fic: someone's shadow (2/?)
Jun. 10th, 2006 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceaYes, yes, Saturday night is the WORST time of the week to post new fic. Yet, I'm doing it anyway. The second chapter, finally - feedback is, of course, loved and appreciated, especially on the cold, dead weekend. ::grins::
Title: Someone's Shadow (2/?)
Rating: R (language, sexual content)
Pairing: Dean/OFC
Spoilers: Set somewhere between "Skin" and "Shadow".
Disclaimer: Dean and Sam don't belong to me. I'm learning to cope with the disappointment.
Note: Continuation of my story for the latest![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
occhallenge prompt party. WIP, still planned at 10-12 parts.
Length: Part One, ~3,200 words. Part Two, ~3,100 words.
Summary: Dean and Sam visit a small Illinois town, where one family is haunted by tragedy - and, perhaps, by something a little more tangible.
Part One
The Roadhouse Grill resembled a thousand other hole-in-the-wall rural bars, with wood paneled walls, battered plastic tables, and a row of pool tables in back, felt faded to a sickly pale green. Dean threw a longing glance at the last area, where he could see Sam talking to an old man in a John Deere hat. A pickup game would be nice – a few extra bucks in his pocket never hurt anything – but Sam had pointed out the folly in possibly pissing off the people who might have information about their latest search. He was right, of course, but that didn’t mean Dean had to tell him that. So, when Sam glanced in his direction, he scowled slightly and turned back to his beer.
Only two other people sat at the bar with Dean, so he wasn’t terribly surprised when the bartender stopped in front of him, sporting a smile that threatened to rip his face in half. “Hey, buddy, I’m getting out of here in a few minutes. You can settle up now, or you can settle with my replacement when you’re done. Your call.”
Dean reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Now’s good, keeps me honest. Looks like you’re glad to be getting off tonight.”
The man’s smile widened, which Dean had thought was impossible, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to deepen. “Congratulate me, son. As of tonight, I’m a grandfather for the very first time.”
Dean chuckled and threw an extra five dollar bill onto the bar. “And here you are, looking barely old enough to be a father.”
“Save the flattery for my replacement. She’s better looking than me.”
“In that case, congratulations, old man.” Dean lifted his beer in salute, and the bartender wandered off, whistling.
A moment later, Sam slid onto the stood next to him. “So, apparently,” he began, then frowned at the empty glass in front of him. “Why didn’t you order me another one?”
“Maybe I could afford another one if you’d let me play pool.”
“Last time you hustled a game, you ended up getting thrown out of the bar. Physically.”
“Wasn’t my fault that dude was a sore loser.”
“Or that he was the bouncer’s brother-in-law?”
“That either.”
“And you didn’t even get paid.”
“Thus, no money for your beer. Suck it up.”
Sam sighed and looked around for the bartender. When he didn’t see him right away, he shook his head and leaned his elbows on the bar, turning his head to look at Dean. “Another reason to not piss people off around here? Claire Dyer works here.”
“Claire?” Dean looked around – the only female employee in evidence was a bored, portly waitress wiping tables in the corner. “Which one is Claire, again?”
“She’s the granddaughter of the original owners of the diner, Cliff and Lora Dyer. The only one left in town, except for a teenager, Jenny, who is probably the girl from the diner last night.”
“Sisters?” Dean wondered.
“No, they’re cousins, according to Vince back there.” Sam inclined his head towards the man he’d been talking to, who nursed a glass of scotch while staring intently at one of the pool tables. He reached over to the journal, sitting on the bar next to Dean, and pulled a scrap of paper out of the front – a folded news article. Dean took it from him and scanned it again. It was dated more than a year earlier, from a newspaper in Du Quoin, the closest town large enough to have its own paper. Dean read the beginning aloud softly. “A gas leak is blamed for the deaths of Rogersville resident Lora Dyer, 67, and her daughter Holly, 40, at the Silver Moon Café Wednesday night. The women had been preparing the diner for its grand re-opening, more than twenty years after its doors closed, when the tragedy occurred.”
