Page 5 of Her Crew

I have to think of something before I’m embarrassed in front of this guy. But what can I do?

Chapter 4

Alec

She stops walking, and I follow her gaze to a security guard standing by an option known as Taco Hut. He clutches a golden shell in his hands and munches away. A few shreds of bright-green lettuce drop to the tile floor, and his shining black shoes squeak as he pivots and squats to pick them up.

The girl remains frozen, but the guard is too busy shoveling food into his face to notice her staring. She doesn’t even take a breath until he wipes his hands on a napkin and heads in the opposite direction.

How strange.

Technically, I’m the criminal here, and I don’t react that way to authority figures. With my ability to smooth talk my way out of anything and everything, they aren’t really a concern for me.

I look back at the girl, though she’s more like a stray puppy I’ve plucked off the street—dirty and feral and terrified of The Man. Her size contradicts the pauper lifestyle she exudes. Instead of a gaunt, emaciated appearance, she’s actually pretty chunky, and I mean that in the most respectful way.

Underneath all the dirt and grime and insecurity, I still see the hint of who she could be. Her dark, unruly hair would become soft and silky after a good shower, and her lifeless hazel eyes have the potential to shine. She could keep the weight. If anything, it enhances her figure. So much softness.

Once the security guard is out of view, her body relaxes, and she scans the food court.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask.

“Everything,” she says under her breath. She looks up at me, craning her neck to look into my eyes. “Pasta heats up nicely in the microwave.”

“So you won’t have dinner with me?” My lips draw into a hint of a pout, and I’m only half joking. I’m genuinely curious about this girl, and I want to know why the security guard made her react that way. I want to know what makes a girl break into a vehicle to steal old fries. I want to know everything.

And I don’t even know her name yet.

“I can always eat a little bit now,” she says, “but the rest will be my breakfast tomorrow.”

“A little early to be thinking about breakfast, eh?”

Her lips draw into a frown. “I’m always thinking about the next meal.”

I remember—with zero fondness—the many meals I’ve missed. Yearned for. Starved for. She doesn’t seem to have an issue with missing meals, though. That’s dickish of me to think, but I don’t understand the walking contradiction which she represents.

We head over to the make-your-own pasta lineup, and she peers through the glass protector as she makes her decision. She eventually chooses a take-out container full of fettuccine alfredo, and I go for spaghetti and meatballs. After weighing both containers, I pay.

With our food in hand, I motion toward the sea of tables and chairs. “Let’s go sit down.”

“You meant that whole eat-dinner-with-me thing, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” I smirk at her. I love her snark.

She finds a satisfactory table, and we sit down. She flips open the lid of her container and starts eating. Right to the point. I grab my fork and dip the plastic tines into the noodles, winding some around as she inhales her food. I don’t ask her name yet because people like her tend to be more open when they’re with strangers. If we exchange personal information, I might seem less safe to her.

I lean forward. “What were the fries about?”

She swallows. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Is that why you got freaked out by the security guard? Because of other opportunities you’ve taken?”

Shame colors her cheeks. “Yeah . . . I got kicked out for stealing.”

“Clothes?”

“Food.”

She steals food from the food court? How does she get away with that?