Running Blind Read online

  The three stool-riders were still in place at the counter, but as soon as Kat reappeared they grabbed their tickets, slid from the stools, fished tip money out of their pockets, then ambled toward the cash register situated at the end of the counter closest to the door. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told Carlin they were leaving with ten minutes to spare. Kat efficiently rang up the tickets, ignored one customer’s attempt to flirt, and as soon as the last one left she flipped the sign on the door so it said “Closed,” then turned the lock.

  “I hate it when someone comes in at the last minute,” she explained with a slight grumble in her tone. “Throws off my whole schedule.”

  Carlin figured closing a little early had more to do with the “talking” Kat wanted to do, but because she was interested she asked, as she hung her jacket on a coatrack not far from the door, “When do you do your baking?”

  “If I have any special orders I usually stick around after closing to bake, so I don’t get overloaded during business hours. If I’m here late anyway, I’ll go ahead and bake for the next day, too. Otherwise I head home shortly after closing; baking usually starts as soon as the breakfast rush is over.”

  Carlin made herself handy removing the dirty crockery from the counter and, after a nod from Kat, took it through to the kitchen area. From her few brief stints as a waitress she knew there were all sorts of health department rules that had to be followed, and each state had different laws, so obviously things had to be done a certain way. Still, cooking was cooking and eating was eating, and some chores were the same except for the volume of what needed to be done.

  Kat didn’t strike her as a naively trusting person, despite the speed with which she’d offered the job, so Carlin waited for the questions to begin. Kat had acted on her own reasons, and she might or might not divulge them. That was fair enough, considering Carlin had already decided to keep some things to herself, too, such as her real last name.

  While the huge commercial dishwasher was running, they tackled the public area. Carlin did the mopping while Kat did the refilling and putting away stuff, though she kept an eye on her employer to see how things were done. Starting at the far wall, she mopped toward the kitchen area, scrubbing the floor with a solution that smelled like pure bleach and burned her sinuses. She wrinkled her nose. “Any germ that still lives after being drowned in this stuff deserves a nice cushy home on Easy Street.”

  “Any germ that lives could get my doors closed until it’s been hunted down and killed,” Kat returned.

  “Got it.” Carlin swabbed more bleach into a corner, unwilling to risk losing this job for a few germs, and in a vengeful tone said, “Die, you little bastards.” As soon as the words were out she mentally smacked herself in the head and darted a glance at Kat. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

  Kat shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ve called them worse.”

  “I try to watch my mouth,” Carlin confessed, giving another swipe at the corner, just in case. “The problem is I come from a long line of smart-asses, and things just … pop out.”

  “DNA’s a bitch.” Looking over at her, Kat suddenly grinned, her eyes lighting up. “I guess that explains your name, huh?”

  “Carlin? Yeah. At least they didn’t name me ‘George.’ ”

  They both snickered. Carlin relaxed more now that she knew she didn’t have to tamp down her more irreverent observations—everyone remembered a smart-ass, and not drawing attention to herself had been tough. On the other hand, staying alive was really good motivation, so she’d been working on being as anonymous as possible.

  “My mom loves George Carlin,” Kat said. “She’s always said any man who can make her laugh …” the sentence trailed away, as if some unexpected remembrance had derailed her thoughts.

  They worked in silence for a few minutes, but the quiet didn’t help. Carlin was getting antsier by the second. Why wait until Kat decided to start the questions? Why not begin with some of her own?

  “So, what made you decide to hire me? That was a fast decision, especially after I told you I needed to be paid under the table.”

  Kat looked a little startled, as if she hadn’t expected her new employee to take charge. She paused, her head tilting a bit to the side, her pale, clear eyes sharp as she gave Carlin a considering look. “I know what it’s like to be afraid of a man,” she finally said, her tone completely level. “Never again.”

  That simple explanation was good enough for Carlin. If she ever got out of this mess, if she was ever free and clear … she’d gladly help another woman who found herself in a similar situation. Call it karma, call it gratitude … call it one woman who had survived helping another to make it through another day. For now, Carlin decided just to call it good luck.

  As her employer, Kat could’ve asked for details, could’ve demanded them, but she didn’t. Instead she went to the jukebox, carefully avoiding the segment of the floor Carlin had already mopped while digging change out of her large apron pocket. She didn’t study the selections, just dropped in some quarters and started punching buttons, lining up a few songs for them to work by. As Kat turned around, the first song she’d chosen began to play. An instrumental Carlin didn’t recognize began, the notes filling the quiet café; Kat half-closed her eyes, her body moving in a gentle shimmy and sway. A moment later, Michael Bublé began to sing an upbeat version of “Cry Me a River.”

  Why that song? Carlin was suddenly tempted to tell Kat more. She wanted to tell her new boss that she had never cried over Brad, that it hadn’t been that kind of relationship, not ever. She had cried over some of the things he’d done, but mostly she’d been angry and frustrated—until Jina died, and after that things had changed. She didn’t cry now. Now, she worked hard at surviving.

  But Kat simply put on the music and got back to work. She didn’t speak, and Carlin pushed away the temptation to talk. Was this Kat’s normal way of doing things, or had she fired the jukebox up so it would be possible for them to work without speaking? Questions would inevitably come, but obviously not right this minute. Good enough.

  When “Cry Me a River” ended it was followed by Trace Adkins, with a kickin’ country song about bars and nice butts. Kat had an eclectic taste in music. Carlin was interested, but not surprised.

  Music filled the background, set the pace for their work, made it impossible for either of them to take notice of uncomfortable silences, because there were none.

  When she’d driven into Battle Ridge, Carlin had looked around and pretty much written the town off. She’d asked about a job out of habit, but hadn’t expected anything. She hadn’t expected she’d find herself here, mopping The Pie Hole, taking on a new job in the blink of an eye. And now she had a place to sleep, two meals a day, and she’d take in a little bit of cash along the way. Perfect. She wouldn’t stay here long. She couldn’t stay anywhere for very long. But she was safe for now, and that was enough.

  When the café was spotless and put to rights, they moved into the kitchen. The music came to an end, and there it was … silence. Everything unspoken seemed to hang in the air. Kat stopped working and turned to Carlin, looking at her with those arresting eyes.

  Okay, here it was. Carlin didn’t exactly hold her breath, but she went still, waiting. This was the moment, and it could go either way. If Kat didn’t ask, she wasn’t going to volunteer information. But if Kat did ask, she’d have to either lie or simply refuse to answer. Much as she would love to spill her guts, unload on a kindred spirit … The less Kat knew, the better off she’d be.

  But when Kat started talking, she went straight into a territory Carlin hadn’t expected. “If you’re going to be here awhile, there are a few things you should know.”

  Depends on how long “awhile” is.

  “There’s a drugstore and a grocery store at the edge of town. Neither of them is much to look at, but they sell the basics: mascara, tampons, cookies, milk. If you want anything fancy you’re going to have to drive into Cheyenne.”

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