Read Online Disconnection by Erin Samiloglu - Free Book Online
Authors: Erin Samiloglu
Tags: Fiction / Horror
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studied him as he reached down to kiss her flat tummy. He was too good for her. Something had to be wrong with him. He must have a beautiful girl waiting for him in New York—some Natalie Portman-looking schoolgirl with parents who had a gazillion dollars. Either that or he was gay, and Sela was pretty certain he wasn’t—and if he was, he was a hell of an actor.
Whatever secrets he has, I don’t want to know about them
, Sela decided as Dean’s lips met her own in a searing kiss.
I don’t want to know. Not now, anyway
.
CHAPTER
10
J ust between Fairfax and Magazine Street, in the outskirts of the Garden District, sat Frank’s Diner. Sela’s home away from home.
Over the front door of the brick eatery, a neon sign flickered on and off, with the ‘e’ in ‘Diner’ burned out completely. On the windows, messages were written in chalk: KIDS EAT FREE ON SUNDAYS and SHRIMP SPECIAL $6.99 ALL YOU CAN EAT . The signs had been around since Sela had started working at Frank’s five years ago.
Inside, the décor was drab, empty, but it exuded the atmosphere of a well-used, much-loved café. Aluminum countertops and baby blue booth seats filled the space. An old, beat-up television was raised over the bar, its sound muted. The smell of beef and Tabasco sauce permeated the air. The Golden Oldies played in the background.
Today it was crowded. Conversations everywhere. Sela walked around the restaurant with a pad in her hand. She stopped at a table where three businessmen sat looking at menus. “What can I get you?” she asked and took a pen out of her apron.
One of the men looked up from the menu and asked, “What’s the special?”
Sela pointed to the Specials Board above the bar. “Gumbo.”
“Wasn’t that the special yesterday?”
“This is New Orleans. Gumbo is always on special.”
The man nearest to the aisle (who looked a bit like Jim Belushi, Sela thought) paused from studying the menu’s burger selections. His eyes grew wide with interest when he checked out Sela. “Hey,” he began, poking the guy next to him, “doesn’t she look like the Fishhook girl?”
The man next to him gazed at Sela, his eyes also widening, saucer-like. “Damn, you’re right.”
Sela shifted her weight. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t watch the news, honey?”
The what’s-the-specials man broke apart his crackers and stuffed them in his mouth. He smiled crudely at her as cracker crumbs tumbled down his lips. “That cute thing the police found gutted on the Mississippi,” he answered with a wink.
A chill sunk deep along Sela’s spine and rested in the pit of her stomach. Watching the men laugh at their friend’s joke, Sela felt once more that maybe—just perhaps—all decency and goodness had finally broken away from the human species.
“You’re sick. I’ll get someone else to wait on you.”
She stepped away from the table, turned around, and headed back down the aisle. One of the men, the Jim Belushi-looking one, yelled, “Hey, baby! Come back! We were just joking!”
“Assholes,” Sela muttered under her breath. At the bar she spotted Rowena, a short Guatemalan waitress who had only started a week ago. “Can you take care of table eight for me?” Sela asked as Rowena approached. “I would really appreciate it.”
The pretty girl nodded. “You need a break, Sela?” she asked, concern showing in her eyes.
“I might just step out for a second and get a breath of fresh air,” Sela replied. She smiled. “Thanks, Rowena.”
Sela casually walked to the back door of the café and stepped outside into the warm daylight, where the nearby dumpster offered its familiar mixed odor of sour milk and rotten meat. Ignoring the stench that she had become accustomed to, Sela paid attention to the sounds of city traffic. The horns, the engines, the shouting out of windows. A typical New Orleans afternoon.
Sela did not mind the noise so much—it kept her mind off the sick men at table
Whatever secrets he has, I don’t want to know about them
, Sela decided as Dean’s lips met her own in a searing kiss.
I don’t want to know. Not now, anyway
.
CHAPTER
10
J ust between Fairfax and Magazine Street, in the outskirts of the Garden District, sat Frank’s Diner. Sela’s home away from home.
Over the front door of the brick eatery, a neon sign flickered on and off, with the ‘e’ in ‘Diner’ burned out completely. On the windows, messages were written in chalk: KIDS EAT FREE ON SUNDAYS and SHRIMP SPECIAL $6.99 ALL YOU CAN EAT . The signs had been around since Sela had started working at Frank’s five years ago.
Inside, the décor was drab, empty, but it exuded the atmosphere of a well-used, much-loved café. Aluminum countertops and baby blue booth seats filled the space. An old, beat-up television was raised over the bar, its sound muted. The smell of beef and Tabasco sauce permeated the air. The Golden Oldies played in the background.
Today it was crowded. Conversations everywhere. Sela walked around the restaurant with a pad in her hand. She stopped at a table where three businessmen sat looking at menus. “What can I get you?” she asked and took a pen out of her apron.
One of the men looked up from the menu and asked, “What’s the special?”
Sela pointed to the Specials Board above the bar. “Gumbo.”
“Wasn’t that the special yesterday?”
“This is New Orleans. Gumbo is always on special.”
The man nearest to the aisle (who looked a bit like Jim Belushi, Sela thought) paused from studying the menu’s burger selections. His eyes grew wide with interest when he checked out Sela. “Hey,” he began, poking the guy next to him, “doesn’t she look like the Fishhook girl?”
The man next to him gazed at Sela, his eyes also widening, saucer-like. “Damn, you’re right.”
Sela shifted her weight. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t watch the news, honey?”
The what’s-the-specials man broke apart his crackers and stuffed them in his mouth. He smiled crudely at her as cracker crumbs tumbled down his lips. “That cute thing the police found gutted on the Mississippi,” he answered with a wink.
A chill sunk deep along Sela’s spine and rested in the pit of her stomach. Watching the men laugh at their friend’s joke, Sela felt once more that maybe—just perhaps—all decency and goodness had finally broken away from the human species.
“You’re sick. I’ll get someone else to wait on you.”
She stepped away from the table, turned around, and headed back down the aisle. One of the men, the Jim Belushi-looking one, yelled, “Hey, baby! Come back! We were just joking!”
“Assholes,” Sela muttered under her breath. At the bar she spotted Rowena, a short Guatemalan waitress who had only started a week ago. “Can you take care of table eight for me?” Sela asked as Rowena approached. “I would really appreciate it.”
The pretty girl nodded. “You need a break, Sela?” she asked, concern showing in her eyes.
“I might just step out for a second and get a breath of fresh air,” Sela replied. She smiled. “Thanks, Rowena.”
Sela casually walked to the back door of the café and stepped outside into the warm daylight, where the nearby dumpster offered its familiar mixed odor of sour milk and rotten meat. Ignoring the stench that she had become accustomed to, Sela paid attention to the sounds of city traffic. The horns, the engines, the shouting out of windows. A typical New Orleans afternoon.
Sela did not mind the noise so much—it kept her mind off the sick men at table
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