Page 18 of Tony

“Oh, come on,” she says. “I can tell you’re hungry.”

“Can you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She slips into the seat across from me, leans her elbows on the table, and props her chin on her folded hands. “Want me to tell you what’s good here?”

“You really want me to eat, don’t you? Let me guess, this place has a profit-sharing plan.”

She giggles. I would put her at about… twenty-five, maybe. She’s cute, but in a dangerous sort of way. She’s got a gleam in her eyes that says Don’t fuck with me and Fuck me at the same time.

She leans back in her chair and grins. “Full disclosure. My family owns this place. So you’re not far off.”

“You’re…” I glance at her name tag. “Soshee Ameci?”

She tips her chin up. “The one and only.”

“What kind of name is Soshee?”

She extends her hand. “Hello there. I’m Soshee and you are…?”

“Oh.” I stand up and take her hand, then lean over and bring her knuckles to my lips, kissing them. “Tony. Tony Dumas.”

She holds on to my hand for two seconds too long. Long enough for me to make an observation about her skin—it’s soft—and her grip—it’s light. She blushes, lets go of me, and I sit back down.

She draws in a deep breath, pretends to fan herself, then chuckles. “It’s a nickname. Short for Stacy.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“Whatever. My older cousin couldn’t say Stacy when I was born. So she called me Soshee. And it stuck.”

“Well, I like it.”

“Thank you. Me too.” She looks out the window for a moment. Her smile falls just a little. Just enough for me to notice. “So why are you obsessed with them?” She nods her head in the direction of Sick Boyz.

“You say that like we have something in common.”

“We do.”

“Ah…” I laugh. “You like one of them. Let me guess. Vann?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes are drawn to the tattoo shop. And there’s a longing in them that makes me sad, for some reason. “But he’s obsessed with his new flavor of the week at the moment.”

“Ah, let me take another wild guess. Belinda Baker.”

Her eyes dart to mine. “How do you know that?”

“I’m stalking her.”

Soshee bursts out laughing. It’s a loud laugh. Like the kind of laugh you long to hear on dark nights. The kind of laugh that lights up a room.

Everyone in the dining room takes notice.

They all look in our direction and an older woman at the cash register bar shoots Soshee a dirty look.

“Sorry,” Soshee calls.

“Your mother?”

“Aunt. My mother is a fortune-teller down in Boulder.”