“Jenny is Holly’s daughter,” Sam supplied. “Claire belongs to Lora and Cliff’s other daughter, who apparently lives in Nashville now. Vince likes to talk about people, apparently.” Sam tapped the glass absently. “He thinks the older daughter – Natalie, Claire’s mom – is a stuck up bitch. But he likes Claire, who apparently tends bar here.”
“Good for him.” Dean stuffed the article back into the journal. “So, they blame the last two deaths on a gas leak. The first death was supposedly a suicide. Wasn’t there a third one, sometime in between?”
“Yeah, back in the early 90s. A guy was locked in an old freezer; no one knows how long he was there, but by the time someone found him, he’d starved to death. Holly’s husband – Jenny’s father.” Sam turned his body fully towards Dean, away from the other two patrons at the bar. “Oddly enough, it was the only other time the family tried to reopen the diner. Do you think there’s something there that doesn’t want it open?”
“Duh.” Dean finished his beer. “We need to get back into the diner. We didn’t get a chance to use the EMF meter last night.”
“Well, hopefully, the kids were bored enough last night that they won’t come back.” Sam glanced at the front of the bar – the door had opened, showing the sidewalk bathed in the glow of a streetlight. “Think it’s late enough to go check it out?”
Dean didn’t respond. The opening door had admitted a woman, a brunette with short, tousled hair and hips that should probably be illegal in public. His gaze followed her as she walked to the bar and tossed her backpack over the side. Only then did she look up and notice his stare. Her lips slid upwards in a half smirk before she turned away and walked into the kitchen. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered.
“Dean!”
“What?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“No.”
Sam smacked him half-heartedly on his shoulder. “God, where’s the bartender?” he sighed.
“Leaving. Has a new grandchild.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hey, you think you’re the only one who can have civil conversation with people?”
“Yes.”
Dean just grinned at his brother – then, over his brother’s shoulder, as he noticed the brunette walk out of the kitchen and behind the bar. The bartender waved at her from his position at the register at the other end. “Claire! Thanks for coming in on such short notice, sweetheart.”
“Of course, Martin.” She walked over to him and slung an arm quickly around his waist. “Give Rachel my love, and let me know if you guys need anything, okay?”
“Will do.”
Dean and Sam looked at each other. “Claire?” Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Claire Dyer, then?” Dean glanced back at her. “Cool.”
“I guess that means we’re sticking around.”
“Duh.”
“You do know the kid in the middle is staring at your ass, right, Claire?”
“Yeah, I saw him when I walked in.” She grinned at Martin. “Does a girl’s ego some good, actually.”
“I think that means you need a date, kiddo.”
“No lie.” Claire sighed. “Go on, get out of here, there’s a baby boy waiting to be spoiled. I’ll handle the frat boys.”
Martin kissed the top of her head cheerfully before heading out. Claire shoved a bottle opener in her back pocket and surveyed the rest of the bar. Vince Richards and Tim Kerrigan were playing pool in the back. The new high school vice principal was eating barbeque with three guys she’d never seen before in the corner. Mimi Catalano was grinning at a date over by the door – Claire had heard her extolling the virtues of speed dating the week before, so this must be one of those victims. A group of young people shouted over near the restrooms – their t-shirts labeled them students from Carbondale – a little far from home, but their money was always appreciated outside of the usual college zone.
At the bar, Bob Day sat on his usual stool, playing video poker on the monitor in front of him. A few stools away, Claire recognized the man who had sat there the night before; she didn’t remember his name, but he’d talked about transferring to a job at the grain elevator just outside of town. He looked up at her and waved, her signal to grab a bottle of Bud Light and set it in front of him. “How’d the house hunting go today?” she asked.
