Shy Girl

  Shy Girl

  Katie Cross

  To the makers of the C-tape.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Note From The Author

  Wild Child

  Do you want to join my community?

  Also by Katie Cross

  About the Author

  1

  Dagny

  Dagny: Jayson brought another date into the coffee shop tonight.

  The text flew out of my fingers the moment I could send it without looking like a crazy stalker woman. Some magic in my phone sent it across space and over to my best friend, Serafina.

  Her reply came seconds later.

  Serafina: WHAT?!

  A smile slipped across my face at her immediate—and appropriately shocked—response, but I stifled it. A quick glance to the other side of the Frolicking Moose Coffee Shop confirmed that Jayson Hernandez still sat at the same table where he always sat. This week, he spoke to a lovely woman with dark eyes and delicate hands that belonged in a diamond commercial.

  Dagny: Third date, three weeks in a row, with a different woman. Comes every Friday night like clockwork.

  Dots appeared on the screen to indicate her reply. So that I didn’t look like too much of a slacker, I reached for a rag to wipe down the counter for the third time and prayed no one came through the drive-through.

  This was prime-level girlfriend gossip material, here.

  Serafina: Coffee as a first date makes sense.

  * * *

  Dagny: You think he's a serial dater?

  * * *

  Serafina: I could see it. He's always been a bit non-committal in the dating world. Do you think he's a player?

  Her question swirled around my mind as I stole another glance at Hernandez. Truly, neither of us knew him all that well—despite the fact that I went to high school with him and reverentially adored him from the sidelines of my life for almost ten years. Freshman Dagny had serious feelings for Hernandez, the beloved Senior.

  Was he a player? No. He could be, with those thick shoulders, razor-sharp instincts, and a confidence that carried him places. His way-too-long eyelashes and quick smile certainly didn’t help matters.

  But he wasn’t a player.

  Dagny: Doubt it.

  * * *

  Serafina: I feel like we’d know if he was trying to date, so what is going on and why hasn’t he asked you out?

  A laugh almost bubbled out of me. I shook my head as I replied.

  Dagny: How would you *know* if he was trying to date?! That makes NO sense.

  * * *

  Serafina: Mountain life rarely does, I’ve found. Maybe the girls he brings are friends?

  * * *

  Dagny: Maybe? They aren’t from here.

  * * *

  Serafina: The mountains aren’t THAT big. None of them are familiar to you?

  * * *

  Dagny: None.

  * * *

  Serafina: I accept this romantic mystery and commit myself to figuring it out.

  There was a sense of warmth and friendliness in all the women he visited with, but they didn’t strike me as friends. Most of them dressed like they had someplace to go—form-fitting pencil skirts. Collared white shirts. Gleaming black hair. Sparkling earrings. If it was a date, why a coffee shop while wearing such glamor? Hernandez was always casual in a tee and jeans. One time he showed up in his deputy uniform. One time in mud-splattered pants and work boots, like he’d been out on his family farm.

  Generally I had a good read on people, but in this situation I felt turned upside down. Nothing was clear except the facts.

  Jayson Hernandez showed up every Friday at the same time, purchased the same drink, sat in the same seat, and met a different girl. The ritualistic aspect of the mystery killed me. The girls changed every week, arrived in separate cars, departed with a kiss on the cheek after approximately an hour, and nothing else.

  Serafina: Is he in his deputy uniform?

  * * *

  Dagny: Not tonight.

  * * *

  Serafina: That’s better. You’ll drool over him less. He’s suuuuuper hawt in the uniform.

  In that, she certainly wasn’t wrong, but it was time to change the subject. Watching Jayson on a date with another woman was hard enough. Analyzing only led to the same question we had every time: why not me?

  Dagny: Are you still madly in love with Benjamin?

  * * *

  Serafina: SO madly.

  * * *

  Dagny: Your life is a fairytale.

  * * *

  Serafina: So is yours. You’re just still in the scrubbing floors phase of your Cinderella story. Will you send me a pic of Hernandez and this girl? I need to size her up.

  * * *

  Dagny: That is SO creepy. No.

  * * *

  Serafina: Fiiiiiine. Next Friday, I’ll just drop in and we can text each other the way she rates. You know, like he always rates his food? It will be hysterical.

  * * *

  Dagny: Done!

  * * *

  Serafina: How is school going?

  * * *

  Dagny: Almost done with this semester. On track to graduate in December. It's so—

  “Hot boyfriend?”

  The unexpected voice startled me out of a reply and I fumbled to avoid dropping my phone. With my luck, the whole screen would shatter. Thankfully, I caught it a second before disaster struck in a not-so-graceful fumble that sent a lock of hair into my eyes. Because, of course.

  Why not make it impossible for him to see me as anything but an awkward barista? Like I was still fifteen years old, gawping at him from where I hid in the library.

