Chapter Three: The Diner
1737 Words
The dinner rush was brutal. Jules hadn't stopped moving for four hours. Her feet ached, her back throbbed, and she'd skipped breakfast and lunch—her stomach was an angry knot. She couldn't afford to eat. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.
She was in the back, counting her tips. Seven dollars and some change. Enough for bus fare. Enough for a bag of apples at the corner store if she stretched it.
She stared at the money, thinking about her father's hospital bills, the collection notices piling up on her kitchen counter, the landlord who'd been calling every day for two weeks. She thought about the man from the alley—the way he'd looked right through her at the hospital. Like she was nothing. Like she didn't exist.
Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t tell if it was from hunger or anger.
The bell above the door chimed. Jules looked up.
Her heart stopped.
He was standing there, in the doorway. Travis.
He was wearing a suit—expensive, tailored, dark gray with a white shirt underneath. His hair was perfectly styled. His face was stone. He looked completely out of place in the rundown diner, with its flickering fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl booths, grease and stale coffee everywhere.
The other customers stared. He didn’t notice. He was looking at her.
He walked to a booth in the corner and sat down. He didn’t order anything. He didn’t look at the menu. He just watched her.
Jules was furious. She walked to his table, hands on her hips, jaw tight.
“What are you doing here?”
“Having coffee.”
“You don’t look like you’re having coffee.”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
He looked at her, gray eyes cold. "I don't know."
She laughed, bitter. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
She shook her head. “I have work to do.”
She walked away, feeling his eyes on her the whole night. She hated it. Hated that she noticed. Hated that she cared.
Maya pulled her aside an hour later.
“Okay. Who is that guy?”
Jules didn’t look at her. “No one.”
"That's not no one." Maya gestured toward the corner booth. "That's a billionaire in a suit in our diner. He's looking at you like you're the only person here."
Jules’s face went red. “He’s not looking at me.”
“Yes, he is. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he walked in.” Maya grinned. “He’s hot, Jules. Like, really hot. Who is he?”
“I don’t know what he wants.”
“Maybe he wants you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
"I'm serious. Look at him. He's rich. He's hot. He's staring at you like there's no one else in the room. What's the problem?"
Jules’s jaw tightened. “The problem is I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. She wanted to tell Maya everything — the alley, the blood, the threat — but she couldn’t. He’d made that clear.
“Just stay away from him, Maya. He’s dangerous.”
Maya studied her for a long moment. “Fine. But I’m watching you.”
She walked away. Jules went back to work, avoiding the corner booth. She failed.
Travis watched her. She was good at her job — fast, efficient, warm with the customers, laughing at their jokes. But when she turned away, her face went flat. She was tired. So tired.
He’d seen that look before. On his mother’s face. On his own face in the mirror.
She was drowning, and no one was throwing her a rope.
He wanted to help her. Pay her father's bills. Fix everything. Wrap her in money and safety and never let her struggle again.
But he knew she wouldn't accept it. Too proud. Too angry. Too stubborn.
And that made him want her even more.
She brought him coffee an hour later, slamming the cup down on the table hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim. She didn’t care.
“Here. Coffee. On the house. Now leave.”
He didn’t touch it. “I’m not leaving.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your answer for everything.”
“I know.”
She sat down across from him, furious, her hands shaking again — hunger or anger, probably both.
"Listen," she said. "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. But I have a father who's dying. Bills I can't pay. A life that's falling apart. I don't have time for your games."
“I’m not playing games.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
He looked at her, gray eyes cold—but something flickered beneath. Pain. Recognition. She didn't understand it.
“I don’t know,” he said again.
She laughed. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s the truth.”
She shook her head. “You saved my life. Then you threatened to kill me. Then you pretended you didn’t know me. Now you’re here, in my diner, watching me. What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice was sharp. “You’re not some lost puppy. You’re a grown man. A dangerous one. You don’t just wander into a diner for no reason.”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Try.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know why I saved you.”
She blinked. “What?”
"I don't know why I stopped. Why I got out of the car. Why I killed those men." He paused. "I've done worse things. Seen worse things. I don't know why I chose to save you."
She stared at him. “You don’t know why?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you saved my life and you don’t know why?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
She laughed, hollow. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
She stood. “Finish your coffee. Then leave. I have work to do.”
She walked away.
He watched her go and stayed in the booth for another hour, drinking cold coffee, watching her. She ignored him—she was good at that, good at pretending he didn't exist. But he caught her looking. Once. Twice. Three times.
She was confused. She didn’t understand why he was here.
Neither did he.
Finally, he stood, walked to the counter, and pulled out his wallet. He left a hundred-dollar bill — enough to cover the coffee, enough to cover every other table’s dinner too.
He walked out of the diner, telling himself he wouldn’t come back.
He was lying.
Jules went to clear his table. He was gone; the booth was empty. She found the money on the counter — a hundred-dollar bill.
She picked it up and stared at it. She was furious. She wanted to throw it away, chase after him and shove it in his face, tell him she didn't need his charity. His pity. Anything from him.
But she didn't. Because she needed it. Her father's bills were piling up. She was hungry, tired, broken. Drowning. And this hundred dollars was a rope, even if it was attached to a man she hated.
She stuffed the money in her pocket. She hated him for making her need him. She hated herself for taking it.
Travis sat in his car, parked outside the diner. He couldn’t leave. He watched the door, waiting for her to come out. He didn’t know why.
He was a fool. She was a nobody—a diner waitress, a nursing student. Nothing like the women he usually spent time with. Not polished. Not calculating. Not cold.
She was angry. Furious. Defiant. The first woman who ever looked at him like he was nothing.
He wanted to see her again. Hear her voice. Watch her eyes flash with anger. Wanted her to yell at him, call him out, fight him.
He wanted her to look at him like he mattered.
He was lying to himself.
The diner closed at midnight. Jules walked out the back door, shift over, exhausted—body aching, head pounding. She didn't have a car, so she walked to the bus stop.
A black car pulled up beside her. The window rolled down. Travis looked at her.
“Get in.”
“No.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“It’s midnight. It’s cold. You’re going to get sick.”
“Then I’ll get sick.”
He studied her. She was stubborn. He liked that.
“Jules. Please.”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Please,” he said again.
She got in the car.
The drive was silent. She sat in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. He drove one-handed, his other hand resting on the wheel.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I’m driving you home. I need to know.”
She gave him an address — a bad neighborhood, the kind of place where people didn’t always make it home at night.
“You live here?” he asked.
“Not all of us are billionaires.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant.”
He pulled up outside her building. It was old, run-down, the paint peeling, the windows dark.
Jules reached for the door handle.
“Jules.”
She stopped.
“Thank you,” he said. “For getting in the car.”
She looked at him. “Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your answer for everything.”
“I know.”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
She got out of the car and walked to the building without looking back.
Travis watched her go. She disappeared through the door, and a light flickered on in a third-floor window.
He sat in the car for a long time, telling himself he'd leave. That he'd never come back. That she was nothing—a nobody, not his type.
He was lying to himself.
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