FELIX CULPA

Chapter One

It was quiet when I woke up that morning, but for some birdsong and the sound of tree branches lifting gently in the wind. Warm sunlight streamed in through the open bedroom window, and just a hint of a breeze.

Sounds nice, right?

The problem was, for every Tuesday in the past year I'd woken up to the obnoxious blaring of an alarm. An alarm that signaled that it was time for me to move my ass and get to my job waiting tables at Burke County's only half-decent establishment - Odette's Bar and Grill.

So when I woke up to the pleasant sounds of rural Georgian life, I didn't feel calm or relaxed. No, I felt straight-up panic.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I hissed at my alarm clock radio, sitting bolt upright in bed and grabbing it. Unsurprisingly, the machine made no answer. Turning it over, I found no good reason why it hadn't gone off. "Why didn't you work, you stupid thing?!"

The little numbers on the display blinked innocently at me. 10:00am.

Damn, I was going to be late if I didn't seriously motor.

I jumped out of bed and started scrounging around on the bedroom floor, looking for an acceptably clean uniform. Discarding one top, which had a sizeable coffee stain on the front, I muttered to to myself that I shouldn't neglect my laundry quite so much.

Clutching a sufficiently clean tee in my fist, I scrambled for some shorts. Pulling a nightdress over my head, I wished that I'd had time to shower. It had been an unseasonably hot night and I felt the slightest sheen of sweat clinging to my skin.

Having slipped into my work clothes, I rushed over to the vanity and started yanking at my hair with a comb. My own haggard reflection stared back at me, almost looking accusatory.

Why can't you be more organised, jerk? I asked myself silently. Is it really so hard to do your laundry and set your damn alarm?

My grandmother often told me that her own mother - my great-grandma - had been Cherokee Indian, but when I examined myself more closely I couldn't find much trace of it.

I could maybe see it a little in my cheekbones, and in the darkness of my eyes. But I was as white as a damn ghost - there was no getting around that.

I was pale, with a narrow, pointed nose and wavy chestnut hair. Spectacularly average.

Still, I needed tips, and my second-day tee, half-brushed hair vibe wasn't doing much for me. I had to primp a little. So I painted my lips and tucked the wayward strands of my hair behind my ears, and tried to smile. My boss hated when the waitresses looked like anything less than smiling plastic idiots.

My reflection gave me a pained grimace.

"That'll have to do." I muttered, grabbing my keys from the dresser and bounding down the stairs. My boss didn't much like tardiness either.


Odette's Bar and Grill wasn't run by an Odette, or indeed any sort of woman.

It was run by a Huck Neoma, who had red hair, a beard, and a permanently grumpy attitude. He wasn't the best boss in the world, that's for sure. He'd made it pretty clear that in order to last at Odette's you needed to do two things; keep your mouth shut and bring your own pen.

It wasn't the stuff dreams were made of, but there weren't many jobs to go around in Burke County, and I never did manage to get myself to college. I was smart, but I wasn't scholarship smart.

I tied my black apron and smoothed the wrinkles from my uniform as best I could. I rummaged around behind the counter for a notepad and found one wedged between a couple of menu covers. Tucking my pen (which I'd diligently brought from home) behind my ear, I set myself to work.

Lunch on a Tuesday was always pretty slow, so it was just Lee-Ann Duckett and I out on the floor. We almost always worked the same shifts, which wasn't entirely to my advantage.

See, Lee-Ann was a natural. She smiled, called people 'darlin'' and responded obliviously to all seedy comments with 'well, aren't you sweet?', whereas I would pretty much just frown and panic. She was the damn spirit of Southern charm trapped in a busty 40-something's body - everybody loved Lee-Ann. Hell, she'd been killing my tips just by existing for over a year now and I sort of loved her.

Nobody ever gave her any trouble, that's for sure.

It was for this reason that I felt it was a little unfair when Lee-Ann sat a particularly notorious group in my section. I just wasn't equipped to deal with Merle Dixon like she was.

They came in all the time, the Dixon's. Them and their buddies. But it was really only Merle who ever caused a scene. Daryl, the younger brother, didn't make much trouble. Except for that time he threw a hunting knife at the dart board to show up some other idiot. But knife-throwing was pretty much a regular Tuesday special around here. There wasn't a whole lot to do in Waynesboro.

I hurried over to them with some menus. Better to get this over with.