“Not too good. Everything I looked at needs too much work for me. I’m not much of a do-it-yourself kind of guy.” He rubbed his eyes. “My wife isn’t too keen on moving out this far, anyway. She’d kill me if I moved her into a house built before she was born.”
“Hard to come by any other kind around here,” Claire commented. “But, if you haven’t been there already, check on the north side of town – there’s a guy building a new condo development off of Washburn Road. I don’t know when they’re scheduled to be done, but maybe they might have something for you.”
The man’s face lit up, and Claire winked at him. One of the boys at the other end of the bar was trying to catch her eye – yep, the one that had been staring at her – and so, it was time to figure that out.
These two were definitely newcomers – passing through, probably. The dark haired one was looking forlornly at his empty beer glass, but the other one looked straight at her with wide eyes and a grin that almost certainly meant trouble. She’d seen grins like that before; not usually on someone so attractive, she admitted, but still, the expression was familiar. There was a time, not so long ago, when she’d sit on the other side of a bar in Carbondale and respond to a grin like that with a tip of a beer bottle, a mimed invitation. He’d sit next to her, feed her some lines, and she’d decide whether to throw him back into play or take him back to her apartment. The mating dance of the young and bored … she missed it, sometimes. But, then again, she thought the sound of shattering glass brought her attention back to the college kids, sometimes, she didn’t miss it at all.
Kim – who was apparently the only waitress on duty that night, which made Claire wonder what excuse Heidi had come up with this time – waved at Claire as she walked by the bar with a broom and dustpan, so Claire turned her attention back to the boys at the bar. Her potential stalker’s gaze hadn’t wavered. She smiled, almost to herself – he was, indeed, almost unnaturally good-looking, with chiseled features and spiky hair and an obscenely sexy mouth. In another life, she’d adjust her black tank top to better accentuate her cleavage, walk over, lean in, and ask his name. In another life, one in which a fifteen-year-old didn’t wait at home for her. So, instead, she grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped down the bar as she approached them. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asked.
Her stalker opened his mouth, but it was the other one who spoke first, quickly, as he slid money across the bar. “Two more Buds, please.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” This one was also ridiculously handsome. Heidi was going to regret calling out again, Claire thought with amusement.
She’d turned back to the tap before the other voice – her stalker - spoke up. “You’re Claire Dyer, right?”
She started, surprised, but she finished pouring the beer before she turned around and fixed her gaze on him. “Yeah …”
She saw his companion look askance at him, but his smile never wavered. “Jim told me I might find you here.”
“Jim?” Claire searched her brain. Jim, Jim … Mr. Christoph, the owner of the feed store, was named Jim, but only his wife ever called him that. Jim Nydecker was on the city council, she knew from reading the local weekly paper, but she’d never met him. No Jims here in town, then … but there was one in Carbondale. “Do you mean Jim Harder?”
“Yeah, he pointed me in your direction. I work with him sometimes.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Dean. This is my brother, Sam.”
Claire took his hand, still confused, and tried not to react to the size of his hand closing around hers. She didn’t have a large hand kink. Not at all. “You certainly don’t look like an accountant …” she said, taking in Dean’s tattered t-shirt and strange necklace. Jim Harder always looked like he came straight out of a J. Crew catalog.
Dean laughed – a low, rough tone that Claire felt dancing on her spine. Yes, she thought, Martin was right, she definitely needed a date. “Oh, hell no. I do some freelance contracting. He just does my books sometimes.”
“Ah.” That made more sense. Dean finally let go of her hand – after just a split second too long – and she relaxed. “What can I do for you, then, Dean?”
“Well, see …” He paused for a moment and looked at his brother. Sam simply looked back expectantly – an odd look, Claire thought – so Dean shrugged and continued. “The thing is, Sam and I are looking to start a business together. A restaurant. Our parents owned a place in Kansas, back before they died, and we’d kinda like to continue the family tradition, you know? We’re looking for someplace to buy, and Jim … well, he said you might have something you want to get rid of.”
