Killer (Savages 2)

"Well, if you need anything," she started, trying to sound professional and failing, "my name is Maggie."

I tugged on her wrist slightly until her body bent forward toward me, my other hand raised and traced the nametag over her breast. "I see that."

"Oh, lordy," a feminized male voice broke in, leaning over the back of my chair. "Can you touch me like that?" I twisted my head over my shoulder to see a male flight attendant standing there in the same blue uniform Maggie had on. I dropped my hand from Maggie's breast. "Look at that face," he said, shaking his head. "Why can't any of you bad boys be gay? I would eat you up."

I slanted my eyes back at Maggie. "I prefer to be the one doing the eating."

"Holy crap," the male attendant groaned, fanning himself. "Come on Maggs, let's get you out of here before this silver tongue devil drags you off to the bathroom and becomes a member of the mile-high club."

"Been a member for ten years," I added as I dropped her wrist. "And I am a... frequent flier."

I sat back in my chair, listening to the safety spiel, smirking every time Maggie's eyes fell on me during the demonstration. I wouldn't get a chance to follow through with anything with her, but I made both of our days marginally better.

A little over two and a half hours later, I was grabbing my bag and heading over to the car rental. They had nothing like what I wanted to rent- preferably something like what I drove back in Navesink Bank- sleek, new, expensive. No, my options were pick-up trucks, hatchbacks, and late model muscle cars. I picked the latter in black and cranked up the music loud enough to drown out the thoughts in my head as I got closer and closer to my hometown.

"Christ," I sighed as I drove up to the town, shaking my head. Things were supposed to change. I half expected to head back home the next day and see two new restaurants opened and three mom-and-pops closed. That was how things were, ever changing. But my hometown seemed stuck in time. Not only were all the businesses the same, they hadn't so much as updated the paint. I parked at the end of the street, climbing out of the car, and heading to the funeral home.

I hadn't called and when I walked up and found the door locked, I cursed softly, slamming hard at the wood.

"Boy quit all that bangin'," a voice called from the street. My back straightened automatically at having been called 'boy' as I tried to ease my face into softer lines. "It's Sunday," she added with emphasis.

At that, I felt a smile tug at my lips. Of-fucking-course it was. And I was in the South. And no self-respecting business was open on a Sunday aside from the diner in town where everyone went after church. Shit.

"Right," I said, turning toward the street and having to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Because there on the sidewalk was my old third grade teacher. Small fuckin' town. "Thanks, Miss. George," I said, taking off down the steps toward my car.

"Johnnie Walker Allen!" she called in that don't you dare move tone that was, apparently, just as effective to a full grown man as it was to a boy. I turned back toward her, forcing a smile. "About time you showed up. Your grandmama has been a mess!"

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed, nodding.

"I'm sorry about your daddy. I heard you are taking care of the arrangements."

"Yes ma'am," I said again, slipping my hands into the pockets of my black jeans.

"Well come along. I'll take you to Harriet," she said, waving a hand at me. I suppressed the urge to tell her no and slipped my arm into hers. Fact of the matter was, I had no intention of seeing my grandmother or any of my family for that matter. I wanted to take care of the arrangements and get the hell out of there. There was a reason I hadn't shown my face in town since I ran off all those years ago despite having a gaggle of relatives left.

I should have known I would never get away with that.

"You know, if it wasn't for all those tattoos and piercings, you turned into an attractive young man."

"Thank you ma'am," I smiled, deciding not to tell her that I got boatloads of pussy that liked the look of my tattoos and liked the feel of one particular piercing of mine.

"It's such a shame about your daddy." A shame it didn't happen a decade ago, sure. "But it is nice to see your face back 'round these parts," she said as I opened the door of the diner for her.

To say the entire restaurant hushed would be an understatement. It went from raised, animated voices and the sounds of eating and drinking to stone dead silence.

The diner was the same as I had remembered it: worn linoleum floors that were more brown than white with age, sparkling metallic booth and table tops, faded yellow walls. At the breakfast bar along the back sat all the old men. At the tables, the families with children. At the booths, the women of varying ages, spreading gossip no doubt. Everyone was dressed in their church clothes as I walked in in black skinny jeans, checkered creepers, and a faded ZZ Top tee.

"Just go on back to your eatin'," Miss. George said, waving a hand at them. "We're here to see Harriet, not be gawked at."

With that, she lead me down the booths to where my grandmother was sitting at the largest one in the corner, surrounded by her church ladies and one or two of my older cousins.

"Johnnie!" she said, her eyes immediately filling with tears. Now, here's the thing about my grandmother: she didn't give a spit about me. She never did. What she did care about, however, was her reputation in town. And if she didn't turn on the waterworks at seeing her long-lost grandson, well, what would that say about her?