A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
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