Claire suddenly stiffened. “He did, did he?” Jim had always scoffed when he heard about Nana’s plans to reopen the diner. “It’ll never work,” he told her, back during the very brief period Claire had dated him. “Those old-fashioned diners don’t make any money any more. Everyone wants to go to Applebee’s or Outback, someplace they already trust. Your grandmother will bankrupt herself.” Funny, that he’d recommend the restaurant business – the very kind he’d bashed – to a friend of his. But, she thought angrily, that was Jim – no contact for almost a year, but he still thought he knew what was best for her. “I’m sorry he sent you on a wild goose chase, but I haven’t decided to sell the property yet.”
Sam finally spoke. “I apologize if I’m overstepping here, but … I heard that your family has had some real tragedies over there.”
His face was kind, which was the only reason Claire didn’t feel the need to toss his beer into his face. “Yes, we have.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bob wave at her, and felt a shiver of relief. “If you boys will excuse me, I have other customers.”
She walked away as slowly as she could make herself. First rule of bartending – don’t piss off the customers, no matter how much you want to slap them, as their tips would pay for the bathroom renovations she currently couldn’t afford. Why not sell them the diner, then? she asked herself silently, then cursed herself and them before plastering a smile on her face, for Bob’s sake.
“Buying the diner?” Sam hissed. “Are you crazy?”
“You have a better idea? Besides, you’re the one who spooked her by mentioning her family.” Dean kicked his brother under the bar. “Shut up and let me do the talking for once, will you?”
“What would you do if she came back and said she wanted to sell?”
“Have a perfect excuse to get inside the damned place without sneaking around.”
Sam stared at him for a moment, then relaxed. “Okay, that’s not half bad.”
Dean grinned. “It’s not like I was hopeless before you came along again, Sammy.” He took his brother’s snort as an excuse to kick him again.
Dean continued to watch Claire, who seemed to find a dozen different reasons to stay at the other side of the bar. He was okay with that – it gave him the chance to watch her, which was more than pleasant. Her hair seemed completely mussed, but somehow stayed out of her eyes – a trick of girly beauty products Dean never could figure out. Her arms were thin – not stick thin, but slender – but her chest and torso curved in lovely, womanly ways underneath her tank top and low rise jeans. She moved quickly, always with a purpose, never in any direction she didn’t mean to go. When she had nowhere to go, she stood with a stillness that Dean envied. He couldn’t understand stillness. Even when he wanted to be quiet, his body forced him to move. To leave. To be somewhere he wasn’t.
When Claire finally looked back in their direction, after wiping every glass on the bar, Dean resisted the urge to look away – instead, he nodded at her and pulled out his wallet. With an unreadable look on her face, she put her towel down and walked slowly back to their end of the bar. Dean poked Sam. “Give me your pen.”
“Why?”
“So I can write ‘moron’ on your forehead, backwards. Just give it to me!”
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the pen out of his pocket. Dean grabbed it and scribbled on the napkin in front of him just as Claire leaned her hands on the bar in front of them. She didn’t say anything, so Dean held up the napkin. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry if we pushed you at all. We didn’t mean that at all. This is my phone number – please just think about our offer, and call me if you change your mind. We’ll be in town for a few days.”
She took the napkin silently, folding it and shoving it in her pocket, which Dean considered a victory. He also held out a few bills – far too much for two beers – and she pocketed those with a half smile. “Have a good night, guys,” she said softly, then went back to cleaning the bar.
Dean took another moment to admire the view from behind, before Sam tugged his arm. “We’re leaving, right?” he muttered.
“Yeah, we’re leaving. I want to go get some EMF readings tonight.”
“So much for getting into the diner for legitimate reasons.”
“Hey, it’s called hedging your bets.”
“Right.”
Dean threw one more look over his shoulder before leaving, though. Claire leaned on the bar and rubbed her eyes, disrupting her perpetual stillness. The gesture gave Dean a small pressure in his chest. He didn’t recognize that gesture, that look of heaviness. No, he thought, glancing at his brother. Not at all.
