Sugar & Salt ✩ Michael Jackson

Four: Hotshot Needs To Be Punched

So, Hotshot is officially a stalker.

After ten minutes of staying under a table with 50 kinds of bubble gum sticking to my hair, the police arrived. How awkward it was to let them know I couldn't move because I had strawberry, lime, and banana gum bonding me to the table. They had to cut my hair loose with a knife. Next time I see the flirty magical criminal fugitive hotshot secret agent jackass, he was going to pay for the damages.

Secret agent. In what world would a spic and span man like him decide to dine under my service only to flirt, then reveals he's a secret agent? Life works in funny ways, this I know, but come on. This was a bit much. But at the same time, I had belief in it. The eavesdropping, the disappearances, and the shootings. It all connected and made sense. But this was just...a big question mark with a dash of what in the hell?

I rose on my numb legs, nearly breaking my ankle in my white Mary Janes. The diner was unexpectedly not too messy; the glass was scattered on the ground from the windows and door being shot through. I could spot some bullet holes in the wall behind the counter, but nothing too serious. It surprised me because if I can recall correctly, I heard about ten gunshots going off before Michael, or whatever his name is, got up.

"So, let me go over this one more time, Miss. Morte." The detective who was investigating me for a long time (it was like ten minutes, but that's ten hours to me) asked. "You were in here alone with your boyfriend an-"

I cringed. "Not my boyfriend. It was someone who frequently comes around."

"A customer?"

More like a nuisance who makes their own coffee. If I think about it, did Hotshot even pay for the coffee he brewed? What if he didn't? Does he think he can get free coffee because he has a nice face? Maybe I should switch the coffee grinds with dirt next time. But then again, that would get me fired.

"Joanne, let her go." A second detective said, walking up to us. "The department was contacted by Michael and told us what happened. It's not our case."

"You talked to him?" I asked, eyes widened. "What did he say? Where did he go?"

"His request was to not leak his whereabouts to you, specifically." The second detective said. "We'll contact your manager about the incident. You're free to go, Aliana."

I scrunched my facial features, confused. "Wait, what do you mean? Why can't I know where he is?"

Joanne joined in. "Miss. Morte, this is a crime scene and you are now not needed. Therefore, you're now just a regular citizen. We can't have regular citizens at a crime scene."

"But who is "we"? It's not even your case. You just said it."

"She got you there." The second detective said.

"Really, Mark?" She narrowed her eyes at him then turned to me. "Please, Miss. Morte. As much as you want to know who is involved and what is going on, you're prohibited. I advise you to go home before we have to force legal action against you."

Had Michael really go out of his way to restrict information getting to me? He must have some real jeweled balls to think he's entitled to do so when he was the one who got me in this situation in the first place. I could've protested with the detectives for another five minutes if legal trouble wasn't a consequence. Right now, the last thing I needed was just that.

I gripped my waitress hat in my hand out of anger as I turned on my heel and headed out the diner. Without a doubt, I could predict I'd be arriving to work on my next work day hatless due to the damage I just did to it, but I barely cared. What I had my mind absorbed on was the current front burner; Hotshot shoved me under the table, started a firearm battle, left the diner a mess, disappeared into the night as if he was a mystical horse, and now the diner was antsville. He knew I would have various questions, which I rightfully deserved to have, but tells the police to withhold information.