Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 6

All the Young Dudes

The sky belches out a loud boom of thunder as the storm rolls in for another round. I have two choices: Stay outside in the rain and hope Ernie realizes my bag’s still in his truck before he reaches Memphis, or go inside where it’s warm and dry and get something to eat. My stomach growls, making the decision for me. After all, woman cannot live on Doritos alone.

The scent of burned chili and greasy french fries greets me the moment I walk through the door. A smaller version of the guitar from outside hangs above the long counter, where the after-bar crowd sits shoulder to shoulder on a row of red-vinyl-and-chrome stools, conjuring the sour smell of liquor and cigarettes from my imagination. The whole place—from the matching red-vinyl booths lining either side of the room and the framed rock and roll prints covering almost every square inch of the neon-pink walls, to the old-fashioned black-and-white linoleum tile floor—is coated in a thick layer of grease.

A middle-aged waitress delivers a juicy burger and a chocolate shake to the nearest table, and my mouth waters. But after the night I’ve had, I have other matters requiring my attention.

“Great Balls of Fire” blasts from the jukebox as I follow the sign to the restroom, praying it isn’t occupied.

A lady changing her baby in the booth adjacent to the ladies’ room smiles at me. “If you can hold it, I would.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” She folds the discarded diaper into a stinky burrito and shoves it into an outer pocket of her bag, then scoops up her baby and holds him to her chest.

“I think I can hold it.” Mom once said I was part camel . . . time to prove her right.

“Good idea.” She lowers her voice and tosses a quick glance over her shoulder. “The night manager, Rob, doesn’t give a damn if the ladies’ has TP, or if the toilets are clogged. And he doesn’t give a shit if some drunk takes a dump on the floor or pukes in the sink.”

My mouth drops open, and I quickly snap it shut.

“Now, the morning shift manager, Becky . . . she’ll be here in like”—she checks the neon clock on the wall—“an hour . . . two tops. She won’t put up with that shit. She cracks the whip, and those boys jump. Rob included.”

“I think I’ll wait for Becky.”

“You’ll be glad you did. Oh, and here.” She smiles and pulls a wad of wipes from her bag. “You might wanna clean up before sitting down.”

“Thank you.” While I scrub my face and neck, my stomach releases a loud rumble.

“Somebody’s hungry.” She pins me with a serious look. “Don’t eat the tuna. Stick to the burgers . . . or the chili. It’s pretty damn good.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Go get you a seat over there.” She nods toward the opposite side of the diner. “The smell can get pretty ripe over here by the restrooms, and you don’t wanna ruin your appetite. And do yourself a favor and steer clear of Travis,” she says as I walk away. “That boy is nothin’ but trouble.”

I slide into the only clean booth, which also happens to be the one directly next to the jukebox, and place my tote with Mom’s ashes under the table. Other than me, and the couple making out in the back, the only other person not sitting at the counter is a guy with dark floppy hair two booths away. Nose buried in a tattered copy of On the Road , he seems completely oblivious to the world around him.

Travis.

As if plucking his name straight from my thoughts, his head snaps up.

Picking at the loose thread on my shorts, I bury my face in the dirty menu in front of me, avoiding the dark eyes glaring at me from behind a pair of black-framed glasses.

I jump as a throat clears loudly at my side. Roughly the same age as me, the waiter—T. J., according to his name badge—isn’t tall or particularly good looking. His sandy-brown hair is too short, his nose bends too far to the right, and his muddy-brown eyes are too close together. But he has a nice smile.

“Hey, beautiful.” He grins down at me. “Ready to order?”

“No,” I blurt without thinking, too focused on Travis still watching me over his book. “I mean, yes. I’d like a cheeseburger—medium well, no pickles, extra onions—with a side of fries and a Diet Coke.”

“Sure you want those onions?” T. J. winks.

Two tables away, Travis’s eyes dart to T. J., and he snorts.

With no witty comeback at the ready, I mutter, “Yes, please.”

The guy behind the counter beckons T. J. to pick up his next order, mercifully putting an end to the awkward moment.

“Comin’!” T. J. yells, then leans in and dials up the charm again. “Be right back with that Coke.”

Distracted by Travis’s impressive scowl, I mutter a quick, “Thanks.”

Once T. J. disappears into the kitchen, I slide out of the booth and switch sides, putting my back to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.

Within a few minutes, T. J. drops off my drink and then sticks around to ask me where I’m from before he’s dragged away again. A little later, he brings my food, hovering as I take my first bite.

“Everything okay?” He flashes a wide smile.

I chew and swallow as quickly as I can without choking. “It’s good, thanks.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need. Anything at all.” With another wink, he slowly backs toward the kitchen. His smile slips as his gaze lands on something over my shoulder, and he stalks off.

Behind me, Travis’s scoff morphs into an impressive imitation of a cat hacking up a fur ball. Asshole.

Ignoring the beautiful troublemaker, I devour my burger and down two sodas while I wait for the morning manager to arrive. Almost an hour later, my bladder reaches the tipping point. Every pair of headlights draws my attention to the door, every passing minute urging me to take my chances with whatever horrors await in the neglected ladies’ room.

