (That Girl, #1)(13)

“It’s not a shithole. You’ve been the one person I’ve opened up to here, and it kills me to walk away, but I’m scared here. Scared like I was back home. I’m always getting lost and wandering into questionable places. I need something a little smaller.”

“Understood,” she says.

“Suggestions?”

“Head toward Fort Collins. Smaller-ish and has some outlying towns you can nestle into.”

I nod, considering. “Thanks.”

“I’m not happy about this shit, kid,” she says, meeting my gaze.

“I know,” I mumble.

“Last day today?”

“If that’s okay?”

She lets out a short, resigned chuckle, “You’re a runner, and you’re seriously asking if it’s okay? Didn’t I teach you shit, kid?”

Goodbye, Jacey.



***



-28 Miles Gone



Isha set me up with an old buddy of hers, Danielle. She owns a bakery and drive-thru coffee shop. She has me working in both. I love working in the coffee shop. It’s super-fast-paced and leaves no time to think. The pay isn’t as good, and the tips are poor compared to waitressing, but it keeps me on my toes.

Going from working through the nights to working from five in the morning to five at night has been a huge shock to the system. I prefer working nights and being with Isha, but I love Fort Collins. I found Danielle’s bakery before locating a place to live. Literally, if I could crash on the corner, I would. I’m so sick of walking, making routes, and stressing about getting to work safe and on time.

Thankfully, I found another old-style motel that’s in a very rundown state. Just up my alley. It’s the roughest place I’ve stayed yet. I plan on living in Fort Collins for quite some time, so I have to freshen up the inside of my room bit by bit. The best part is it’s a block and a half from Danielle’s Desserts.

The little coffee hut is in the parking lot in front of Danielle’s. I’m not even sure hut is the right word; it’s tiny and made for only one person to work in. Danielle warned that when football season starts she runs a Tuesday special where all drinks are free if you are sporting a certain team’s jersey. I’m not looking forward to that at all.

Considering it’s only July, I have some time to warm up to the idea of working that closely with another person. In the few short weeks I’ve been at the coffee shop, my mind has been overloaded with flavors, mochas, latté, hot, blended, and iced. Sometimes I have to hold back my laugher when someone orders one simple drink, but it takes them five minutes to spit it out because they are detailing all the things they want in it. I’m getting used to the regular customers who buy coffee on a daily basis.

The sound of an engine alerts me that a customer is pulling up. I’ve also become an expert on judging whether it’s a car passing by or pulling up to the window.

“Hey, what can I get you?”

I see a truck with college aged boys, shirtless and sweaty, filling the front and back seats of the vehicle.

“Pretty boy here thinks he needs a coffee,” the driver says.

“Okay, which one is pretty boy?” I ask.

The driver points to the guy sitting in the back on the passenger side. Well, damn, the driver is spot on correct. The boy is mighty pretty – almost panty-melting pretty. Almost.

Trying not to stare, I force myself to talk to him, “Pretty boy, whatcha want?”

The truck erupts in laughter, and the boy’s eyes widen with surprise. Some of the men are holding their sides from too much laughter, and I know I’ve messed up.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll get over it,” the driver leans out the window and says to me.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

Pretty boy just responds, “It’s okay. Lincoln is the only one allowed to call me that. You just shocked the shit out of us.”

“Lincoln?”

“That would be me,” the driver responds.

“Thanks, Lincoln, for getting me in hot water,” I say, reaching for a foam to-go cup. “Okay, what would the coffee drinker in the truck like?”

Pretty boy fires off his coffee order, and I busily make it, walking back and forth to gather all the syrups. They’re not discreet about their conversation at all. Each word can be heard inside the hut.

“Dude, she’s f*cking hot.”

“Fucking A, she is. I’m one for long hair, but her short wild cut is giving me a boner.”

“Shut up, *s.”

I recognize the last voice as the driver’s.

Trying to hide the flaming color heating up my face, I step to the window with all my confidence and hand over the coffee.

“Five seventy-five, please.”

“Pay it up, bitch,” Pretty boy hollers.

The driver snatches his wallet from the middle console and hands me cash, shooting me a little wink.

“Remind me to never bet you again. You’re shameless and will pretty much do anything to win a bet,” the driver says as I gather his change.

“Here’s your change. Have a nice day, guys.”

The driver raises his chin at me. “You new in town?”

One of the guys says, “Of course she is, dumbass. Hell, she didn’t recognize any of us.”