Title: Someone's Shadow (2/?)
Rating: R (language, sexual content)
Pairing: Dean/OFC
Spoilers: Set somewhere between "Skin" and "Shadow".
Disclaimer: Dean and Sam don't belong to me. I'm learning to cope with the disappointment.
Note: Continuation of my story for the latest
occhallenge prompt party. WIP, still planned at 10-12 parts.Length: Part One, ~3,200 words. Part Two, ~3,100 words.
Summary: Dean and Sam visit a small Illinois town, where one family is haunted by tragedy - and, perhaps, by something a little more tangible.
Part One
The Roadhouse Grill resembled a thousand other hole-in-the-wall rural bars, with wood paneled walls, battered plastic tables, and a row of pool tables in back, felt faded to a sickly pale green. Dean threw a longing glance at the last area, where he could see Sam talking to an old man in a John Deere hat. A pickup game would be nice – a few extra bucks in his pocket never hurt anything – but Sam had pointed out the folly in possibly pissing off the people who might have information about their latest search. He was right, of course, but that didn’t mean Dean had to tell him that. So, when Sam glanced in his direction, he scowled slightly and turned back to his beer.
Only two other people sat at the bar with Dean, so he wasn’t terribly surprised when the bartender stopped in front of him, sporting a smile that threatened to rip his face in half. “Hey, buddy, I’m getting out of here in a few minutes. You can settle up now, or you can settle with my replacement when you’re done. Your call.”
Dean reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Now’s good, keeps me honest. Looks like you’re glad to be getting off tonight.”
The man’s smile widened, which Dean had thought was impossible, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to deepen. “Congratulate me, son. As of tonight, I’m a grandfather for the very first time.”
Dean chuckled and threw an extra five dollar bill onto the bar. “And here you are, looking barely old enough to be a father.”
“Save the flattery for my replacement. She’s better looking than me.”
“In that case, congratulations, old man.” Dean lifted his beer in salute, and the bartender wandered off, whistling.
A moment later, Sam slid onto the stood next to him. “So, apparently,” he began, then frowned at the empty glass in front of him. “Why didn’t you order me another one?”
“Maybe I could afford another one if you’d let me play pool.”
“Last time you hustled a game, you ended up getting thrown out of the bar. Physically.”
“Wasn’t my fault that dude was a sore loser.”
“Or that he was the bouncer’s brother-in-law?”
“That either.”
“And you didn’t even get paid.”
“Thus, no money for your beer. Suck it up.”
Sam sighed and looked around for the bartender. When he didn’t see him right away, he shook his head and leaned his elbows on the bar, turning his head to look at Dean. “Another reason to not piss people off around here? Claire Dyer works here.”
“Claire?” Dean looked around – the only female employee in evidence was a bored, portly waitress wiping tables in the corner. “Which one is Claire, again?”
“She’s the granddaughter of the original owners of the diner, Cliff and Lora Dyer. The only one left in town, except for a teenager, Jenny, who is probably the girl from the diner last night.”
“Sisters?” Dean wondered.
“No, they’re cousins, according to Vince back there.” Sam inclined his head towards the man he’d been talking to, who nursed a glass of scotch while staring intently at one of the pool tables. He reached over to the journal, sitting on the bar next to Dean, and pulled a scrap of paper out of the front – a folded news article. Dean took it from him and scanned it again. It was dated more than a year earlier, from a newspaper in Du Quoin, the closest town large enough to have its own paper. Dean read the beginning aloud softly. “A gas leak is blamed for the deaths of Rogersville resident Lora Dyer, 67, and her daughter Holly, 40, at the Silver Moon Café Wednesday night. The women had been preparing the diner for its grand re-opening, more than twenty years after its doors closed, when the tragedy occurred.”