While I weigh my options, T. J. slides onto the bench across from me and snatches a cold fry from my plate. He props himself on his elbows and leans forward until he’s practically on my side of the booth. “I get off in fifteen minutes if you need a ride somewhere.”

“Really? You’d do that?” I rest my elbows on the table, meeting him in the middle. The possibility of a clean bathroom, and maybe even a shower, silences the voice of reason in my head. And with a lethal combination of sleep deprivation and desperation, the words come out in a stream of verbal diarrhea. “That would be awesome. I’m basically stuck here until Mack’s opens—that’s where they’re supposedly towing my car. Hopefully, they can get the armadillo out of the radiator. And I should probably track down Ernie’s dairy truck to get my backpack and phone charger. If they can’t fix my car by tonight, I guess I’ll need to find a motel, and I don’t have a clue where to look.”

“Whoa!” T. J. laughs. “Slow down, I didn’t catch half of that. Lemme go finish up and clock out, then we can figure out what to do next.”

“Thank you so much!” I beam at him. “You have no idea how grateful I am. Really and truly.”

“Hey, no problem. I’m here to serve.” He winks, then dips his head, going in for a . . . a kiss?

The hell? I jerk back before his lips land.

He straightens in the seat, shock registering in his muddy eyes, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. “Sit tight. Be back in a few.”

T. J. saunters to the kitchen while I reassess our tentative agreement.

What have I done? Accepting offers from two strangers in the same night? Jeanie will have my head . . . if I don’t lose it first.

“You shouldn’t trust that guy.”

The seductive murmur startles me, and I whip my head around to find Clark Freaking Kent casually leaning against my bench with his tattered book tucked under his arm. Travis may be trouble, but up close, the guy is seriously hot—all tall and sinewy in a wrinkled short-sleeved button-down and dark jeans. He could use a haircut, and probably an attitude adjustment, but if I didn’t know he was bad news, he would be exactly my type.

“He’s only trying to get laid.” He stares down at me from behind those black frames.

I raise a single eyebrow, trying and failing to avert my attention from his sinful body. He could easily be a model for designer eyewear. Or a superhero disguised as . . . a complete douche canoe?

“Believe me, don’t believe me. Either way, I’ve done my good deed for the day. The rest is on you.” He glides onto the bench across from me uninvited and flips to a page in the middle of his book.

The balls on this guy!

Stunned by his arrogance, I openly gape at him. “Who do you think you are?”

Clark-slash-Travis stares at the open book in front of him. “The guy who’s watched redneck-Romeo make a play for every woman under the age of forty who’s walked through that door since he started his shift almost five hours ago. He’s remarkably persistent considering how many times he’s been shot down.”

An undignified snort sneaks out of me as I peek toward the kitchen.

“You’re the best looking of the bunch, if it makes you feel any better. But definitely not the first.”

“You’ve been sitting here since before midnight?”

Travis lifts his gaze to mine. Behind the black-rimmed glasses, he has one blue eye and one that’s more brown than blue. As if someone got bored while coloring his iris and quit in the middle.

For the second time in the span of an hour, words tumble past my lips without permission. “Your eyes.”

“Yes.” He sighs and goes back to his book. “I’ve seen them.”

Tired or not, I’m fully aware I’m staring. “They’re just like David Bowie’s.”

“No. They’re not.” He flips to the next page, obviously not reading. “I was born with heterochromia. David Bowie got punched in the eye when he was a kid and it blew out his pupil.”

I cock my head to the side, studying him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs. “Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t.”

A devilish smile curves his perfect lips. “Everyone but you, then.”

The dig doesn’t bother me as much as it should. “My grandma would probably know that.”

No response.

“My mom loved Bowie.” I barely get the words out, the simple sentence nearly gutting me in the process. I turn to the window and take several short, steady breaths to keep from crumbling.

Across from me, the beautiful troublemaker lifts his head and studies me, a furrow forming between his dark brows. “Mine, too. She cried the day he died.”

Tears clog my throat, and I manage a weak nod, barely holding myself together.

Unaware of my fragile emotional state, T. J. bounds to the table and flicks his gaze toward Travis before dialing up his smile. “You ready?”

“Almost. I need to pay my check.” I pull three crumpled dollar bills from my pocket.

T. J. raises his hand, his grin wolfish. “I got you covered.”

“No, really. I have money.” Against my will, my eyes are drawn to Travis as I reach under the table for my tote. I place Mom’s ashes on the seat next to me while I dig for my wallet.

“Oh, hey. Nice, uh . . . martini shaker?” With a nervous laugh, T. J. juts his chin toward the urn.

Travis shakes his head. “It’s an urn, dumbass.”

My blind search comes up empty, so I lay Mom’s diary beside her ashes and tip the bag upside down, spilling the contents onto the table. “It has to be here.”