"Miss Adele Crawford," Merle drawled by way of greeting. "Didn't think I'd see you 'round here."

I tried that smile again, but I could feel from how my cheeks tightened that it mustn't have looked very convincing. I work here full-time, asshole. "Fellas, what can I get you?"

"Two pitchers of Bud, darlin'." He glanced over to the other side of the room. "Say, uh, why isn't Lee-Ann servin' us?"

Even though I hadn't at all wanted to serve them, I couldn't help but feel a little miffed. I tried to keep it out of my voice. "Well this is my section, see. And she sat you here. So I'm serving you."

"Shame." Merle sighed. "That woman's a sight for sore eyes. And a damn fine waitress, too. Guess we'll have to make do with you, won't we, Adele?"

I knew I'd gotten off lightly, considering what Merle was known for. A backhand insult about my skills as a waitress - and perhaps my physical attractiveness - wasn't a bad outcome. Still, with that kind of opening I couldn't hope for much of a tip. And my bank account was so, so sad.

I must have looked pretty despondent as I stood there contemplating how desperately broke I was, because one of Merle's friends, Coot, felt the need to try and cheer me up. Though I rather wish he hadn't.

"I dunno, Merle, I think we're pretty lucky." He said with an unsavory wink. "If somebody half as pretty as Adele came up to me in a strip joint I'd be mightily pleased."

Ugh!

"Yeah well you would, Coot," Merle drawled, not really paying too much attention, "the places you end up - can't find a good titty bar to save yer life."

I felt a haughty look cross my face, but managed to hold my tongue. Think of the tips.

I turned away, cheeks flushed with anger. "I'll be back with your beverages soon."

Swiftly retreating to put in the drinks order, I nonetheless heard the remainder of the group's conversation from my perch near the servery.

"Sorry, pal." Merle chuckled, his voice carrying. I heard the sound of him clapping someone on the shoulder - presumably Coot. "But I'd hold off on plannin' a weddin' with our dear Miss Crawford."

"She's just playin' hard to get." Coot said defensively. "Hunnies that act all shy like that are always wild in the sack."

Gross.

It was safe to assume that I'd never go on a date with Coot, let alone physically touch him. Not that I'd really gotten around to dating or touching anyone much. Still, I felt comfortable in assuring myself that no matter how pathetically single I was, I'd never get that desperate.

"Ya think she has any hidden tattoos?" Coot continued, musing. "I love a woman with ink. Gets me all riled-"

"Good lord." I heard Daryl cut across him. "Shut up about that, man. She thinks you're garbage and she ain't gonna come near you."

That was true, but I couldn't help but be embarrassed that Daryl had so easily gotten the measure of me. Daryl. I'd have to work on my poker face.

"I was just sayin'!" Coot exclaimed. "I ain't ever seen her with anyone. Not in years, not ever, I think."

Good to know that my seemingly perpetual romantic dry spell was obvious not only to all my actual friends, but also the entire county.

"That girl is never going to so much as look at you, asshole." Daryl shot back with surprising hostility. "I bet she'd rather die an old maid then take up with one of us."

Jeez. Now I'm apparently dying a virgin, all because I thought I was too good for Coot. It was a sobering thought.

At this point Merle chimed back in, apparently not wholly interested in discussing my sex life (a small mercy in the midst of this otherwise completely mortifying situation). "Nice clean girl like that, with a good family name, all mannerly and polite…" He drawled. "I think I'll have to agree with my baby brother on this one. She's full native, pal. A regular Georgia belle. She's livin' in a different world and you've got a face that could make a train take a dirt road."

"Screw you guys." Coot grumbled.

I pondered Merle's words while I waited for Huck to pour the beers. The Crawford's were one of the first families to settle in Waynesboro, and while they may had been rich back in 1789 when the family home was built, their fortunes had since turned. My Gran's home was now little more peeling paint and flyscreen. Of course Gran kept the rooms spotlessly clean and well-decorated, but there was only so much one could do with cozy furniture and worn fittings.

Still, it was a right sight better than a trailer. I knew the Dixon brothers lived in a caravan park across town - I remembered that in high school the kids used to go there to buy drugs.

I suppose from the Dixon's vantage point, a run-down house on the hill looked pretty great.

I tucked my notebook into my apron and took a pitcher of beer in each hand, trying to keep them both steady. Huck fixed me with a severe look that clearly communicated the consequences of spilling even a single drop.

