Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Read online

  Because he still holds a lot of the cards in this little scam he’s trying to run on me. And for all his drugginess, he’s still smart. Sometimes.

  Like now, he’s technically not on my property, staying outside the fence, but the intimidation is just as effective and even more of a threat than taking me back to court.

  “I said, where’s my fuckin’ money, bitch?” Russell says again, slapping the hood of his truck. “What, you want me to fuckin’ go in your place and just take what I need to even us out?”

  I see the blinds across the street twitch, and know the neighbors are watching this showdown. But they’re just as scared of Russell as I am because he holds the land lease on their homes too. In a perfect world, we’d all band together and fight the evil slumlord. The reality is, they’ll happily leave me to the wolves if it means the wolf isn’t trying to blow down their house.

  So I’m on my own. As always.

  “You take one step through that gate and I swear I’ll call the cops!” I yell back, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. “I’m sure they’d love to offer you a field sobriety test, maybe search your truck?” I toss out the threat, hoping it’s enough to scare him off because sure as the sun sets in the west, there are drugs in that beat-up ass truck of his.

  He presses right up to the fence, hands on the top like he’s considering vaulting over it. I measure the distance between me and the front door, deciding that my better bet would be to bean him with my helmet if he comes over the fence. “You owe me, and one way or another, I’ll collect!” Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth as he yells, his eyes narrowed and mean.

  “I’m calling, Rusty. Nine, one, one.” I press at the black screen, feigning that I’m dialing because I know that even if I call, no good will come of it.

  He throws his hands up, backing off. “Fine, but your bony little ass better get my money. Or else.”

  He drives away, and my hand shakes as I put my phone back in my pocket. As I do, I have a moment of hysteria that a junkie just called me skinny. Looks like Elaine’s help isn’t doing as much good as I’d thought. Vaguely, I wonder how Russell manages to stay so soft and round when all he does is smoke, putting every dollar to drugs and none to food.

  My mind clears and I realize just how badly that whole interaction could’ve gone. Don’t get me wrong, yelled threats and almost dialing 911 are serious. But Russell is escalating and I need to watch out for that. He knows I’m here alone, he’s getting more desperate for money, and it’s reaching the point where he has nothing to lose. The thought that he could get worse terrifies me. I’m so frightened that I nearly run my scooter into the fence, and it’s only a last-second jamming of my brakes that prevents me from not going to class today at all.

  My scooter stalls, and I push it a few steps back, looking around to make sure things are clear before I restart it. As I do, I do a double-take, swearing I see Russell’s truck again, but despite them both being the same shade of silvery-gray, this one’s a Ford, not a Chevy. I haven’t seen it before and it’s parked in front of Old Mrs. Petrie’s house. She never has visitors other than her son, who lives a few towns away and drives a red Camry. I remember seeing the blinds twitch at her house and wonder if maybe she has someone over.

  But the blinds are in place now. Still, I feel like I’m being watched, and as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I try to get a better view of the truck since it’s the oddity in our same-shit-different-day neighborhood. The sun’s at the wrong angle, though, and I’m forced to ride by it slowly to see inside. When I do, I see it’s empty, and while that should relieve me, for some reason, it doesn’t.

  The Gravy Train beckons like the vampiric temple that it’s been for the past three years for me. The long, train-car-like exterior glimmers in the late afternoon sunlight, and after four hours of classes this morning and some study time at the campus library, I’m not looking forward to slogging through another six hours of waitressing.

  But if there’s any chance that I’m going to keep Russell off my ass, I need to hustle and bust my butt for the tips. Dinner’s the best time to get tips too.

  Still, the next six hours will require me to keep my mind in a special place, clicking along as I work and provide smiling service even to surly customers—because trust me, the customer is definitely not always right—while simultaneously not focusing on the looming thundercloud of debt over my head. As I walk in the door, I’m not sure if I can keep it up.

