Last One Standing

4 | Deep Fake

THE MONDAY LUNCH SHIFT DRAGGED; the stench of buffalo wings, baskets of skin-on-fries and sloppy sliders twisted a knot in my stomach.

After gathering stray glasses, I took a break and read the local newspaper until an attractive red-haired girl barged through the door with her boyfriend a pace behind. She chose a booth big enough for six but sat as strangers.

I passed them a menu to share.

"Cheeseburger and Coke." The girl shoved the menu across the table.

"Same," he grunted back, then reverted to silence and mutual eye-daggers, their words banked until my departure.

"Sure thing," I said with a smile.

As I turned to leave, I tuned into their conversation. "You told me I was your best friend, then you sleep with me. I thought our relationship was first stemmed from friendship."

The man grunted again. "I told you already, we were friends until we became something... more."

"Was it always about sex? Were we ever platonic? Do you know how betrayed I feel? I thought we were organic, but you would have slept with me from the offset. Admit it."

"You'll believe a blog over me? I wish you never laid eyes on it."

My legs grounded to a halt, and my heart stopped beating. More and more I regretted writing that blog...

"It was errant musings of a little girl that can't get a date, baby. It's not about us." His hand reached over the table, but she retracted.

The words stung like a bee in summer. My blog was more than that, I was more than that, and Man Hack was becoming a problem. Back at the bar, I selected glasses and pulverized ice into jagged shards.

As I headed to the food-hatch, I stepped around the open dishwasher door and fixed my order sheet to a row of suspended clips. I smacked the bell and gave Mel a wobbly smile.

As a gentleman passed retirement, he was here for the company I suspected, like the archaic jukebox that only played the first sixty-seconds of a track then skipped—Mel was occasionally as repetitive and would be here long after we had graduated.

But his stories were way more interesting than any fiction. He enjoyed telling tales, the earning of each scar on his arms, what girls broke his heart in youth and the one woman he'd committed to marrying, who had sadly left his world for a life above it.

He wrung his hands on a dishtowel and frowned. "You okay, Millie, honey?" Mel reminded me of my Grandpa; wise and never obtuse, he understood the emotional complexities of others as if it were second nature.

I nodded through blurring eyes. "Yeah, Mel. I'm good." Then I toe-punted the dishwasher door and my eyes pricked with new tears of frustration. Not wanting to see Mel's comforting smile, my hand found a rag, and I wiped the side down.

With less than an hour of my shift left, my bath and my bed called. That's where I would focus. Riley's was a great distraction, and until now, I'd forgotten about my assignment and Holden Carter.

To my left, behind the bar, Riley was on all fours as a keg hissed air at him. He swore under his breath. "Monitor the bar, Millie. I need to change the keg and Sam's not due in for half an hour."

My eyes roamed the empty bar. "And Nicole is where?"

Riley shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I sent her out on an errand, and I haven't seen her since." Riley brought home strays without a clue what to do with them after. Nicole was the dog that we needed to remember to feed but never to pet to avoid attachment issues.