© James Buchanan

Marten stared through the greasy haze filming over the diner's window. Leaden skies backed a town sulking under the weight of yet another dry winter. Twin strips of concrete bordered an empty asphalt river. Across the way, hunched against the chill wind, that guy stood ... again. Every time Marten looked up from bussing tables, there man-in-black was, hovering at the edge of his vision. Marten had no idea who or what the guy waited for.

The guy's name was Raven. That much Marten did know. He'd never met him, but the town gossip wasn't pretty: trouble maker, thief, and lazy. All the things Marten didn't want said about him.

His hands stuffed into the pockets of black jeans, Raven bounced from foot to foot like he had to keep moving to stay warm. Razor-sheared blue-black hair fluttered about his face, and the tail of his black trench coat flapped around his thighs. Black jeans, black t-shirt, black boots, and black hair: a monochrome jackdaw staring with bright, jet eyes.

The stare devoured Marten, wormed into his brain, and whispered about a lot more than just staring. He felt the attention across his back and thighs and prickling along his scalp. He grabbed the lip of the buss-tub and swallowed. He didn't want to look back. He didn't want to see that dark, windswept guy and get caught in those eyes.

Dark thoughts spread like wings across Marten's mind. In the back of his brain, a tiny voice jeered: I want you ... naked. So soft, he barely heard it, and yet the words echoed loudly through his soul. He didn't hear it. He couldn't have heard it. Raven was out there on the other side of the street. Marten was inside smelling old fry grease and musty heating coils.

Naw, you heard it. The seductive sound trickled into the bones behind his ears. Masking his intentions by grabbing plates and coffee mugs off the table, Marten shifted his gaze, so he could look without looking. For a moment he panicked, the figure he sought wasn't there. His breath came back when Raven stepped into his limited field of vision. As if he knew, the dark man's lip twitched with a barely suppressed smirk.

Trying to drive out the thoughts, Marten swept his wrist across his forehead, hard enough to burn some. He shuddered. After a deep breath, he grabbed the tub and headed toward the kitchen with a load of dirty dishes. Distracting flights of fancy needed to wait. Marten needed this job.

"Daydreaming out there?" Avie's high-pitched squeak caught him as he rounded the counter.

Marten jerked up short at her rebuke. "Ah, not really," he stammered, "just some crud stuck on the table."

Pushing her half-glasses up her sharp nose, Avie stared with her pinched little black eyes. She smoothed the wrinkles down the front of her khaki dress before responding. "You were daydreaming. Always got your head in the clouds." Washed out brown hair puffed about her face; a victim of the steam in the kitchen. "Stop it. You got work to do. Dishes don't wash themselves."

"Yes, ma'am." Marten hauled the tub to the sink. He scraped the filth off the plates into the trash then tossed each dish onto the counter. Lukewarm, soapy water already filled the basin, and a thin film of grease coated the surface. With a groan, Marten rolled up his sleeves and began scrubbing plates.

You deserve better, you know?

That he had to agree with. Why couldn't Avie invest in an actual dishwasher? Not that they had that much business. It was cheaper to pay Marten to clean up after the spattering of regulars they got each day than shell out big bucks for a system. When the lot was washed and racked for drying, Marten grabbed a towel to dry his hands.

"Marten!" Avie squealed from the front.

What now? He pulled a meager pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and absently answered, "Yeah?"

"We got chocolate pie back there?"

Something better than pie back there?

Marten shook off the whisper. Maybe if he acted busy, Avie'd leave him be. He rattled the racked dishes. "Yeah." It usually took Avie ten minutes or so to wash dishes. "Think so." Since Marten managed to do it in a third of that, he could usually steal out for a smoke without Avie any the wiser. Two left. Damn, one for now and one for tonight. Marten figured he might be able to weasel Conny at the gas station out of one of the crushed cartons if he promised to sweep the garage or something.

"Bring out a slice for the customer at the counter." Shit. No smokes. "I'm loading coffee, got my hands full."

Damn, he should have pretended not to hear. He'd have made Avie pissy, but she'd have gotten the pie herself. What could he say to get out of it?

You don't want to get out of it.

That silky voice stirred in his brain again and shot chills down his spine.

Come see, come see.

What the fuck was wrong with him today? Getting distracted by visions of the town bad-boy and hearing voices. Somehow, Marten doubted he could blame either on nicotine withdrawal.

Marten popped open the door on the big four door fridge unit. A not-quite-dry plate off the sink became host to a thin slice of pie. Avie would yell at him if he served up a decent sized portion. She tried to hoard every last bit. Marten shouldered the door shut as he headed toward the counter.

Hunched over the counter, staring into the depths of a battered coffee mug sat Raven. The sight knocked him hard in the gut, turned his bones to jelly. Marten stood in the kitchen door holding the plate. He couldn't move. He couldn't just go up to him and talk. Why was he in the coffee shop? Raven belonged outside, part of that world. The world on the other side of the glass.

"Hey!" Avie's voice jerked his attention away from Raven. She glared at him with her tiny, black eyes. "You gonna stand there with a finger up your nose? Work boy!" Clicking her tongue against her teeth, Avie shook her head and returned to whatever problem the ancient coffee maker presented.

Marten swallowed and turned his attention back to Raven. Bright black eyes laughed at him.

Busted! the voice teased, hard.