Arriving home, he unlocked the outside door to his basement room, wondering what the heck had gotten into him tonight: spitting on those burgers, chasing after Missy, and asking her out on a date. Though he’d noticed Missy right away, he’d done such a good job keeping his distance from her these past few months.
On his first day at the Blue Moon she’d looked him up and down and grinned, but he’d been careful to break eye contact immediately. He’d read the interest in her glance, and as much as he wanted to explore it, especially after a stretch in prison, he knew it wasn’t a good idea. So, he’d kept his distance, never looking for her, never making eye contact, never being available. He needed to concentrate on holding down the job and exhibiting good sense in the workplace. Couldn’t risk his re-entry by messing around with a pretty waitress.
But now? Four months later? Something had shifted. For better or for worse, getting to know Missy was more important now than it was then.
He took a cold beer out of his mini-fridge, threw the bottle cap in the little garbage can under the sink, and took a long gulp, remembering the conversation with her on the loading dock. He hadn’t meant to tell her about his sister Jody and her abusive ex-boyfriend Roy, recipient of said cracked skull. He’d just wanted Missy to know that he didn’t like bullies.
Lucas didn’t like thinking about Jody, especially what had happened to her while he was inside. Aw, he knew if wasn’t likely he’d have been able to help her, even if he’d been around. Still, it ate at him. Some days it made him almost crazy. It made him want to save someone, anyone, to make up for letting down his sister.
He took another a long swig of beer then ran his hands through his hair, glancing around the dingy room. The whole place was mismatched and shabby, but at least it was his. And after three years of sharing a very small cell with various roommates ranging from difficult to downright dangerous, Lucas felt grateful.
The basement apartment had come furnished with a throw rug, coffee table, and a copper-colored sofa that had seen better days. A yellow checked curtain spanned the length of the room on a long horizontal pole, cutting it in half. Behind it was Lucas’s twin bed, a nightstand and a lamp.
Actually, he’d set the lamp on the floor a few days ago to make room for the miniature Christmas tree he’d found on sale at the local pharmacy. Lately, he’d been going to sleep staring at the soft multicolored lights, longing for the old-fashioned kind of Christmas they showed in the movies; the kind Lucas remembered from his very early childhood—the soft, sepia memories from when life was safe and good, before his father died, when his mother still baked Christmas cookies and told bedtime stories that ended in giggles and hugs. The kind Lucas, with his broken nose and ex-con record, knew were probably not in the cards for him.
He sat down on the sofa, flicking on the radio beside him, then kicked off his shoes and sat back.
I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know….
Bing Crosby’s voice filled the dumpy room as Lucas stared at the amber glass of the beer bottle, thinking about Missy.
Truth told? Thinking about Missy was pretty much his favorite thing to do.
Physically, she was exactly his type: round where a woman should be round, soft and curvy with bright eyes and full lips. He liked that she wasn’t too skinny; a man wanted someone he could hold on to. Her blond curls framed her pretty face, and her blue eyes were wary but somehow, not hard, like she’d been kicked around plenty, but still had some hope in her heart. Which, he thought, must make her life just about unbearable.
He’d paid special, if quiet, attention to her from his very first day, drawn to her in some visceral, unexplainable way, far deeper than his body’s response to her.
He watched her secretly, careful not to draw attention to himself,
Took the garbage out when she was on the loading dock for her break,
Looked through the order-up window whenever her orders were up,
Stayed in the shadows but always made sure she got into her car safely at the end of her shift.
While on her break, she fed a mangy old dog that came around a couple times a week, cooing to it in sweet tones when she thought no one was listening. She packaged up extra food without being asked, and he’d watched several times as she threw in a few extra fries for an older couple or someone down on their luck passing through. When children came in, her pretty face would light up and she’d fish out the crayons she kept under the counter, squatting down beside them to exclaim over their finished pictures while their parents looked uncomfortable.
Mostly she ignored the meanness. It was heaped on her every other day. Women gave her cold looks while their men ogled her chest, “accidentally” bumping into her on the way to the men’s room. Her breasts and ass were probably touched more regularly than the front doorknob that let people into the joint.
Why people felt like they could treat her like that, Lucas didn’t know.
But he knew this: He’d treat her with care and respect.
Missy Branson wasn’t garbage.
She was special. More than special.
In fact, in Lucas Flynn’s tired eyes, she was rare and precious for one simple reason: her goodness was worth a hell of a lot more to him than her virtue.
And Missy Branson was full of goodness.
A date.
A date out to dinner.
Missy couldn’t actually remember a man ever asking her out on a proper date, and she couldn’t squelch her excitement.
The next day, Saturday, she found herself daydreaming, smiling at nothing, thinking about going out to dinner with a man who’d asked nicely, who might even treat her like a nice girl. He’d looked her in the eyes and said he wanted to get to know her better then sealed her “yes” with a tender kiss on the hand. Even if he never asked her out again, she’d have that memory. She’d know—for once—what it felt like to be asked out nicely.
The few times she’d been asked out on a date, it’d been with a suggestive smirk, so she’d known exactly what to expect: an impatient dinner, promptly followed by eager hands on her body. Pushing her panties down, they’d thrust into her without permission, but she’d let them because she craved the contact. And all the while, she’d try to look into their eyes, as they tried to avoid looking into hers.
And there were always stars, it felt like. She’d see them from a truck bed, or through a car sunroof, or from a blanket hastily placed in the dark corner of a park. There they’d be, blazing up there in the sky while she lay on her back. Always there watching, judging, cold and far away.
So she wasn’t anxious to wish on Lucas’s stars. They were no strangers to her, or she to them. And they both knew that a girl with the nickname “Easy Missy” probably didn’t deserve for her dreams and wishes to come true.
By Sunday, however, Missy’s feet had landed back on the ground and she’d stopped daydreaming. During their busy lunch-dinner shifts together, Lucas had barely glanced at her all weekend, and she started to wonder if he regretted his invitation. She wouldn’t have blamed him. She was Missy Branson, after all. Things generally didn’t work out for girls like Missy, no matter how much she wanted them to. She was so braced for disappointment by Sunday night, in fact, that it didn’t surprise her to find him at her side as she left the café at closing.