The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

slid along, taking her drink and pushing away the couple's meal. The trio opposite was looking at her. She glanced at them as she opened her drink. Perhaps they were eighteen, but she doubted it. More likely sixteen or seventeen. Regardless, they'd been drinking.

"That was quality," said the one in the middle—the leader, Abbie didn’t doubt. "Not seen you around these parts before."

Such a clichéd line. The girl, to the leader's right, produced a sycophantic laugh that doubled as a pathetic attempt to hide her jealousy. She hated the way Leader was eyeing Abbie. Abbie could have told her there was no need to worry. But there was if she liked the guy. Leader had no chance with Abbie, but nor did he have any interest in the girl at his side.

The boy to Leader's left was interested in the girl. She would never notice he existed while Leader was around, in the same way Leader would never notice her—what a mess.

The boy also idolised Leader, who was used to the world revolving around him, to people falling at his feet. Dealing with Abbie was set to be a disappointing experience for the kid.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Why don't you focus on your friends?" said Abbie. Her eyes were over Leader's shoulder. The two men who had entered the chicken joint were searching for someone. Both were tall, broad. Both had shaved heads. They wore dark jackets. Thick. Despite this, it was easy to see they were well built. They probably drank but didn't overindulge. They were careful about what they ate. Any weight they carried was all muscle.

And they were dangerous.

Though probably not as dangerous as Abbie.

"Why you dressed like that?" Leader was asking. "You got a fit face if you don't mind me saying."

"I do."

"Hard to tell with all them baggy clothes, but you look like you've got a rocking body."

The thugs had spotted their target. They progressed through the chicken shop. Anyone in their path scurried out the way or ended up on their behind on the gross, sticky floor.

"You got a man?" Leader asked.

"Several," said Abbie. "And before you proceed with your hopeless attempts to pick me up—" she pointed over her shoulder— "I'd say you got a couple of your own."

Leader smiled. He held her eye a second, then turned towards the thugs who were now almost at the table. The girl and boy on either side looked too. The girl gave a little squeak and squeezed Leader's hand. He shook her off.

"Travis," she said. Her voice hurried, afraid.

"Shut up."

Then the thugs were at the table. Pressed close, leaning in. They looked remarkably similar. Products of the same batch at the local thug factory. Abbie guessed they weren't related, but it was possible.

One of them, slightly the taller of the two, looked at Abbie.

"Going to need you to jog on, little lady. Got some business with Travis here."

Abbie met the thug's eye, then looked to Leader—to Travis. He was holding fast to his bravado, but it was coated in butter and was slipping through his fingers.

"Piss off, Ronson," he said, though he was leaning away from the thug. "I'm chatting with my new friend."

Ronson gave Travis a look that said, Don't test my patience, and Travis fought desperately not to whimper. To stay strong. After a beat, Ronson returned to Abbie.

"Just get lost, will you?"

"I'd rather not." Abbie didn't hesitate. She hadn't had to.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I'm not looking to disturb your conversation with cocky Travis here. I won't even earwig. Consider me absent. But take a look around. You see any free seats? I've had a hard night. I want to sit here and enjoy my, uh—" she looked at the bottle in her hand. A brand she didn't recognise. It was a weird colour. "Cola, I guess."

Ronson stared. He wasn't sure how to handle this woman in the hooded top and in his way. From the look of those beady eyes, she guessed his preference would be violence. But in such a busy place? Even surrounded by drunken youths, he'd be remembered.

"There's plenty of room," said Abbie. "We can get cosy. Everyone else seems to be."

"Lady—"

"That's Ms Lady to you."

Ronson closed his eyes. Took a breath. Abbie loved making them—his sort—mad. She could almost feel the heat of his frustration.

"You don't know what you're getting in the middle of," he said.

"That's the thing about me. I never do."

Ronson turned to his partner. Perhaps looking for support. If so, he'd be disappointed. The non-Ronson thug had his eye on three young ladies who might have been legal, but only just. If life were a cartoon, his eyes would be on stalks. Maybe he was admiring their dresses. Somehow, Abbie doubted it.

Seeing he was on his own, Ronson returned to Abbie. Sensing he was about to start in again, she raised a hand.

"Let me save you some time, Ronnie. Unless you're ready to start a ruckus in this fine establishment, you'll not see my bum leave this seat. If we assume violence is out—and you look like a respectable, law-abiding citizen, so I think we can—then your choices are to join me on this bench and conduct your little conversation with Travis in my presence. Or piss off."

Someone needed to pop a pin in Ronson's forehead. If he didn't release the steam in his skull soon, his head would explode.

He said, "You like the sound of your own voice, huh?"

"I spend a lot of time alone," she said. "I like talking, and aiming monologues at the mirror never has the same impact as a back and forth with another human. Especially a fine conversationalist such as yourself."

Ronson closed his eyes again. For longer this time. Maybe Abbie had broken him because when he reopened them, he appeared to go back in time.

"You don't know what you're getting in the middle of."

"Yeah. You mentioned."

He said, "What's this kid to you?"

"An annoyance. But this isn't about him."

"Feels like it is."

"I can't control how you feel," Abbie said,