  The smell of the grill and the fryer, which probably makes most people’s mouth water, smacks me in the face, making my stomach roil. In hunger or disgust, I’m not sure which. After three years, six days a week of that smell permeating every pore of my skin, it oddly feels like home, but some days, I swear I’d give anything for a salad. Unfortunately, fresh produce is a luxury I can’t afford. Not if I’m going to keep Russell at bay and my school payments up to date.

  And there I go already, letting the storm take over. I take a deep breath, letting the French fry-scented air fill my lungs as I shake my head, willing the dark thoughts away.

  Smile, Izzy. You can do this. You always do.

  “Hey, Elaine, order up!” a big voice hollers from the kitchen, and I sigh. Henry’s the head cook at The Gravy Train, and while normally, he’s an overgrown teddy bear, for the past month or so, he’s been increasingly short-tempered. He says it’s an ulcer, and I guess if I were a forty-year fry cook who had an ulcer, I’d be upset too.

  “Hold yer horses, Henry, I’m comin’!” Elaine, the head waitress, tosses back as she throws me a wave. “How’re you doin’, Izzy?”

  “Is that Izzy?” another voice calls from the back. “Tell her to come back here!”

  Elaine rolls her eyes, since obviously, everyone in downtown Roseboro heard it. She tilts her head at me, adopting a faux fancy voice like she’s a phone operator at one of the big skyscrapers downtown.

  “Martha’d like you to stop by her office.”

  I grin at her over-the-top antics, appreciating the levity, and head back to the office, which is more like a storeroom closet with a desk, where I find Martha. Short and heavyset, she’s the business manager while Henry’s technically the owner . . . but we all know who really runs the show, both in their marriage and around here.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hey, I just wanted to tell you I put you down for a double on Sunday,” Martha says, typing away at her computer and not bothering to even look up at me. “Apparently, the new girl decided the Taylor Swift concert this weekend is more important than her job.”

  I sigh, nodding. I don’t feel any pity for the new girl. She was here so short a time that I didn’t even have a chance to learn her name. And I did tell Martha to let me know if she needed coverage for any extra shifts so I could make some more money.

  Unfortunately for me, that’s meant Martha penciling me in without really consulting me. It’s fine, I need the shift, but the thought of another Sunday double, with cheap tippers after church and a basically dead dinner rush, doesn’t sound like a worthwhile investment of my time.

  “Is that a problem, Izzy?” Martha asks, sounding concerned. “I can always ask someone else, but you told me you wanted as many hours as you could get.”

  “No . . . no, I did say that, and I do need it,” I reply, trying to keep my voice cheerful and utterly failing. “Thanks, Martha.”

  I get changed quickly. Thankfully, The Gravy Train did away with the ridiculous skirts for uniforms a long time ago, and black jeans, a diner T-shirt, and an apron are all I need. Coming out, I double-check that I’ve got my order pad and my two pens ready before sagging.

  I just can’t take this anymore.

  No . . . no, I have to.

  Why? So Russell can take all your money and still take the house?

  “It’s all I’ve got left,” I whisper, wiping away a stray tear. I know I shouldn’t be crying. It’s just a broken-down old house that probably isn’t even worth the wood it�
�s made of anymore, but it’s my ‘inch.’

  “Izzy, don’t tell Mommy we’re watching this, okay?”

  Daddy smiles and hands me the bottle of lemonade, and I grin as I take a sip. Of course, Mommy knows that Daddy sometimes lets me watch ‘grown-up’ movies, but she says it’s okay because they’re on cable.

  I don’t quite know what she means by that, but that’s okay. It’s just a reason for me to hang out with my Daddy.

  And on the screen is one of his favorite movies. A tired-looking old man in a red shirt and black jacket is talking to a bunch of football players, and as he talks, the players get more excited.

  “On this team, we fight for that inch,” the man says, and the players cheer. He keeps going, and while I don’t understand all of it, I still giggle as I hear where the bad words were changed for TV. There’s a lot of them in this movie.

  “I am still willing to fight, and die, for that inch. Because that’s what living is! The six inches in front of your face!”