Fear blooms in the pit of my stomach as I dig through the assorted candy wrappers and juice boxes, tubes of cherry lip gloss and blackest black mascara, several stray M & M’S, a travel-size deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, a bunch of loose change, the keys to the Betty, Jeanie’s AAA card and her handwritten list of safe places to stay, a hairbrush, three tampons, and G-Lo’s striped anti-rape panties.

But no wallet.

My cheeks burn as I shove the underwear and tampons back into the tote and pick through the rest as if my wallet will suddenly appear out of nowhere. “I know I grabbed it before I left.” Did I leave it in the car? God, maybe something living in the Betty’s back seat ate it.

“T. J.! You forgot to clock out, again,” the guy from the kitchen shouts.

“Hold on to your hat, Rob!”

Rob pokes his head out of the back. “Becky’s here.”

T. J. groans. “Aw, shit.”

An older woman with faded red-orange hair strolls out of the kitchen wearing a crisp white apron over her pink uniform and a pair of green rubber gloves up to her elbows. “Travis James Masterson, I don’t pay you to flirt. Get in here and clock out before I call your mama and tell her I fired you again!”

The breath in my lungs freezes, and I lift my head in slow motion. Missing wallet momentarily forgotten, I gape from one Travis to the other and clear my throat. Instead of words, incoherent nonsense sputters past my lips. I try again, this time focusing my attention on my waiter. “ You’re Travis? I-I thought you were . . . and he . . .” I dart my eyes toward the man I thought was Travis.

“My friends call me T. J.” He shrugs, oblivious to the gears frantically turning in my head as he backs toward the kitchen. “Be right back. And don’t worry about your food. I got it covered.”

While the real Travis disappears behind the counter, the fake one throws back his head and explodes with laughter.

“You thought I was . . .” Not -Travis cackles so hard, air wheezes in and out of his lungs.

Horrified by the dawning realization, I nod.

“And Mandy warned you to steer clear of Travis, right?”

My head buzzes as I search the room in a daze. “Mandy?”

“The lady with the baby?”

I nod again. “I saw her by the bathroom earlier.”

Another bark of laughter. “I knew it! They’re related— somhow . I haven’t figured that out yet, but she was bitching up a storm when I got here. Spilled all the dirty deets about Travis James Masterson.” He pulls a napkin from the holder and a pen from his back pocket and then furiously scribbles words I don’t bother to decipher.

As if invoking his name conjures him from the back, Travis—a.k.a. T. J.—strolls to the booth with a big smile. “Okay. All set. Ready to roll?”

“No.” I blurt the word.

“Awesome!” T. J. does a slow double take. “Wait. What?”

“I think . . .” I shoot daggers at the-stranger-formerly-known-as-Travis, also known as Clark Kent.

Clark shoves his ink-covered napkin into his pocket, trying and failing to hold himself together.

I blow out a breath. “I should stay here.”

T. J.’s eyebrows form a deep V as he studies Clark, still snickering in the seat across from me. “Did I miss something?”

My attention drifts to the contents of my tote scattered across the table, and suddenly T. J. is the least of my worries. “I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was . . . I guess I wasn’t thinking at all, was I?”

“I see.” Arms folded across his chest, T. J.’s gaze drifts from Clark to my stuff before settling on my face. He nods, eyes tight, smile stiff. “Well played. I’m, uh, gonna take off. You’re welcome for dinner.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I call after him as he storms out of the diner.

With T. J. gone, the fog slowly lifts, leaving anger in its wake. Whether he deserves it or not, I direct the venom toward Clark. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t him ?”

“What?” He chokes on a chuckle. “How was I supposed to know you thought I was? You never said anything.”

“Why would I?” I snap.

Despite my glorious display of fury, he laughs again. “Is that why you’ve been mean mugging me since you sat down?”

“I thought you were someone else! But that doesn’t explain why you were giving me nasty looks. I didn’t do anything.”

His laughter dies down, every trace of humor fading from his expression. “I figured you were another empty-headed idiot willing to ignore Mandy’s warning.”

“Well, I’m not.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

The T. J. situation behind me, I shove my stuff back into my tote, trying to remember the last time I saw my wallet. A sudden memory of white teeth and green marble turns my stomach as the puzzle pieces fall into place. I am an idiot. But not for the reason Clark thinks.

“That slick sonofabitch took my wallet!”

Clark’s head snaps up from his book. “Travis? I would’ve seen—”

“Not him.” I wave my hand. “Junior.”

Clark scans the room. “Who’s Junior?”

“A guy I met in Cleveland. He must’ve lifted my wallet while I was spreading my mom’s ashes. Damn it!” Exhaling a loud breath, I slump against the bench. Jeanie was right. I have no business making this trip alone. “I’m so stupid.”

“I’m sure you’re not—”

“I am. My sister tried to tell me.” Determined not to cry in front of a stranger, I fold my arms across the table and press my face into the center. I should’ve known I couldn’t manage a cross-country trip by myself. Everyone else did. I may as well be a kid playing dress-up.

G-Lo has faith in you.

G-Lo was wrong.