Page 2 of UnScripted

A blackbird caws so loud, it makes me jump, “What in the hell?”

There’s a huge man riding a beast of a bike coasting in, parking right by Dee’s grave. I can’t help watching his big frame moving gracefully amongst the headstones. He stops, putting one knee down in fresh dirt a few graves down from hers.

He shakes his head, taking a flask from his leather jacket, does a mock toast and takes a swig before pouring the rest on the ground. Then he gets up walking away but not before stopping at Dee’s stone. “Crazy bitch,” he mutters out loud.

I’m a runner, but my feet feel like lead. He climbs on his ride; I’m screwing up my chance to find answers.

“Hey! Wait! She was my mom! You—asshole!”

But the roar of his engine as he rides off like a devil, drowns me out.

“Crap,” I mutter to the ghosts, “any of you feel like telling me who the hell that was?”

“Meat.”

“Eeek!” I shriek, “You scared the crap out of me.”

The man laughs, “Shit. I wouldn’t work here if the dead talked.”

“So, who is he?”

“I told ya’. That was Meat. He’s practically the mayor.”

“Um, okay, so where can I find him?”

“The Sassy Wench Tavern.”

“Come again? I’ve been in town for a few weeks now. I’d think I’d know if there was a place with a name like that around here.”

“Google it,” he replies walking away.

The rest of my run forgotten I head back toward the road, tapping my phone like a mad woman.

“Holy shit.”

Not only does this place exist, but according to the website this Meat guy is the owner, and he just posted a job opening for a new waitress. Hitting the number, I instantly call leaving a message that I’m interested and qualified. Heck, I waitressed throughout college. If I can handle serving drunk frat boys during pledge week, I can manage the clientele in this wooded town.

My phone rings in my hand, catching me off-guard for the second time in fifteen minutes.

“H-hello?”

“Is this Devon?” A voice as rough as concrete asks.

“Y-yes.”

“You have a speech problem? It’d be hard to wait tables if you can’t talk.”

“I can speak just fine,” I respond with an edge of bitchiness.

“This is Roger. Can you be at the Sassy Wench at 11:30 for an interview?”

“Sure. I can make that.”

His answer is a grunt.

“Goodbye—” But the click in my ear tells me he never heard me say it.

I kick a pile of dirt, watching a pebble roll down the street. So far today has not gotten off to a good start.

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