Sugar & Salt ✩ Michael Jackson

One: The Hotshot & A Load of Bullets

Let me just tell you how this all began.

It all began with Mister Hotshot. Standing behind the counter in the vintage '50s diner I waitressed at, I was wiping down my station. Looking down, I saw my freshly red-polished nails were chipped. I sighed deeply. I just used all of my tips to get them done yesterday. I knew I should've added it to my savings instead of listening to Andrea's speech on how I don't treat myself to things.

"What's with the long face, doll?" A voice questioned in front of me.

Looking up, I laid my eyes on a man. Soft light brown skin, warm brown eyes, and a charming smile. He was dressed to the nines; a black suit with a ruby-red dress shirt with a black tie and boots with buckles along the sides. Head to toe, the man was five star. People like him don't come around here for dining. He must've been out of options.

"Long day." I answered with a quick lie, pushing the dishcloth aside. "May I take your order?"

"You're lying." He said, sitting on the stool nearby him. "What's the truth?"

"This is a diner. Not therapy. What's your order?"

"Just a small dark roast coffee with no sugar for here."

I retrieved a small mug and gave it a rinse before picking up the steel coffee pot. I poured the coffee, the steam radiating around. I walked back to Hotshot-With-No-Name and placed it on the counter.

"Didn't waitresses stop wearing those little hats in the 50s?" He asked.

"This is a vintage '50s diner if you haven't noticed." I said. "I didn't style my hair in vintage waves and put this cringeworthy uniform on just for fun."

"Well, sorry for asking. No need to get defensive, sugar."

I eyed him, pushing his mug to him. "I'll show you some sugar alright."

He narrowed his eyes, amused. "Did you poison my coffee, Waitress?"

"Waitress has a name." I replied, pointing at my name tag. "And I don't poison what's already toxic."

"Ouch!" He replied, surprised at my words. "Talking dirty, I see. Fortunately, that's my favorite pastime..."

He trailed, looking at my name tag. "Aliana. What a beautiful name for a foul mouthed waitress."

"You know, long curls and a pretty face like yours can only get you so far. Work on your communication skills; they lack respect."

"Hm." He hummed. "If they get better, will you go on a date with me?"

I scoffed. "You're unbelievable."

"Give me a second, darling." He said. He turned around and jerked his arm sharp, throwing his fresh and scorching coffee in the face of someone behind him. I gasped as the person yelled, appalled. They stumbled back, holding their face. Hotshot turned back around, completely unphased. "So, how about that date?"

"Why in the hell did you do that?!" I yelled. Customers and staff were looking at the situation, eyes widened.

"Do what?" He asked, innocently.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe you throwing scorching coffee in someone's face."

"Ah, that." He nodded, climbing over the counter. "He's an assassin."

"A what?" I asked, not sure I heard him correctly. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Assassin. You know, a murderer." He replied, standing next to me. "And right now, I'm about to save your life, so I apologize with my upcoming roughness."

Before I could process what he was saying, he grabbed my arm, yanking me down. Suddenly, a load of gunshots went off, impaling into mugs, coffee makers, bags of beans, cabinets, and everything in between. I heard the screams of customers and employees under the sounds of firearms going off. They continued to scream until they sounded like they were far away.

"When I say go, run straight for the doors covering your face." He said, taking out two cylinders.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"In the reflection of that glass cabinet, I can see everyone managed to run out. There's five assassins and these cylinders are gas grenades. When I say go, run and make sure they don't see your face unless you want to stay and go unconscious with them."

Incredulously, I stared at him. He couldn't be serious, but he was. He had the cylinders in his hands, pulling the circular hoop of both of them. The look on his face showed that he was being serious.

"Who are you?" I asked, disbelieved.

"Someone you shouldn't know." He replied, winking.

He stood up and pulled both of his arms back, throwing the cylinders. The gunshots came to a halt. He bent down and brought me up by my arm, guiding me around the counter and rushing me towards the door. I saw five men looking at the cylinders, confused.

"Go and run far away from here." He said in my ear. "By the way, thanks for the coffee. I left a tip in your pocket."

Tip? I looked back at him to question him, but he already went back inside. I could see the gas expelling from the cylinders in the diner, two men already lying unconscious. I backed away from the diner and began speed walking in my damned white Mary Jane heels because I certainly was not running in heels.

After ten minutes, I arrived on the street of my apartment. My feet ached from walking with speed in my heels. If I had a fireplace, I would burn the hell out of these heels because of the pain they're causing me. I walked in the lobby and into the elevator. Once the elevator closed, I leaned back in exhaustion. I looked in my pocket for the keys to my apartment, but came upon something I wasn't expecting. I pulled it out and found a band of one hundred dollar bills.

Well, Hotshot was not kidding when he said he gave me a tip. Despite how much I needed the money, I wasn't thrilled about having it. I was more interested in an explanation. But would he come back to give me one?