Page 37 of The Fake Out

“I won’t take much of your time. After our lunch the other day…”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Kara’s curious gaze move back and forth between us.

“Wait. You have to at least order something.” I pulled my order pad from the tiny apron we all had to wear.

“Fine.” He picked up the menu next to him. “What’s good here?”

“Nothing,” Kara and I said at the same time.

“Is a burger safe?” he asked.

“What do you consider safe? Will it kill you? It’s unlikely. If you’re asking if it’s really beef? I’m legally not allowed to answer that question as per my employment agreement.” I clicked my pen. “With or without cheese?”

“Why don’t I put this in for you?” Kara glanced back and forth between Chris and me like she was at a particularly vicious game of pickleball. “You two can talk.”

After she left, I rounded the bar and stood across from Chris. Mainly to look busy in case Shane came out of his office and wanted to get yell-y. About five seats over, an older guy with a bad combover was bellied up to the bar and staring at the baseball game.

“So, what’s this very important question?” I found a towel under the bar and started wiping at the space between us.

Chris straightened, his expression earnest in that Eagle Scout way he had about him. “What happened to your mom?”

I threw down the rag. “No offense, but first, it’s none of your business and second, why do you care?”

“We’re friends and, well, it’s for a good reason. Just trust me. Please?” His eyes were all warm and soft and so sincere.

I crossed my arms. “She had a stroke about eight months ago.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been terrifying.”

“Yeah, it was. But she’s doing better now. She’s in therapy and getting stronger every day.”

“I bet therapy is expensive.”

I picked up the towel and began wiping down the very dry bar again. “We’re doing okay.”

“That’s why you have the second job. Medical bills.” It wasn’t a question.

He watched me closely like he was waiting for some kind of reaction. Was he expecting me to break down into tears and confess how horrible life was? ’Cause that was not happening.

I stared right back. “Like I said, we’re fine.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but Bad Combover started waving his hand. I marched down to him, glad for the reprieve.

I stole a glance at Chris as I refilled the guy’s glass. He was bent over the bar a little, spinning his mostly empty glass absently, his profile displaying the strong line of his jaw that I knew softened when he smiled. Which he was not doing now.

In fact, now that I took a moment to study him, he had all the earmarks of a man in trouble. Hunched shoulders, tired eyes, grim expression.

I wandered back to him. “What’s wrong with you?”

His eyebrows jumped in surprise, then he sighed. “I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Did you hear about the Vegas thing?” he asked, and I swear he started to blush.

I nodded.

“I know it looks bad but it’s not true, the things they’re saying.”