Page 51 of Beach Reads
Betty, her name badge says. It’s clipped to her black polo neck, the corner snagging on her apron strap.
She grins at me as I approach the counter—stands a little straighter, and tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her ponytail swings as she turns to check for her colleague, but the other barista slipped away when she saw me coming.
Smart woman. If only Betty had the same instincts around me.
There’s blood on my hands, after all. If I ever touched her, she’d be stained too.
“Hey, stranger.” Betty always greets me the same way, her head cocked to one side and eyes sparkling. Eight times I’ve been here, now. Eight times in one month.
Like I said: it’s a pattern.
Reckless. Stupid.
Electrifying.
“Black coffee?” She’s already placing a cup in the machine; already grinding the beans. Betty watches me from beneath lowered lashes, her tattoos so vivid on her bare arms. Roses and birds and a string of pearls, even an old fashioned anchor on her wrist. Every time she moves, I catch a new sliver of color. Another puzzle to solve.
I clear my throat. “Please.”
“For the mystery man,” Betty says when she places the take out cup on the counter. When she spins it around, the words are there in purple sharpie.Mystery man. And there are a thousand fake names I could give her, even names that I have passports to match, but for some foolish reason, I give her my real one.
“River.” The cardboard is hot in my hand. I take a scalding sip, and the coffee is dark and bitter. “River Dawes.”
“River,” Betty repeats, fiddling with the napkin holder. “Suits you. Sounds kind of… wild.”
It does, huh? I lower the cup, pulse spiking. Every time I see this woman, I’m left wrestling with my worst instincts—with theurgent desire to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away, that ponytail swinging against my hip. Finders keepers.
“You always come in when there’s no line, River.”
I lift one shoulder. “Lucky, I guess.”
Luck’s got nothing to do with it—I’m careful. Can’t afford too many eyes on me, not in my line of work, and especially not with this dangerous pattern I’m in. But Betty grins like she sees right through my bullshit, like she knows exactly how well-timed my visits are.
“Next time,” she says, her husky voice doing something to my insides, “you should come on my break. We could sit together. Shoot the shit. I’ll sneak you a free biscotti.”
I could never drink in, could never take such a risk, but when she says it like that… it’s tempting.Tootempting.
“I hate biscotti,” I say.
Betty’s eyes sparkle. “Too bad.”
My neck is hot as I leave the coffee shop. Nerves prickle under my skin, and I canfeelher eyes on me, watching me go. The bell rings above the door, and the street outside is hot and stifling, the air scented with baking concrete and ozone.
I need to stop coming here. Need to give Betty up.
She’s not mine anyway—and she never could be.
Betty
Agent Dawes is still in my tent when I slip back inside. The sight of him there, looming over my crappy nightstand and poking at my hairbrush, makes something agitated settle deep inside me.
Guess I figured he’d disappear. Melt into the night like a wisp of smoke.
Exhaling slowly, I raise my eyebrows at the man who turned my life upside down.
In the darkness, Agent Dawes frowns. Gestures me closer. Even with the crackle of the campfire, the low drone of voices and the distant sighs of the sea, he’s too cautious to speak. To make a single noise. Because we’re out of view in here, the canvas flap of my tent blocking out roving eyes, but that doesn’t mean we’re secure. It’s not like Echo and his goons are the knocking type.
You know… I could yell right now. Could let those jerks know he’s here, let them taze him or worse, then go back to my regular life at the coffee shop. Back to my rut. This would all be over—assuming they’d keep their word and deliver me safely home.