“Jenny is Holly’s daughter,” Sam supplied. “Claire belongs to Lora and Cliff’s other daughter, who apparently lives in Nashville now. Vince likes to talk about people, apparently.” Sam tapped the glass absently. “He thinks the older daughter – Natalie, Claire’s mom – is a stuck up bitch. But he likes Claire, who apparently tends bar here.”
“Good for him.” Dean stuffed the article back into the journal. “So, they blame the last two deaths on a gas leak. The first death was supposedly a suicide. Wasn’t there a third one, sometime in between?”
“Yeah, back in the early 90s. A guy was locked in an old freezer; no one knows how long he was there, but by the time someone found him, he’d starved to death. Holly’s husband – Jenny’s father.” Sam turned his body fully towards Dean, away from the other two patrons at the bar. “Oddly enough, it was the only other time the family tried to reopen the diner. Do you think there’s something there that doesn’t want it open?”
“Duh.” Dean finished his beer. “We need to get back into the diner. We didn’t get a chance to use the EMF meter last night.”
“Well, hopefully, the kids were bored enough last night that they won’t come back.” Sam glanced at the front of the bar – the door had opened, showing the sidewalk bathed in the glow of a streetlight. “Think it’s late enough to go check it out?”
Dean didn’t respond. The opening door had admitted a woman, a brunette with short, tousled hair and hips that should probably be illegal in public. His gaze followed her as she walked to the bar and tossed her backpack over the side. Only then did she look up and notice his stare. Her lips slid upwards in a half smirk before she turned away and walked into the kitchen. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered.
“Dean!”
“What?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“No.”
Sam smacked him half-heartedly on his shoulder. “God, where’s the bartender?” he sighed.
“Leaving. Has a new grandchild.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hey, you think you’re the only one who can have civil conversation with people?”
“Yes.”
Dean just grinned at his brother – then, over his brother’s shoulder, as he noticed the brunette walk out of the kitchen and behind the bar. The bartender waved at her from his position at the register at the other end. “Claire! Thanks for coming in on such short notice, sweetheart.”
“Of course, Martin.” She walked over to him and slung an arm quickly around his waist. “Give Rachel my love, and let me know if you guys need anything, okay?”
“Will do.”
Dean and Sam looked at each other. “Claire?” Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Claire Dyer, then?” Dean glanced back at her. “Cool.”
“I guess that means we’re sticking around.”
“Duh.”
“You do know the kid in the middle is staring at your ass, right, Claire?”
“Yeah, I saw him when I walked in.” She grinned at Martin. “Does a girl’s ego some good, actually.”
“I think that means you need a date, kiddo.”
“No lie.” Claire sighed. “Go on, get out of here, there’s a baby boy waiting to be spoiled. I’ll handle the frat boys.”
Martin kissed the top of her head cheerfully before heading out. Claire shoved a bottle opener in her back pocket and surveyed the rest of the bar. Vince Richards and Tim Kerrigan were playing pool in the back. The new high school vice principal was eating barbeque with three guys she’d never seen before in the corner. Mimi Catalano was grinning at a date over by the door – Claire had heard her extolling the virtues of speed dating the week before, so this must be one of those victims. A group of young people shouted over near the restrooms – their t-shirts labeled them students from Carbondale – a little far from home, but their money was always appreciated outside of the usual college zone.
At the bar, Bob Day sat on his usual stool, playing video poker on the monitor in front of him. A few stools away, Claire recognized the man who had sat there the night before; she didn’t remember his name, but he’d talked about transferring to a job at the grain elevator just outside of town. He looked up at her and waved, her signal to grab a bottle of Bud Light and set it in front of him. “How’d the house hunting go today?” she asked.
“Not too good. Everything I looked at needs too much work for me. I’m not much of a do-it-yourself kind of guy.” He rubbed his eyes. “My wife isn’t too keen on moving out this far, anyway. She’d kill me if I moved her into a house built before she was born.”
