Holly wiggles her eyebrows. “It used to be.”
The sizzle of the grill has her looking up.
Alabama lifts a finger at the black smoke that’s churning out of the window. “Your buns are burnin’, baby.”
“Shit.” Holly disappears, a storm of curse words and expletives filling the kitchen.
Drawing her shoulders back, Alabama starts toward the table with the tray. These beer-bellied clowns ain’t scaring her. As she crosses the restaurant, she bangs her heel against the jukebox, de-sticking the Waylon Jennings song that’s been playing on repeat for the last ten minutes.
She stops next to the booth, dropping first the Cokes, then the food with surly attitude. This is Mill’s Tavern; they didn’t come here for the service. “We got a buffalo chicken sandwich with extra sauce and three burgers with everything.”
Ignoring his food, a trucker with a Bettie Page bicep tattoo says, “You’re that girl.”
Her heart’s a ticking bomb in her chest. She can’t escape it. The past. It’s coming in hot.
Alabama forces a smile, wanting the floor to open and swallow her down. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, buddy.” She swivels her eyes around the table. “Can I get y’all anything else? Fry sauce? Ranch?” A cyanide tablet?
The trucker waves a meaty paw. “No, no, no. I know you. You’re the singer from the papers.” A wicked grin spreads across his face. “The singer who likes to suck—”
She snatches up a dinner fork. Fast.
Then, Alabama’s jabbing it under his chin, the tines lightly piercing his fat jowls. “You finish that sentence, there’s no tellin’ what I’ll do with this little ol’ fork here.”
The trucker gulps, nods.
She lowers the fork, swings it at the rest of the table. “Y’all hear me?”
Nods all around. Eyes on their food, the truckers quietly dig in, only glancing up at the chime of the door. The men straighten up, tipping hats. “Sheriff,” one of them murmurs, giving a dirty side-eye to the fork Alabama now holds at her side.
The town sheriff stands there, hands on his straining belt buckle. His red, weathered face creases as he scans the table. “Howdy, folks. How’s life treatin’ y’all?”
Alabama flashes a bright smile. “Goin’ fine, sir. These kind gentlemen were just sayin’ how great the food is.” She sets the fork back down on the wood table with a clatter. “Your usual?”
He tips his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
They head to the counter, Alabama stepping behind it to pull a tray of donuts from the glass case.
The sheriff, resting his forearms on the countertop, says, “You givin’ those men hell, Bama?”
She grins at her father. “Learned from the best.”
A grunt.
As the town sheriff for the last thirty years, Newton Forester always has been a stickler for the rules, not to mention a man of few words.
Alabama pauses as she sticks a French cruller into the bag. “Lord, Daddy, is this good for your diet? What would Doc Harper say about this?”
“You just worry about yourself, Alabama.” The soft admonishment has her smile dying a slow death. The few seconds of thin camaraderie they shared already down the drain. “Which reminds me ...” Her father pats his back pockets with gusto. “You got some mail today.”
She blanches. Her stomach takes a nosedive. “What kind of mail?”
Her father slides an envelope across the counter and Alabama’s heart drops when she sees who it’s from. She doesn’t have to open it to know what it contains. Threats. Humiliation. Reminders of every single one of her mistakes.
“Thanks.” Shame burns her cheeks as she trades him the sack of donuts for the letter.
Her father nods. Cordial.
He can barely meet her eyes as he turns to leave.