  I looked up into a familiar pair of dark eyes. Jayson Hernandez stood there in a button up white shirt with the front untucked, a pair of jeans that fit him a little too perfectly, and the same work boots I saw most weeks. Such a casual outfit belied his natural intensity. When his angular face wasn't caught in a thoughtful expression, it looked like he half-smiled most of the day. Plus, his shorter hair was slightly curled at the ends, and I wanted to run my fingers through the adorable locks.

  He blinked, which brought me back to reality.

  I’d die of mortification if he saw an entire text message thread about him on my phone, so I clicked my phone off and shoved it in my back pocket.

  “N-no.” I forced a smile. “N-n-not exactly.”

  He grinned and set an empty coffee mug on the counter between us. Of the hundreds of mugs on the wall that customers could choose from to drink their coffee in, he’d chosen the one with the Mexican flag. His date had chosen a water bottle, and she tucked it into her purse before surreptitiously fixing her hair in the window reflection.

  So what did they talk about over water and coffee? They’d been here almost an hour. No signs of awkwardness between them. Not even indifference or attraction. Just . . . a friendly, neutral air.

  Curiouser.

  “Thanks again, Dagny.” He held up a thumb. “Five stars. Perfect coffee, as always.”

  I nodded instead of speaking, less out of shock at his proximity—which sometimes happened when I could smell him—and more out of a trained habit not to speak unless I absolutely had to.

  He turned to leave with another quick
wave and the girl followed.

  Once they faded into the darkening parking lot, I let out a gut-deep breath, bent in half, and pressed my forehead to the cool metal of the counter. The chilly feeling against my skin had an oddly grounding response, like a ripple through my body.

  No was the only reply I could come up with?

  C’mon, Dagny, I silently chided. You can do better.

  Actually, I probably couldn’t. Squeaking any sound out was a win most days. A thousand other words ran through my mind now that he wasn’t melting me with his eyes, but I dismissed them. No was innocuous, acknowledging, and friendly. He’d clearly asked the girl here on a date. The last thing I needed to do was step in and try to flirt. That always led to a disaster.

  How did people flirt anyway?

  Besides, my crush on Hernandez had lasted long enough. Years, in fact. It began in high school, when I existed in the shadows and he lived in the limelight. Hernandez had been a senior my freshman year of high school. He lettered in baseball, had a reputation as a kind but disinterested jock, and held a place high on the Honor roll.

  He and a group of three other friends had been known for living life on the edge with stupid stunts, and they chronicled all of it through the legendary C-tape. In fact, the ancient C-tape had once circulated past my eyes, and I’d gaped in shock that it had been real. The only way I’d been able to watch it was with an ancient VCR in the library. I’d walked by the back storage room while Jayson and a few other baseball team players laughed over one of the Merry Idiots skateboarding behind a truck while holding a rope.

  The C-tape was the only physical proof of some of their idiotic ideas. Skiing down a church with a steep slope. Jumping off 100-foot cliffs. Skateboarding down steep, paved roads on longboards. They even put a ramp on the roof of the local bank and tried to snowboard off of it and onto a jump at the end.

  Meanwhile, I’d been known for . . .

  . . . nothing.

  Certainly not my stutter, nor my mom’s reputation for crazy, both things for which I’d worked very hard to avoid repute. Anonymity was just what I’d wanted.

  When the bell on the Frolicking Moose tinkled, I tucked those thoughts into the back of my mind, straightened up too fast, and my head whirled for a second. Once the dizzy feeling cleared, my gaze focused on a middle-aged woman as she advanced into the coffee shop. Her trembling hand wrapped around a small, black object that was pointed at me.

  A mixture of uncertainty, confusion, and terror filled me like a flood of cold water. Was she carrying . . . was that . . . no. While my thoughts attempted to recover themselves, she’d crossed the room and stood a few steps away from the counter.

  I blinked.

  Yep.

  Definitely a real gun.

  A designer purse that gleamed with red sequins and gold trim hung from her other arm. Short heels cracked as they walked across the floor, as shiny and red as her purse. Her hair was tied away from her face in a once-elegant chignon that lost itself to tendrils around her face. My gaze darted up to cold, bloodshot eyes and my whirling thoughts fell utterly silent.

  “Let’s make this easy,” she said breathlessly. “All I want is whatever cash you have in the register and a quiet exchange. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  For a split second, I thought of saying no. What would my boss, Maverick, say? Shouldn’t I put up some kind of fight? But the urge passed out of me in a moment. No, I wasn’t about to go down for a coffee shop. Instead, I stared at the empty, round barrel that faced my direction and swallowed.

  “O-o-okay.”

  Her nostrils flared. The skin around her knuckles was white when she dropped the sequined purse on the counter with her other arm.

