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He wasn’t seeing it.
I rubbed a palm down my bearded face, fearing I was losing my mind. Maybe the bright light inside this damn diner is fucking with my brain. The fluorescent lighting above was such a striking contrast to the gloomy country boondocks we were presently surrounded by.
“Bro,” growled Piercer, probably thinking I was still worried over the vote.
Avoiding notice, I slightly held up a hand for him to give me a minute. I had no idea what was happening to me and no clue how to explain it. And it was getting worse. Now I was experiencing another awareness, my mouth watering as if craving a delectable fruit.
Keeping an eye on me but wanting to distract onlookers from my possible mental meltdown, Piercer asked the waitress, “Who comes all the way out here for a dance?”
He had a point. We were in a one-stop-sign town that was far from civilization of any sorts. Hardly the attraction for ‘sensational’ events. Nevertheless, tossing the rags behind the counter, the waitress placed the coffee pot back on a burner while cheering, “All kinds!” She gleamed. “Our little Watermelon Crawl is becoming a county sensation.”
Watermelon… Fruit… My mouth salivated.
For some reason, that simple form of produce suddenly sounded like an absolute gift from God. My eyes slid shut while a low groan vibrated through me.
“Is that so?” asked Pierce as he kicked me from under the table.
Shin now sore, my eyes popped open.
In Spanish, Piercer grumbled, “Why are you moaning in delight while I’m stuck envisioning ‘locals’ on their hands and knees, searching for the perfect fucking watermelons from their ‘prized’ gardens?”
Positive I was going to devour some of that watermelon to curb my irrational cravings, his attitude and comment made me laugh.
My brother exhaled relief.
“Isn’t that why y’all are here?” asked the waitress.
Piercer and I froze. The waitress couldn’t be more wrong.
I was now understanding there would be an abundance of people—especially strangers—in town for this ‘dance’ that could explain the rendezvous point chosen by our buyers. Hence me faking a smile and saying, “Ma’am, don’t I look like I can move on a dance floor?”
I was in my mid-twenties, packing on size to fill in the large stature my father gave me. Consequently, not a prime example of one being ‘light on their feet.’
Piercer’s cough of sarcasm had me teasing him in Spanish, “Like your feet aren’t made of concrete when on a dance floor?”
Laughing, he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth while answering the waitress, “I am looking forward to the dance we traveled so far to attend.”
Satisfied, the waitress shrugged. “See? Even folks from far away come for this dance.”
I couldn’t help but catch the cook in the kitchen window rolling his eyes. He clearly was more realistic regarding what kind of draw his town truly had.
“Looky there!” the waitress gestured outside. “The rain has stopped.”
Pierce and I both turned our heads to see out the window then gawked at the parking lot. It was drenched, but not another drop of water fell from the sky. As if God had simply turned a nozzle to the ‘off’ position.
What else had been turned off?
My dream-like trance.
I inhaled deeply, somewhat mystified to be feeling normal again.
“That’s our cue,” claimed Piercer as he scooted out of the booth.
After throwing cash on the table and thanking the waitress for her hospitality, I headed out the door while declaring I was off to the dance.
Quickly wiping the seats of our Harleys dry, we then loaded and began the drive to the dirt road where we hoped to see a waiting car.
My hair and clothes still being damp made the drive on the cool side. I missed my leather cut. It always broke the chill, but we were instructed by the club to not wear them during this part of the delivery. Understandably, we weren’t to draw any attention to ourselves.
