The bearded one said nothing, but put his hand palm down over the rim of his cup. Calvin Klein pushed his mug toward her. “Absolutely. And put the pretty lady’s drink on my check, as well.”

Ruby rolled her eyes as she left them. “Seventy-five cents. You’re a real big spender.”

Without invitation or permission, Calvin Klein got up and came to my table. “Don’t mind her. She’s been a real bitch all night.”

I didn’t cover my weary annoyance. “I don’t use that word when referring to waitresses.”

“I’ve made a bad first impression, haven’t I?” His Cheshire Cat grin reminded me of the way Max had looked at the flight attendant. That day seemed so far away now. In solitude I lived in my own time, which functioned with a marked chronological difference from the one everyone else inhabited. An hour felt like a day, a day felt like a lifetime.

Yet, with as long as time seemed, I didn’t feel like wasting mine on a cheesy, clean-cut biker in a brokendown rest stop diner. “Better hurry back, before your boyfriend gets lonely.”

C.K. seemed amused by this. “If you are insinuating that this gentleman and I are in any way intimate, I’ll have you know I am one-hundred-percent heterosexual. And available.”

“I’ll take note of that.” I hadn’t noticed his strange accent until I’d heard him speak more than a few words at a time, but now it set off an alarm in my head. “Are you British, by any chance?”

“Guilty as charged,” he said with a laugh, this time putting his accent on full display. “I’m a writer. Seeing America for the first time. I hope to find a novel in it somewhere.”

“Try Borders. I’ve seen a few in there from time to time.” Still, something about him struck me as odd. “Why do you cover up your accent?”

This question seemed to catch him off guard. In the split second he hesitated before answering, I knew whatever came from his mouth would be a lie. “I suppose I just do it automatically. Probably picked up the Yank accent from him.”

I eyed C.K.’s companion, who sat with arms folded across his chest, mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes.

“He doesn’t look very talkative,” I observed casually. “How long have you been in the country?”

Now he grew visibly suspicious about my line of questioning. “About three weeks.”

“Doesn’t seem long enough for a Brit to completely drop his accent.” I reached across the table faster than he could move, and grabbed his wrist.

Ice cold.

“You liar,” I rasped, dropping his arm. “You’re a vampire.”

He shot a panicked glance at the waitress. She hadn’t looked up from her paperback.

Lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper, he leaned in. “How the hell did you know that?”