Convicted (5 page)

The water caressed her everywhere, its touch as gentle as a lover's. Gentle as Deacon's hands would have been had they made love that night three years ago. Sputtering, Lisa shot out of the water. Wouldn't anything keep her from thinking about it?

She toweled off quickly, grateful for the chilly breeze sweeping in the open window. She needed some cooling down, all right. What on earth was wrong with her? She was acting like a jittery old maid.

Which wasn't so far off the mark,
she thought morosely. She slipped into a comfortable denim skirt and her favorite cotton pullover. Lisa finished dressing and ran a comb through her wet hair, glad she'd been letting it grow so it was easier to put up. A swipe of pressed powder and a slick of lipstick and she was ready to go, but she still stared at her reflection critically.

She'd turn twenty-six in a few months, and what did she have to show for it? She still worked in her family's business, lived just a few blocks away from her parents, and wasn't married. Her boyfriend was more friend than lover, and the one man she'd thought she loved was back in town after getting out of jail.

Damn.
She was thinking about him again.

Deacon's white shirt was too tight at the neck, and the black string tie strangled him even further. Even his black pants hugged his waist too snugly for comfort, but it wasn't worth complaining about. Tom Lee would just tell him to go out and buy his own uniform instead of using the one The Evergreen provided. Since Deacon wanted to keep his job at The Evergreen until he was sure The Garden Shadd was going to work out, he'd make do.

It was a whole different world on the other side of the bar, he reflected as he watched Danny the bartender mix his drink order. Deacon had spent plenty of evenings down at the Evergreen, but always as a patron. Now that he was the one in the monkey suit dealing with slow kitchen staff and impatient customers, he had greater sympathy for wait staff everywhere.

"Kitchen backed up again?" Danny topped off the mug of Straub's and handed it to Deacon.

"All night." Deacon took the glass and put it on the ridiculously tiny tray Tom insisted they use instead of just carrying the glasses like normal human beings. "We're out of stuffed mushrooms and the lobster special is almost gone, too. It's only seven-thirty."

Danny laughed. "Gonna be a long night. Glad I'm behind the bar tonight and not waiting tables."

There were lots of dissatisfied customers, and all of them seemed to be in Deacon's section. He'd only been waiting tables for a week, and was still getting used to the elaborate system Tom Lee insisted his wait staff use. Lee thought flourishes and furbelows would add class to his kitchen's adequate but not outstanding food.

Didn't he know The Evergreen was pretty much the only game in town? Unless you wanted to take your date to The Golden Corral or Fred's Chicken and Cream, the only other choices were fast food places and a couple of pizza and hoagie joints. The Evergreen was considered a "nice" restaurant only because it had white tablecloths and matching china on the tables.

"Waiter, excuse me." A portly man waved his fork at Deacon. "My fork is dirty."

"I'll get you another one right away." Deacon thought about adding a bow and a scrape, but decided the man and his equally rotund wife wouldn't appreciate his attempt at humor.

With that potential disaster thwarted, he headed back to the kitchen to see what was holding up the rest of his orders. Before he could get there, the Evergreen's hostess, Nancy, stopped him.

"I had to put another one in your section," she said apologetically. "She's in number 23."

Deacon didn't complain. It wasn't Nancy's fault. "I'll take care of it right away."

The Evergreen's huge, multi-page menu hid everything about the woman sitting at the table except for her hands. Deacon got out his notepad and pen, pausing just long enough to smooth back his hair. "Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"Yes, I'd like a--" The woman stopped when she dropped her menu, clearly as stunned to see him as he was her. It was Lisa. "What are you doing here?"

Her question was pretty silly since she'd seen him there before. "I work here."

"But I thought you worked at--" She stopped again, as though at a loss for words.

He'd help her out a little. "I work there, too."

She nodded quickly, switching her eyes away from his. The creamy skin at the base of her throat began to flush a dull crimson visible even in The Evergreen's dim lighting.

"A drink?" Deacon asked coldly. Her reaction to him was irritating and embarrassing. What did she think he was going to do to her? She was the one who'd effectively sent him behind bars. If anyone should be upset, it should be him.