  “Put it in there.”

  I reached for the cash register’s no sale button and pressed it. The drawer chugged out with a high-pitched ching and I wondered if I could buy time. To do what? Fight her? Not happening. I hesitated as I looked at the empty slots in the drawer.

  She straightened to peer inside the register, then frowned.

  “That’s it?” she hissed.

  My hands began to shake as I calmly reached for what few bills lay inside. $1 bills, two $10, and three $20 came out. I piled them together.

  “Q-q-q-qu-i-i-iet n-n-night,” I managed to say. Under duress, my stutter became worse than ever. I didn’t have the ability to tell her Maverick cleared the till and took the money to the bank earlier today.

  Her upper lip curled in disgust.

  “Oh r-r-really?” she muttered in a grating, high-pitched voice meant to mock me. “Well that’s not enough!”

  Her rising shout brought the rest of her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She lifted the gun a little higher so it felt like it pointed right between my eyes. I gulped, able to see the gaunt lines of her face now. At first glance, she appeared to be a striking woman. Now, the truth was so obvious. Too thin. Cracked lips. As if she tried to hold onto a former, healthy, more vibrant version of herself.

  A drug addict, maybe?

  “Where’s the rest?” she demanded.

  “C-c-credit,” I said. “M-m-most people p-p-pay with cards.”

  She scowled, then nodded to the purse with a quick jerk of her head. “Put it in.” I obeyed, then she motioned to the drawer again. “The coins too.”

  I scrambled to get the coins out. They felt slippery, as if coated in butter. The promise of the gun sent my mind into a tailspin as I tried to collect the change. I just wanted her to leave. Didn’t want this to be real, or my final end. Getting shot in a coffee shop? How could that be my life? No, I wasn’t this kind of person. I lived a quiet, gentle life. I would not be part of some drug addict’s desperate attempt for money.

  Just as I gathered the last of the quarters, the door cracked open behind her. The woman’s head whipped around in time to see Jayson re-enter. My heart lurched into my throat during the second that it took him to process the scene. Just as the woman canted her hips to swing the gun around to him, my hand shot out. The edge of my palm smacked her wrist and she let out a little cry.

  Then she disappeared beneath a hulking blur of white and brown.

  The clatter of a gun falling to the floor and a shout of pain followed. Two seconds of silence passed before I managed to ask, “J-j-jayson?”

  “Fine,” he called. “Call 9-1-1. Tell them what’s happening.”

  I reached for the phone in my back pocket and, after three attempts to type in my passcode, I finally got it right. My fingers trembled as I dialed 9-1-1, then waited while the phone rang dully. Another voice came on the line.

  “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

  For a moment, it felt as if my tongue was glued to the top of my mouth. My lips would no sooner form the words I need help than my body could fly. The operator spoke again, her voice pressured.

  “Hello?”

  Panic and frustration made my mind fuzzy until I forced myself to calm down.

  There is no pressure for me to speak.

  A third attempt yielded no result, which only compounded my desperation. I knew what I wanted to say, I just couldn't get the words out. Not even a squeak or a sound.

  “Hello?”

  Finally, like a dam giving way, the words exited my throat. “N-n-need h-h-help,” I cried. “F-frolicking M-m-moose. G-gun!”

  The operator rushed to respond, but I ignored her to scramble around the counter. Jayson lay on top of the woman, the gun barely out of reach. I hurried over and kicked it out of the way as he struggled to get a flailing arm under his control. Once she was fully subdued, and screaming like a wild thing into the tile, he glanced up at me.

  “You good?”

  I nodded.

  “Help coming?” he asked, his face a mask of concentration as he held her pinned to the floor.

  I nodded.

  “Good work, Dag.”

  His praise came seconds after the first siren screamed down the street toward us. Red and blue lights whirled outside, seconds
away as they barreled down the Main Street in the quiet mountain town of Pineville.

  “Wh-what can I d-do?”

  “Nothing.” He sent me a quick grin, one that I’d seen on a crappy video years ago when I stole a sneak at the C-tape. “I got this.”

  2

  Jayson

  My boss, a heavyset woman named Kate, glowered at the floor of the Frolicking Moose. A little smudge of blood the shape of a ring lingered on the tile. She canted her head to the side as she studied it, then made a raspberry sound with her lips. The woman I’d tackled had gone down hard, but she struggled even harder. In the process, she knocked her bottom lip and split it in half.

  “New drug, they’re saying,” Kate said with a harrumph like an old bulldog. She shook her head as she attempted to clear the bloodstain with the toe of her shoe. “Something like a cross between an amphetamine with the addictive properties of an opioid. Inhaled, mostly. Reports are coming in from local cities, too. State authorities think it’s isolated to a small cell here. No one else is reporting something similar yet.”