“Hard to come by any other kind around here,” Claire commented. “But, if you haven’t been there already, check on the north side of town – there’s a guy building a new condo development off of Washburn Road. I don’t know when they’re scheduled to be done, but maybe they might have something for you.”
The man’s face lit up, and Claire winked at him. One of the boys at the other end of the bar was trying to catch her eye – yep, the one that had been staring at her – and so, it was time to figure that out.
These two were definitely newcomers – passing through, probably. The dark haired one was looking forlornly at his empty beer glass, but the other one looked straight at her with wide eyes and a grin that almost certainly meant trouble. She’d seen grins like that before; not usually on someone so attractive, she admitted, but still, the expression was familiar. There was a time, not so long ago, when she’d sit on the other side of a bar in Carbondale and respond to a grin like that with a tip of a beer bottle, a mimed invitation. He’d sit next to her, feed her some lines, and she’d decide whether to throw him back into play or take him back to her apartment. The mating dance of the young and bored … she missed it, sometimes. But, then again, she thought the sound of shattering glass brought her attention back to the college kids, sometimes, she didn’t miss it at all.
Kim – who was apparently the only waitress on duty that night, which made Claire wonder what excuse Heidi had come up with this time – waved at Claire as she walked by the bar with a broom and dustpan, so Claire turned her attention back to the boys at the bar. Her potential stalker’s gaze hadn’t wavered. She smiled, almost to herself – he was, indeed, almost unnaturally good-looking, with chiseled features and spiky hair and an obscenely sexy mouth. In another life, she’d adjust her black tank top to better accentuate her cleavage, walk over, lean in, and ask his name. In another life, one in which a fifteen-year-old didn’t wait at home for her. So, instead, she grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped down the bar as she approached them. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asked.
Her stalker opened his mouth, but it was the other one who spoke first, quickly, as he slid money across the bar. “Two more Buds, please.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” This one was also ridiculously handsome. Heidi was going to regret calling out again, Claire thought with amusement.
She’d turned back to the tap before the other voice – her stalker - spoke up. “You’re Claire Dyer, right?”
She started, surprised, but she finished pouring the beer before she turned around and fixed her gaze on him. “Yeah …”
She saw his companion look askance at him, but his smile never wavered. “Jim told me I might find you here.”
“Jim?” Claire searched her brain. Jim, Jim … Mr. Christoph, the owner of the feed store, was named Jim, but only his wife ever called him that. Jim Nydecker was on the city council, she knew from reading the local weekly paper, but she’d never met him. No Jims here in town, then … but there was one in Carbondale. “Do you mean Jim Harder?”
“Yeah, he pointed me in your direction. I work with him sometimes.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Dean. This is my brother, Sam.”
Claire took his hand, still confused, and tried not to react to the size of his hand closing around hers. She didn’t have a large hand kink. Not at all. “You certainly don’t look like an accountant …” she said, taking in Dean’s tattered t-shirt and strange necklace. Jim Harder always looked like he came straight out of a J. Crew catalog.
Dean laughed – a low, rough tone that Claire felt dancing on her spine. Yes, she thought, Martin was right, she definitely needed a date. “Oh, hell no. I do some freelance contracting. He just does my books sometimes.”
“Ah.” That made more sense. Dean finally let go of her hand – after just a split second too long – and she relaxed. “What can I do for you, then, Dean?”
“Well, see …” He paused for a moment and looked at his brother. Sam simply looked back expectantly – an odd look, Claire thought – so Dean shrugged and continued. “The thing is, Sam and I are looking to start a business together. A restaurant. Our parents owned a place in Kansas, back before they died, and we’d kinda like to continue the family tradition, you know? We’re looking for someplace to buy, and Jim … well, he said you might have something you want to get rid of.”