"Coke, please," she whispered.

He left the table and headed back toward the bar to get the drink. When he returned, she looked a little calmer. Then he noticed the shredded remains of a paper napkin scattered on the table. He'd had enough.

"Lisa."

She jumped. She actually jumped. Deacon frowned, looking around the restaurant to make sure nobody else was paying attention to them.

"Maybe I should switch tables with Rhonda," he said.

"No." Lisa ventured a look at him. "I'm all right."

"Do you know what you'd like to have?" He asked formally. She told him quickly, and he wrote it all down. "All right. I'll go put your order in."

"Thank you," she called after him.

She'd spoken a little too loudly, making most of the heads in that section of the dining room turn to stare at her. Then at him, which he wouldn't have minded except for the whispering that followed it. So much for anonymity. Not in this small town.

The kitchen seemed to be catching up on things, which meant Lisa's salad was ready in just a few minutes. Steeling himself for another round of awkward silence interspersed with stammering and blushing, he took it over to her table. She surprised him by speaking to him calmly.

"Deacon," she began hesitantly. "I'm sorry."

The salad bowl clattered to the table, making heads turn again. "For what?"

"For acting like such an idiot," she said. "Today in the meeting, and just now... I was being stupid. I'm sorry."

It had been too much to expect she'd apologize here, now, for being the reason he'd spent the past three years as part of a jail work crew. Did she think that just saying sorry would make things all right? Three years didn't erase so easily.

"Is there anything else I can bring you?" He asked as though she had said nothing.

She said his name again, lower this time. For the first time she met his gaze steadfastly, without twitching or turning away. "I
am
sorry."

The words hung in the air between them like smoke. "Can I get you anything else?"

She looked down at the salad without much interest in her eyes. "No, thanks."

Her apology rang in his ears as he checked his other tables. Extra napkins, refills on beverages, scraping crumbs off the tables between the entrée and dessert. All these things took up his actions, but not his attention.

She was sorry? That was it?
She announced to him in the middle of a public place, while he was working, no less, that she was sorry? What was he supposed to do? Just...forgive her?

That's exactly what she expected,
he thought, pouring coffee as bitter as his feelings.
That would make it a lot easier for her, wouldn't it?
Especially since her father had decided to hire him at the family business--something he was sure she didn't like.

He'd had three years to think about seeing her again, to think about what he'd say and do. How he'd demand answers to all the questions he had about them and the time they'd spent together. Three years was a long time to dwell on things like that. Too long to let it all go just from hearing two little words.

The dinner she'd looked forward to as a treat sat in her stomach like a pile of rocks. Lisa pushed away the slice of pumpkin pie--her favorite--that Deacon had brought her. She hadn't been able to enjoy it. Tonight, the sweet orange pie tasted sour.

"If you're finished, I can take the check." Deacon's voice was cold, his manner stiff. Now he was the one who wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Sure, yes." She fumbled in her purse for her wallet, and pulled out her credit card. She offered it to him without thinking, then realized she had enough cash in her wallet to cover the bill. "No, wait. I don't want you to take the card."

His lips thinned and his fingers tightened on the bill, crumpling it. She suddenly realized how she'd sounded. Afraid to let him take her credit card like he was some sort of thief who couldn't be trusted. That wasn't what she'd meant at all, but it was too late to change. Explaining would only make things worse.

She took the thin plastic card and handed him two twenty-dollar bills. "I don't need any change."

Again, the way his mouth turned down and his eyes sparked, she knew she'd made another mistake.

"That's nearly a forty percent tip," Deacon said.

"I want you to have it."

Without another word, he turned, and took the money and the check. Lisa sat back, wanting to kick herself. The young couple at the table next to hers was staring again. She smiled at them and nodded, and they whispered to each other. She knew they were talking about Deacon, and probably her, too.

