Chapter 8 - The Lot Light Stayed On Too Long
The staff door let out behind the kitchen with a heavy click and then the cold hit my face. It was past eleven and my coat was still damp at the cuffs from the dish steam. I had my bag over my shoulder and my time slip folded in my pocket, and my wrist throbbed under my sleeve where I'd kept my watch too tight all night.
The lot lights buzzed. A thin fog hung low over the asphalt and made everything look farther than it was. I could see my breath. Doyle's black truck was parked three spaces down, engine off, cab empty. Seeing it there made my stomach drop the way it had in the hallway when he passed me.
Then I saw him.
Marcus stood near the far light pole by his car, not by the door. His jacket was off and draped over his arm. In just the white shirt with the sleeves pushed up, his tattoos showed dark up his neck and down his forearms. He wasn't smoking. He wasn't on his phone. He was just standing there, hands still, watching the door like he'd been waiting awhile but didn't want to crowd it.
I stopped walking.
He lifted his chin a little when he saw me, but he didn't come forward. That was the first thing I noticed. He kept a good ten feet between us.
"Emma," he said. Quiet. Not the voice he'd used at the table.
I nodded. I couldn't get my name out past him right then. The lot was empty except for us and the buzzing light.
"I won't keep you," he said. "I know you're off. I just wanted to ask straight, off the floor."
My bag strap dug into my shoulder. I shifted it. The gravel crunched under my shoes.
He looked at the staff door behind me, then back at me. "I'm not asking you to tell me anything tonight. I'm only asking what you want put on record. If anything. Nothing forced."
I stared at him. No one had said it like that all day. Not Rosa, not Vivian with her hand on my arm. What do you want. It sounded too big for the parking lot.
A door slammed somewhere inside the mansion. Music was still faint through the brick. I thought about my tips in my apron pocket, counted and recounted on the bus ride in. Rent. Lena. The write-up Doyle could put in my file by morning.
"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. "It wasn't—"
And that's when the headlights swept the lot.
Bright white cut across the asphalt from the side drive, washing over Marcus's shirt and the pole and my hands. Doyle's truck. It hadn't been empty. Or he'd just come back out the side gate. The engine turned over loud and the beams lifted as he pulled forward slow, straight toward the exit lane that passed right by where we stood.
My throat closed.
Marcus didn't turn toward the light right away. He kept his eyes on me. He lowered his voice. "You don't have to say it now."
I looked at the truck. I couldn't see Doyle's face through the glare, just the shape behind the wheel. My wrist started shaking. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets so Marcus wouldn't see.
The truck rolled past slow. Too slow. The passenger window was down an inch and cold air came out with cigarette smoke. I felt his eyes on me even if I couldn't see them. Then the brake lights flashed red at the stop sign by the county road.
My chance was right there. Marcus ten feet away, respectful, not touching, not pushing. No Vivian with her glass. No guests. Just ask and it would be on record.
I looked down at the wet asphalt and the oil shine under the light.
"I have to catch the bus," I said.
He nodded once. He stepped back, giving me the path. "Okay."
I walked past him toward the sidewalk that led to the main road. My legs felt stiff and loud in the quiet. I heard his car door open behind me, soft, but he didn't start it. He didn't follow. He didn't call out.
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At the curb I turned just enough to see the lot. He was still standing by his car with his jacket over his arm, watching to make sure I got to the light. Doyle's truck was gone around the bend, taillights gone. The bus stop sign glowed faint down the hill.
I kept walking.
