Stolen by James Hunt

Author:James Hunt [Hunt, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-07T22:00:00+00:00

The pain eradiating from Ken’s lower lip hadn’t dulled since Scott had punched him, and he found himself continuing to check the mirror to examine the swelling that had doubled the size of his upper lip. He kept an eye on Scott in his peripheral the rest of the trip, and after the third house the rest of Ken had numbed. People cried, begged, were beaten, and then ultimately submitted.

Scott’s phone buzzed, and he answered a call. He grimaced and turned his head away, whispering angrily into the receiver. “I don’t care. Just get there!” He hung up and tossed the phone on his lap.

Ken shifted uneasily in his seat, and his neck stiffened, sending a jolt of pain down the rest of his back. The ride between farms had been quiet, and Ken found himself wondering how many more they’d have to visit before it was over.

“Turn left there,” Scott said, pointing up the road.

Expecting another house Ken raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw the restaurant on the side of the road.

“I’m hungry,” Scott said.

The old diner looked as if it were one harsh winter away from collapsing under the weight of snow. Empty spaces lined the parking lot, and Ken pulled into a spot right next to the front door.

The door’s hinges whined upon their entrance, as if the place had gotten so old it hoped to deter customers rather than inviting them. Aside from Ken and Scott, there was only one other patron, who sat all the way at the end of the bar, and he didn’t even bother to look their way.

The door to the kitchen flopped open, and a waitress who looked as if she should be home with her grandchildren stepped out. “Take a seat wherever you like. But you should know we’re out of fries. Won’t get a shipment in until next week.”

Scott ignored the comment, but Ken offered a smile, which wasn’t reciprocated, and they found a booth near a window. The vinyl seats were torn and spewing a yellow foam from its cracks, which gave the cushion a lumpy feel.

The waitress approached and handed both of them a menu, staring at Ken’s swollen lip for a moment before going over the specials. Somewhere between the meatloaf and lasagna Ken lost his appetite when he saw the cook in the kitchen pick his nose and then slide a burger through the pickup window. In the end he settled for a bowl of tomato soup and a coffee.

Once it was just the two of them again, Ken found his eyes flitting to anything but the man across from him. It was easier to ignore him in the car with the distraction of the road, but across from him in a booth of a diner was a different story.

“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” Scott said, his arm propped up on the windowsill. “You play it up well for the cameras, but you hate what you do.” He squinted his eyes, skeptical.

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