  In my head, I can see my daddy on the couch, eyes on the screen and mouth moving along with the famous speaker I later learned was Al Pacino. Okay, Daddy, for you, I can keep going.

  Even if those six inches seem impossible.

  “Izzy, you okay?”

  I look over and see Elaine with her head through the swinging door, a concerned look on her face. She’s a diner lifer, and I’ve appreciated her sassy, occasionally foul-mouthed mentorship.

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay, Elaine. Just got offered a double shift on Sunday.”

  Elaine whistles, but her face is still lined with concern. “You sure? You came in looking like you were ready to pack it all in already, honey. You need a break, at least a solid day to do absolutely nothing but laze around with cucumbers on your eyes and conditioner in your hair.”

  A sad smile twists my lips as I think about wasting a cucumber that way. If I had one, I’d probably just bite right into it, maybe with a little Tajin seasoning.

  I follow Elaine back out into the main diner area, nodding. “Yeah. It’s not only the work. Rusty’s being a jerk again.”

  “What? Didn’t you say that boy gave you a week just yesterday?” Elaine asks, her brows knitting together. “You know, his parents weren’t exactly what I’d call the best apples on the tree, but ooh, he’s just a rotten one.”

  “Yeah, well, Sunday’ll help,” I reply. “I’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine, always is.” I’m trying to convince myself as much as her.

  “Hmph. What you need to do is kneecap him with a Louisville Slugger the next time he comes around your way,” Elaine says. She lowers her voice. “By the way, seems you’ve got a fan.”

  “Huh?” I ask, following Elaine’s pointed gaze.

  It’s him. The guy from yesterday. He only ordered a plain meal, burger and fries, but in the few moments that we talked and our eyes met . . . I swear I’d felt human for the first time in ages, not like an automaton going from one job to the next.

  No, not human. I’d felt like . . . a woman. Something I haven’t had a moment to be in way too long. Elaine’s chatter breaks into my daydream of what a man like that could do with and to a woman.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm . . . and I used to think the mud pie was the yummiest thing in these four walls,” Elaine says teasingly. “But that man looks so good I wanna just sop him up with a biscuit.”

  My eyes are locked on the man, but I can hear Elaine making smacking sounds like she’s devouring something delicious.

  “Come on, he’s just a customer,” I murmur, but I sound fake as hell and I know it. The man’s so handsome that my heart’s already hammering in my chest, with piercing brown eyes, a boyish curl to his lips that seem to promise an eager smile even when he’s looking serious, and just enough scruff on his cheeks that he looks . . .

  Well, to steal one of Elaine’s weird sayings, like I’d love to sop him up with a biscuit.

  “Uh-huh,” Elaine says. “The man came in a half hour ago, ordering just coffee . . . again. I bet if you go over there and bat those pretty brown eyes of yours at him, though, he’d order a meal. Or if you’re lucky, make a meal of you. I’m just sayin’.”

  Just saying. Meanwhile, my brain and my primal urges are saying something else, that it’s been a long, long damn time since I’ve looked at any man and felt more than a tired toleration of him.

  But this guy, I don’t even know his name, and I’m feeling fluttery inside.

  I feel like a teeny bopper at a Justin Bieber concert just looking at him. I swear I have to hold my arm at my side so I don’t hold it in the air, waving around as I yell, “Pick me, look at me!”

  I’m not that girl, never have been, but suddenly, I think I could be if only for a moment. Which is a sure-fire sign that I need to slow my roll. Guys are the last thing I have time for. Even for a one and done.

  “Elaine, I—”

  “You’re going to go over there and take his order,” Elaine says with a laugh, pushing me lightly. “Go on now, git!”

  My heart in my throat, I nod and approach the man with my pulse roaring in my ears. “Hi. Can I take your order?”

  He looks up, and again our eyes meet. My God . . . he’s gorgeous.

  “Yes, you can.”

  It’s only three words, but in those words I can hear a promise. Maybe Elaine was right, that he was waiting for me. But why? No matter. The way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel something . . . something I haven’t felt in far too long.