She made a quick visit to the women's room to wash her hands from the sticky pumpkin pie. When she got back to the table, she saw her money sitting there. Nearly thirty dollars of it which meant he hadn't taken any tip at all. Lisa sighed. Had she thought she could bribe him into forgiving her?

"Excuse me," she said to Nancy, who'd been in Lisa's graduating class from ECC High School. "Can you tell me where Deacon Campbell went?"

Nancy gave her a quick look of curiosity as she ran one lacquered nail down a list at the hostess' podium. "Um...well, it says here he had the early shift tonight. He's probably gone by now."

"Darn," Lisa muttered. "Thanks, Nance."

"Sure," Nancy said. "Have a good night!"

Lisa doubted that would be possible. She tucked her purse under her arm and pulled on her light jacket, then headed out in to the chill, dark parking lot. The revving sound of a motorcycle caught her attention immediately, and she searched the lot for what she hoped would be Deacon and his Harley.

The man on the big motorcycle was just pulling onto the street. She called Deacon's name, waved her purse and ran a few foolish steps toward him. It was too late. He pulled out of the lot, the bike roaring like an animal, then she saw nothing but the red blink of his taillight as he stopped at the intersection's stop sign.

"Shite and double shite," Lisa said, using the Irish obscenity as an afterthought. She'd picked it up during her summer internship on the Emerald Isle, and nothing else seemed to quite fit the situation.

She looked at her watch, noting the time was later than she'd planned to be out. There was nothing more to do but go home. She certainly wasn't going to run after him, even though the bike was still within shouting distance.
No.
Whatever she had to say to him, and she wasn't quite sure what that was, would have to wait for a better time.

She was just stepping up to her car when the masked man stepped out of the shadows and demanded her purse. "Don't move!"

Lisa wasn't about to. Her heart had frozen in her chest mid-thump. She held out the bag, a fifty-cent throwaway she'd picked up at The Resale Shop. Whatever she had in it wasn't worth dying for.

The man, face covered by a rubber mask that looked like Bill Clinton, took a step toward her. "Drop it!"

She did as she was told, not wanting to antagonize him. His height marked him as an adult, but his voice was little more than that of a scared kid. A teenager. He stepped closer to the bag, nudging it with his toe. She'd supposed her attacker would pick up the purse and run, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Take..." His voice squeaked and broke. "Take off your panties!"

"What?" The demand shocked her into protesting. "No way!"

He shot his head from side to side nervously. Lisa had parked along the back edge of the lot near the row of evergreen trees that gave the restaurant its name. From the rustling among them, she thought the young man in front of her wasn't alone.

Now her heart unfroze, pounding a desperate rhythm of fear in her chest. A few red spots danced in her vision, and she realized she was holding her breath.
Don't faint! Don't panic!

"I need your panties," Bill-Clinton-mask said with another quick jerk of his head toward the tree row. His fingers twisted on her wrist, and she yelped. He might be young, but he was stronger than she was. "Right now or else!"

She didn't want to ask or else what. Lisa craned her head to see if by some miracle someone, anyone, was leaving the restaurant. There was no help there. Through the windows, she could see a set of diners enjoying their meals, but it was light inside and dark out here. None of them, even if they happened to look, would see what was happening.

"Okay," she said slowly, leaning away from him as far as she could with his hold still on her wrist. At least it didn't appear he had any sort of weapon. "Just a minute."

"I don't have a minute," cried Bill-Clinton-mask in a high, strangled voice.

To Lisa, he sounded like he was on the verge of fainting himself. The trees rustled again and three black-garbed figures, faces covered with similar rubber masks, emerged.

Whatever sense of calm relief she'd felt at noticing he was unarmed fled immediately at the sight of the three dark bodies surrounding her. Bill-Clinton-mask still held her in his vise-like grip, and though she felt the chill clamminess of his fingers sliding on her skin, he was still holding too tightly for her to hope she could slip free.

"Hurry up, bro," spoke the figure in a Jimmy Carter mask. His voice was lower and his body thicker, but Lisa sensed he was no more a man than Bill-Clinton-mask. None of them were. She was going to be attacked and raped by a bunch of high school boys!