Free Run by Amanda K. Byrne

the spray.
           He came in as I was reaching for the soap. “Probably ought to change the sheets. Though we’ll just end up messing them up again.”
           I peered at him as water dripped down my face, edging against the wall of the shower so he had room to stand under the spray. “Am I staying?”
           He drew me under the spray, bodies plastered together. “Night’s not over yet. You got somewhere else to be?”
           “No,” I murmured, and his smile, his wicked, wicked smile, sent a river of want and affection streaming through my veins.

Chapter Eight
           “Looks like someone got lucky.” Celia brushed past me and grabbed a couple of empty coffee mugs by the handles.
           “Charlie does have that glow about him, doesn’t he?” It had been six hours and fifteen minutes since I’d rolled out of Trevor’s bed, five hours and fifty minutes since I’d last seen him. Counting wasn’t something I did. In the past I’d glance at the clock or the calendar and idly note I hadn’t seen Scott in a couple days. I might have called him; more often I went on with whatever I’d been doing. Our relationship had been easy and fluid. Good in bed, comfortable out of it, but despite its length—almost three years—it never came close to the intensity I’d shared with Trevor last night.
           “Charlie always has a glow about him. It’s called sweat.” Celia snickered and danced off to her table. I shook my head and went back to rolling silverware.
           People drifted in and out, the diner filling with the spicy scent of the chili Charlie cooked up for today, chairs scraping over linoleum, the bells jangling over the door every so often. I was dead tired. Not that I was complaining. It was the result of being kept up most the night by a man who had a very creative tongue. I considered texting him to see if he wanted to do it again, then discarded the idea. Going home and stretching out on my crappy bed, broken springs and all, was my only plan for the evening.
           We hit a lull in the lunch rush, and I moved to the counter to take care of some of my side work, refilling ketchup bottles and checking salt shakers.
           “So you’re not gonna tell me, are you?” Celia poked me with her elbow, and I jostled the container of salt I was trying to pour into a shaker.
           “Tell you what? That I got laid? Apparently it’s all over my face, so I don’t have to.” I set the salt on the counter and swept up the excess, dumping it into a bus bin.
           She pouted. “Why not?”
           “Because I don’t kiss and tell.” I glanced over at the door when the bells went off, and the rest of my words died in my mouth. A man stood in the doorway. Tall. Blond hair. His features just blurred enough, and just familiar enough, for panic to spark and flare in my chest. Long, long legs in battered jeans, a hole ripped in one knee. My heart tripped into a staccato beat as I waited for him to step out of the sunlight blinding my view of his face. The sweet, languid happiness I’d soaked up last night fled in a wave. Not Trevor. Someone else. Someone I’d thought I’d never have to see again.
            You should have said something, you stupid cunt. You should have helped her .
           I’d tried. I’d tried to get through to her. I’d failed.
           The man moved, his face bursting out of the fuzzy haze of sunlight, and the world came rushing back. It wasn’t him. It was some random guy off the street, some random guy with the same build, same facial structure that when thrown into shadow scared me enough I dropped a salt shaker on the floor.
           The man took a seat in my section, and I edged around Celia to pick up a menu, ignoring her puzzled look. Smile. Be polite. Friendly. Try not to peer too closely to confirm no, he really wasn’t who I thought he was. “Hi.