Page 31 of Zeus

Zayne points to the car in front of them. "I can't control the traffic."

"You think they'll care?"

"Probably not," he mutters, laying on the horn the second the light turns green and the car ahead of us doesn't burn rubber to get through the intersection.

"Helpful," I complain.

"Getting there early would be suspicious as well," he says, waving his hands in an urging display as if it could make the traffic ahead of us move faster so he can take the next right. "Fucking finally."

"That's just disgusting," I mutter, looking at the long line of trucks in the parking lot of The Garage.

"It's insane how blatant people are with their hatred these days," Zayne says, knowing I'm talking about all the hateful bumper stickers each of them has.

"Not one out-of-state plate," I mutter.

"I have no doubt that if the stickers don't keep people away, then they'd be greeted at the door and urged to find another establishment," he says as he puts the truck into park. "Now school your face into something a little less disgusted and a little more 'these are my people.'"

I narrow my eyes at him.

"Yep, exactly like that."

I huff a laugh at how quick-witted the man is and open the passenger side door. "Let's get on with this shit show."

We're four minutes late, and although that's not an insanely disrespectful amount of time, you never know how people will react when their time is wasted.

I scan the parking lot as we make our way to the front door. Nothing seems out of place, except that the vehicles are all older and have as little technology as possible. I imagine the reasoning behind that would be that they feel people could track them if they had newer ones, which is true these days.

Zayne walks in first, his head moving as if it's on a swivel, just like mine is when we step inside.

There's nothing unusual about the inside of the diner. It stinks of old grease, and my feet slide uncomfortably on the dirty floor, making it clear that the traction needed for a quick getaway, if it were necessary, isn't ideal.

There are other people inside, all of them staring us down. I suspect from how they're dressed that they're part of The League. They either frequent the place or they're stationed around in case shit hits the fan and the guy we're meeting needs backup.

I locate the fire exit to one side, knowing there would be another one through the kitchen. The single bathroom is down a short hallway, but I doubt it has a window large enough for either of us to fit through.

I pull in a deep breath, barely holding back a cough as the stagnant air fills my lungs.

It's clear, as every head turns the further we walk inside, that we'd be outnumbered, and that makes me hope that things go the way they need to. I doubt they're supposed to be drawing so much attention to themselves. But even organized groups have trouble training their people to behave the way they're expected when they're all using drugs and have a tendency to be paranoid on a good day.

The guy who showed up unannounced last night is sitting in the far back, at the table nearest the one visible exit. Kudos to him for having the foresight to position himself accordingly. It makes me suspicious of how he thinks this meeting is going to go if he doesn't have the confidence to sit in the middle of the place.

The man watches us as we approach, not saying a word, even when we're standing right in front of him. I hate the way his eyes drift over me, as if he's taking an inventory. It's very reminiscent of the way my adoptive parents would analyze me before we left the house for a function.

My skin crawls as he leans forward, arms outstretched on the table, the long sleeve of his shirt shifting to reveal a racist tattoo.

He sits up straighter, his mouth opening to speak. I can tell by the unimpressed look in his eyes that this is going to go sideways before we even get a chance to take a seat.

"We got stuck behind some fucking liberal asshole from Massachusetts," Zayne says before he can speak. "They kept fucking slowing down to watch a deer on the side of the road as if they'd never seen one before."

"Fucking Yankees," the guy says with a wave of his arm to indicate taking a seat in the booth across from him. "I'm Gene."

Zayne drops into the booth with the heaviness of a man with the crumbling world on his shoulders, and I take a seat across from him, hating with everything in my being having to put my back to everyone else in the diner.

"I'm—"

"I know who you are," Gene says, looking at Zayne first before turning his eyes to me. "Curtis and Lyle."

It's the slightest shift, one Gene doesn't seem to catch, but Zayne stiffens beside me. I don't know whether he didn't expect them to do any research or whether he's worried our cover isn't solid enough.