Page 18 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
Six hundred dollars seems to be the tipping point. That’s how much I can save before Daddy gambles again and needs help paying the debt. A fifty-dollar note from the bar owner. A few hundred dollars deep. Not thousands of dollars.
I guess I should be flattered that I’m worth that much.
There’s a cold, hard stone where that flattery would be. Polished smooth from years of being objectified and diminished, shined with every day working in this diner.
I wipe the cracked countertops with extra fervor.
“What do you recommend?” comes a voice out of my nightmares.
A muffled shriek escapes me before I catch myself.
Damon Scott sits on one of the stools, looking at ease despite the fact that his suit costs as much as a car. He sounds so much like his father that I’m surprised to see him there. And relieved. And secretly so very glad.
A lock of dark hair falls onto his forehead, effortlessly perfect. He studies me with a bland expression, the only sign of life the amusement dancing in his ebony eyes.
I glare at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I haven’t eaten dinner.”
“So go somewhere else. Somewhere with caviar and steak on gold plates.”
He sighs, woebegone. “Those places can’t fill a man up.”
“Get out.”
“I’m a great tipper.”
“How about you tip the amount my father owes you?”
“I don’t know.” He sounds thoughtful. “That’s a lot of money. And so far you haven’t really given me great service.”
“I’m not servicing you at all. Leave.”
“We didn’t finish our conversation.”
“That’s because I don’t want to talk. Or see you, ever again.”
“How disappointing for you.”
His smug dismissal sends a jolt of electricity through my body, not entirely unpleasant. I whirl away from him and push into the kitchen. I hate how aware I am of Damon’s voice, the low and sensual timbre. I hate how I can see his cocky smile even when he’s not there.
The scowl on my face must be fierce because the stoic cook, Jackson, raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer, just flips a greasy burger on a grill caked with black.
Ruth Mae has no such qualms. She heads out of the office like a bull seeing red, as if she can sense an unsatisfied customer from far away. If anyone on the floor gave her attitude she would throw him out in a heartbeat. That’s why she doesn’t usually talk to customers. Bad for business.
“What the hell are you doing?” she growls.
“Checking on an order.” That’s a lie but luckily Jackson slides the burger onto a bun, and I grab the plate. It takes some time to do the rounds to all my tables, to refill coffee and jot down orders.
And then there’s nothing left to do but face him.
I slump behind the counter, closing my eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“Still in conversation,” he says, taking a sip from his mug.
“Where did you even get that? I didn’t give you coffee.”
“I went behind the counter. You seem busy.”
I’m replacing Jessica, but Delaney called in sick. That probably means she’s high with her lame boyfriend-of-the-week. So I’m working the tables by myself. Busy is an understatement. “You have thirty seconds to finish the conversation.”
One eyebrow rises up. If anything his voice becomes lower, a faint Southern drawl inflecting his dark velvet voice. “You were polite to the asshole who wanted five refills.”
“They’re unlimited.”
“He only drank that much coffee so he could stare at your rack.”
That’s probably true. “Well, then he’ll suffer plenty when he finds out what five cups of that radioactive sludge does to your stomach lining.”
Damon pushes the mug with his fingertip. “Duly noted.”
“Is that why you’re here? To stare at my rack?”
He manages to look affronted, which is a major feat for a man in his position. For a man who’s put me in this position. “You’re fifteen.”
“Then why did you really come here?”
For once in his life he actually seems uncertain. Almost nervous. Except he has the upper hand in every possible way. He’s handsome. Smart. Rich. And for some reason he’s holding his breath. “Look, Penny. It isn’t exactly safe for you here.”
“Is that a threat? Because the last guy my dad owed money to showed up at our apartment with a baseball bat. I didn’t know subtlety was part of your profession.”
His eyes narrow. “His name.”
“What?”
“The name of the person who showed up with a bat.”
I’m not going to tell him who beat the door in, who smashed my father’s knee. And I’m not going to tell him about the big poker game. This man is nothing to me. I owe him nothing. Least of all the truth.
I brace my hands on the cracked countertop, sure that I’ll need the support. “How much?”
“We should talk about this in private.”
Then he shouldn’t have showed up at the diner. “I could shove you into the freezer?”
