Chapter 5 - Secrets In The Booth
The neon sign of the all-night diner buzzed overhead, casting long, sickly green shadows across the cracked vinyl booth. Outside, the rain beat a relentless tattoo against the greasy plate-glass window, blurring the headlights of passing semi-trucks on the interstate. We sat in the back corner booth, hidden behind a tall partition where the smell of stale fry grease and burnt coffee hung heavy in the air.
Costlow stared down into his mug of black coffee, his right hand tracing the rim. The dark hoodie he wore hid most of his chest tattoos, but the jagged scrape along his jawline stood out sharply under the flickering fluorescent tubes.
"Why were they hunting you like that?" I asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence that had stretched between us for the last ten miles of our bus ride.
He didn't look up immediately. He took a slow sip of the bitter coffee, his jaw tightening. "Because I didn't sign off on the new shipments coming through the port. My uncle wanted the docks opened up to things—and people—that don't belong in this city. When I told him no, he decided my position needed a vacancy."
"Your own family?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"Blood doesn't mean a damn thing when millions of dollars are moving across the table," Costlow said bitterly, his dark eyes finally rising to meet mine. There was a profound exhaustion in them that went deeper than physical pain. "Marcus thought he could eliminate me quietly, make it look like a botched hit by a rival crew. But I got out before they could finish the job."
"And you came to my room," I said, a faint, fragile tremor in my voice.
"I didn't plan on it," he admitted softly, his voice dropping so low I had to lean across the sticky table to hear him over the hum of the diner's old refrigerator. "I was running down the service stairs, bleeding through my suit, and your door was the only one with the light still on under the frame. I didn't think about what I was dragging you into."
I reached across the table, my fingers brushing against the scarred knuckles of his right hand. He didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers turned upward, catching mine in a firm, protective grip that made my chest tighten in ways I wasn't prepared for.
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"You're here now," I said, looking straight into his eyes. "And we're still breathing."
He gave a slow, grim nod, the ghost of a tired smile touching the corner of his split lip. But before either of us could speak again, the bell above the diner's front door chimed, and a pair of heavy boots crunched against the tiled floor near the register.
