Page 19 of Debt of My Soul

Adam’s eyes jump to the three men standing beside our table. Dressed in dark jeans and leather jackets, they all sneer down at us. One man isn’t even concealing his side-holstered gun. I suck in a breath as Adam addresses a man with gold teeth.

“Blitz.”

Is that his real name or …

“Fancy a dinner out tonight, Adam?” the man asks. His patchy gray hair places him most likely in his forties. The gold in his teeth spans the entire bottom row, and my gaze flits to his black hoop nose ring before flicking back to Adam.

His face is flush. Defeated, lifeless eyes bob down to his menu, his right hand fidgeting with the fabric menu cover. He works loose a string to roll between his thumb and forefinger.

The entire restaurant has slowed, the hum of conversation sinking to whispers. Expressions tense around the room as they regard the three men. One of which, a younger man with buzzed blond hair, has a to-go bag full of food containers under his arm. The other bald man, who looks semifamiliar, shoves his leather-gloved hands into his black jean pockets.

A brittle laugh volleys back at us from Blitz, and he flexes his fingers at his sides. “No answer. Guess that’s pretty typical of you. Letting others solve all your problems, pay?—"

“We get it,” Adam snaps, then immediately folds into himself.

Blitz’s eyes tick to the side, sliding over my face and down my body. My muscles tighten, flinching as he reaches forward to tap twice under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his.

I can’t speak. Can’t smack his hand away. I’m frozen.

“And what’s a pretty thing like you doing with him?”

Background laughter from the other two men slices through the silence in the room. I hold his stare, but the icy blue peering back at me feels shattered—fuzzy. In fact, I’m pretty sure the room is spinning.

“All right, Blitz. That’s enough. I’ve got people to feed here,” an older woman with a raspy voice hollers from near the kitchen.

“Just saying hi to an old friend, Deborah.” He smirks at Adam and licks his lips at me.

“Yeah, well, take your food and head out. It’s on the house.”

Blitz finally diverts his gaze from our table and looks back over his shoulder at the tiny woman. “It’s always on the house.”

She flicks her hand in his direction, so casually that it makes me wonder if they’re frequent customers.

With one last sneer at Adam, all three men turn to the doors and exit, the air in the room finally returning. Taking a deep breath, I glance at Adam. His head is buried in the menu like he hasn’t already decided and ordered.

“Are you okay?” It’s the only thing I can muster. Adam looks like he got steamrolled into oblivion and while the rest of the guests work on amping up the conversation and taking back their night out, Adam looks ready to throw in the towel.

“Yeah,” he squeaks, then tries again. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just assholes being assholes.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of his sweet tea.

The tone of our dinner date changes. We chat about the summer weather, and he fills me in on the upcoming town activities, which seem to be the highlight of the small town’s life. Personally, I’m looking forward to the farmer’s market.

Periodically throughout our meal, Adam studies me, then glances back at the spot where the three men stood. Like he’s trying to decide how rattled I am from this strange encounter.

River said many of the townspeople know some members of this “organization”. So I can’t hold it against Adam that he does. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. However, it’s his shame-induced expression that fuels the war within me. That keeps questions leeched to the tip of my tongue.What was all that about?

When our meal is finished, our server comes by with the check and Adam gives her his card.

“Thank you for dinner. I have to admit, I think I’ve been converted to a fried catfish lover.”

“Ah, just wait until you have my mom’s. She and my father do a large frying for the Fourth of July. Barbeque, homemade french fries, catfish, coleslaw, and other sides. It’s practically a community event. You’ll have to come.”

I smile.

“Adam,” the waitress says, “I’m sorry, but the card was declined.”

“Oh, shoot. Here, try this one.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and pulls out another card. The waitress scurries off.

“I have cash. Do you want me to?—”

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