Claire suddenly stiffened. “He did, did he?” Jim had always scoffed when he heard about Nana’s plans to reopen the diner. “It’ll never work,” he told her, back during the very brief period Claire had dated him. “Those old-fashioned diners don’t make any money any more. Everyone wants to go to Applebee’s or Outback, someplace they already trust. Your grandmother will bankrupt herself.” Funny, that he’d recommend the restaurant business – the very kind he’d bashed – to a friend of his. But, she thought angrily, that was Jim – no contact for almost a year, but he still thought he knew what was best for her. “I’m sorry he sent you on a wild goose chase, but I haven’t decided to sell the property yet.”
Sam finally spoke. “I apologize if I’m overstepping here, but … I heard that your family has had some real tragedies over there.”
His face was kind, which was the only reason Claire didn’t feel the need to toss his beer into his face. “Yes, we have.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bob wave at her, and felt a shiver of relief. “If you boys will excuse me, I have other customers.”
She walked away as slowly as she could make herself. First rule of bartending – don’t piss off the customers, no matter how much you want to slap them, as their tips would pay for the bathroom renovations she currently couldn’t afford. Why not sell them the diner, then? she asked herself silently, then cursed herself and them before plastering a smile on her face, for Bob’s sake.
“Buying the diner?” Sam hissed. “Are you crazy?”
“You have a better idea? Besides, you’re the one who spooked her by mentioning her family.” Dean kicked his brother under the bar. “Shut up and let me do the talking for once, will you?”
“What would you do if she came back and said she wanted to sell?”
“Have a perfect excuse to get inside the damned place without sneaking around.”
Sam stared at him for a moment, then relaxed. “Okay, that’s not half bad.”
Dean grinned. “It’s not like I was hopeless before you came along again, Sammy.” He took his brother’s snort as an excuse to kick him again.
Dean continued to watch Claire, who seemed to find a dozen different reasons to stay at the other side of the bar. He was okay with that – it gave him the chance to watch her, which was more than pleasant. Her hair seemed completely mussed, but somehow stayed out of her eyes – a trick of girly beauty products Dean never could figure out. Her arms were thin – not stick thin, but slender – but her chest and torso curved in lovely, womanly ways underneath her tank top and low rise jeans. She moved quickly, always with a purpose, never in any direction she didn’t mean to go. When she had nowhere to go, she stood with a stillness that Dean envied. He couldn’t understand stillness. Even when he wanted to be quiet, his body forced him to move. To leave. To be somewhere he wasn’t.
When Claire finally looked back in their direction, after wiping every glass on the bar, Dean resisted the urge to look away – instead, he nodded at her and pulled out his wallet. With an unreadable look on her face, she put her towel down and walked slowly back to their end of the bar. Dean poked Sam. “Give me your pen.”
“Why?”
“So I can write ‘moron’ on your forehead, backwards. Just give it to me!”
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the pen out of his pocket. Dean grabbed it and scribbled on the napkin in front of him just as Claire leaned her hands on the bar in front of them. She didn’t say anything, so Dean held up the napkin. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry if we pushed you at all. We didn’t mean that at all. This is my phone number – please just think about our offer, and call me if you change your mind. We’ll be in town for a few days.”
She took the napkin silently, folding it and shoving it in her pocket, which Dean considered a victory. He also held out a few bills – far too much for two beers – and she pocketed those with a half smile. “Have a good night, guys,” she said softly, then went back to cleaning the bar.
Dean took another moment to admire the view from behind, before Sam tugged his arm. “We’re leaving, right?” he muttered.
“Yeah, we’re leaving. I want to go get some EMF readings tonight.”
“So much for getting into the diner for legitimate reasons.”
“Hey, it’s called hedging your bets.”
“Right.”
Dean threw one more look over his shoulder before leaving, though. Claire leaned on the bar and rubbed her eyes, disrupting her perpetual stillness. The gesture gave Dean a small pressure in his chest. He didn’t recognize that gesture, that look of heaviness. No, he thought, glancing at his brother. Not at all.
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Date: 2006-06-12 02:31 am (UTC)