Cock Blocker (BRRMC Roadhouse Tales 3) - Page 19
“Yup.”
“Good.” I let out a breath and get him buckled into the backseat. I knew there was something Jag wasn’t saying on the phone. I have to wonder if this means that Choke has made a threat or been spotted somewhere.
I drive us to the Dairy Bar and notice the motorcycle hanging back tailing me. I’m queasy and not sure if I will be able to eat anything. I get Gus out of the car and we get in line to place our order at the window.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite grandnephew. Who’s your friend, Gus?”
“Ms. Jackson.”
“Hi, I’m Gus’s teacher and a friend of Jag’s.”
“Oh well any friend if Gus and Jag’s is a friend of ours. His father was my nephew. God rest his soul. What can I get you guys? I bet Gus wants a chocolate milkshake and a footlong chili bun with fries on the side.”
His blue eyes light up. They aren’t as dark as Jag’s. He nods his head.
“Great and what was your name, hon?”
“Patience.”
“Hmm.” Her thin lips curve into a smile. “Bet you need a lot of that with Jag.” She giggles.
“Pretty much.”
“Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll take the same as Gus. Sounds good.”
“Okay. Here’s your ticket when you hear your number go to the second window.”
Gus swipes the white ticket with red numbers at the bottom and stares at it. “O, O, seven, six.”
“Very good,” I praise him, stepping out of the way of the next customer in line.
“Where do you want to sit?” There’s an area with picnic tables out in the open, a sheltered set, and a few tables with umbrellas. High school kids have claimed the shelter. I’m sure their topics of conversation aren’t appropriate for Gus’s ears. “How about one of these tables?”
“I wanna sit here.” He darts to one of the tables out in the open.
“Sure.” I glance around seeing the guy on the Harley parked on the other side of my car. I want to ask him why he’s following us, but I’m afraid I won’t like the answer.
Our number is called, and I make Gus go with me to get the tray. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have this heavy sensation deep in my belly that something is off. It isn’t only because of the biker guy follow our every move. I ha
ve a bad vibe. I grab our tray and go to pay when the woman declines my money.
“Our boy eats for free.”
“Okay. At least accept a tip?” I lay a five-dollar bill on the counter. Gus and I go back to our seat and I notice the biker, Mute, has his cell phone to his ear, but his gaze is on Gus and me. Is he reporting our every move?
I take a sip of my milkshake and bite into my hotdog. I wipe my mouth; sauce is getting all over me. Gus is having about as much luck as I am. I hand him a few napkins. “There’s no wiener in this?” Gus shrugs stuffing more food in his mouth. I guess that’s why she referred to it as a chili bun. I wonder how many nights Jag brings him here for dinner since his father passed away. “So what does your mom do? Does she work?”
Gus shakes his head. “She sleeps a lot. She’s sad all the time.”
“Maybe you should draw her a picture.”
He seems to like this idea, so I grab his backpack from my car. I’m parked close enough to our table to leave him. The biker catches my eye. He’s got scars on his face, like he was in a terrible fire.
“Did Jagger send you?”
“Yeth,” he answers with a bit of a lisp.
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