  Chapter 3

  Gabriel

  She’s absolutely stunning, even on this second mini-conversation, and as she holds her pen and pad in her hand, I feel myself almost split in two.

  Charm her . . . get her off guard, lure her in, and get the job done.

  But that’s where the divide is. One part of me is screaming the ‘job’ is to touch her, mark her, fuck her, and claim her as my own. All the basal, primal urges she draws up in me with the barest of smiles.

  The other part is reminding me of the job I was sent here to do and my blood runs cold.

  “So, what would you like?” she asks, a pink flush overtaking her cheeks that makes me wonder what’s going through her mind right this instant. I’d like to imagine it’s something dirty, something involving the two of us and sweaty sex in the bed of my truck.

  But probably not. She’s a nice girl, I think, likely accustomed to taking a lover in her bed, gentle and sweet after dating for a while.

  She smiles expectantly, and I realize I’ve been staring wordlessly for an awkwardly long time and not answering her question. The smile is a little brighter than what I saw yesterday when she talked with other customers. She’s smiling for me.

  “A burger again?”

  She remembers. Then again, I remember everything that happened between us yesterday as well. And how that bastard Russell harassed her this morning as I watched from across the street. Luckily, I hadn’t had to intervene and then was able to duck down behind the wheel of my truck in time when she rode by on her scooter.

  “What’s your favorite on the menu?” I reply, painfully aware of the way her uniform is hugging her body.

  She’s not voluptuous but rather lithe and lean, and the slim shirt and tight jeans show off her every slight curve and angle. Again, I’m struck by the image of her being a princess. She should be wearing a tiara and a ballgown, not worn-out and faded rags.

  Even exhausted, her cheekbones are high and proud, making my palms itch to cup her face. The precious bow of her lips makes me want to trace it with my tongue.

  As I watch, her lips twitch upward at the corners, like she’s actually enjoying talking to me. Even though I know I can talk my way into anything, and could probably sell porn to the Pope, it doesn’t seem like work with Isabella.

  I just want to see her smile for me, to know that I gave her a moment of joy.

  Dammit, how can I even consider killing such a beautiful creature? It’d be like double-tapping a unicorn.

  “W
ell,” Isabella says, biting her lip in a way that makes my cock twitch in my jeans, “I gotta be honest, I usually get the big plates if I can around here. If you’re hungry, that means the Country Plate Special. It’s an eight-ounce chicken-fried steak, hashbrowns, eggs any way you want ‘em, two slices of toast, and two sausage patties.”

  “Phew, that sounds like a lot,” I reply, chuckling. “And you can eat all that?” I let my eyes trace down her body quickly, judging her reaction.

  “I usually have to doggie bag it,” Isabella says with a laugh. “Actually, it’s so big that when the Roseboro High football team’s coach wants to fatten up some linemen for the season, he sends them down here before summer workouts. Now, I’m not bragging or anything, but that little high school’s sent three kids to Division 1 schools in the past three years. So take it for what you will.”

  I laugh. She knows how to turn on the diner sass while still sounding authentic. “And if I don’t want to be a linebacker?”

  “The Reuben,” she assures me automatically. “With or without the gravy dip. It’s the best sandwich in town, hands down.”

  “Hands down?” I ask, smiling. “You sound like someone who’s speaking from personal experience. Perk of the job?”

  “Sometimes,” she admits. “But more often than not, I stick with a grilled cheese with bacon. I’m too worried I’ll get a mustard seed stuck between my teeth in the middle of a shift.”

  “Ah,” I intone wisely. “The dreaded mustard seed. Nearly as deadly as that dastardly bastard spinach. Nowhere near as painful as its cousin, the popcorn shell, though.”

  Isabella laughs, tucking a stray lock of her beautiful hair behind her right ear. “True. It’s a hard part of the job, but I deal with it. What about you? Any dangers lurking about in your daily life?”

  Experience keeps me from freezing, even as my mind calculates whether she knows who I am and what I’m doing here. But the flirty smile lets me know she’s just making conversation without any ulterior motives, so I answer accordingly.