I walked back over to the group, trying to put out of my mind all that I had overheard. Coot and Merle didn't even notice my approach, they were bickering about something or other, having moved on from me as a topic of conversation.

Daryl was looking straight at me, though. His expression was neutral, appraising.

All of a sudden I felt very exposed under his discerning gaze. I was reminded of how easily he noticed my distaste for Coot and began to worry that he was trying to divine some other hidden truth from my expression. Are you reading my mind, Dixon? I thought loudly to myself, monitoring his expression to see if he reacted.

He didn't, because Daryl Dixon was obviously not a psychic. I felt a little foolish, for being so preoccupied with a look.

Then my foot caught the jutted-out leg of a chair, one table over from the group.

I felt my stomach swooping unpleasantly as I tripped, still bare-knuckling the pitchers of beer. To my horror I saw the liquid rise out of them, displaced by the downwards momentum of the fall.

Splash!

It was everywhere. All over the Dixon's and Coot… it dripped over the sides of the table onto the booth seats in a frothy, foamy mess.

And there I was, flat on my belly holding two empty pitchers - shocked and horrified.

I might've expected Merle to be pissed off that I'd spilled beer all over him, but he just let out a roaring laugh. Next to him Coot was fussing, jumping up to avoid getting his pants wet. Daryl, though, gave very little response at all. He didn't move except to calmly shift out of the way of a rivulet of booze.

"Well I've never showered in beer before!" Merle cackled, before turning towards the bar where my boss was wiping glasses. "Hey, Huck! Is this a new service you're offerin'? Beer showers?"

Oh no.

"WHAT IN BLAZES, CRAWFORD!?" Huck roared, abandoning the bar and storming over. He bodily yanked me up off the ground . "CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?"

As he yelled little droplets of spittle landed on my face. I would have liked to think I didn't cower, but I instinctively flinched. His face was turning redder by the second, and soon very little distinction existed between his skin and his hair. He cursed me up and down, and called me every name under the sun - and I pretty much just stood there, looking a damn fool.

Eventually there was a pause in his torrent of fury, and I ventured to speak.

"I'm so sorry, I-"

"LOOK AT THIS GODDAMN MESS, CRAWFORD!" He arched right back up, as if the mere sound of my voice had given him a second wind.

"I'll clean it right away, please, I'll fix it." I said, frantically trying to stop the beer from dripping onto the floor with some napkins. The result - with regards to both the table and my life - was a soggy, squishy, hopeless mess.

Huck raised his finger to me, breathing heavily in his fury. For a terrible second I was sure he was going to say I was fired. But, lowering his finger, he said instead; "Those beers are coming out of your pay, Crawford. And another stunt like that will see you out on your ass. Plenty of girls in this town are lookin' for a job, don't forget that."

I nodded, and practically bolted to the supply closet to find some cleaning supplies. Behind me I heard Huck apologizing to the Dixon's, and relocating them to a dry table.

"What can I say? The girl's an idiot."

My mouth set in a hard line as I pulled the mop and bucket from the supply closet. Idiot, am I? What an asshole.

That asshole is your boss. Replied a more reasonable voice. Keep your head.

There were certainly times in my life when I wished I was the kind of person who would call someone out on shitty behavior like that. I wished I could express to Huck what a total dick he was, that I could tell him never to talk to me that way again. That I was a human being and I'd only made a simple mistake.

Assert myself, stick up for what's right, take no shit.

Alas, I was not that person.

By the time I'd cleaned up and brought over two fresh pitchers of Budweiser - with my profuse apologies - Huck had already retreated behind the bar again. His attention was turned to some receipts, and I felt immense relief that his eyes were no longer boring into the back of my head.

It was a lucky thing that neither the Dixon's nor Coot had made too much of a fuss about the spill. I suspected that I'd have been fired if any of them had gotten too mad.

No tips today, though. I thought glumly, leaning up against the servery. And my pay is being docked.

Lee-Ann gave me a sympathetic little smile as she passed me, and touched my shoulder. "It ain't so bad, honey. Tomorrow's a new day!"

I wanted to find Lee-Ann's optimism annoying, but her expression was so glowing and sincere. Perhaps she was right. Tomorrow would surely bring a host of fresh and exciting opportunities for failure. I may even surpass myself.

I noticed Merle and Coot were walking to the exit, having finished their beer. Curiously, Daryl hung back by the table, fiddling with one of the menus left lying about.

"Baby brother, you comin'?" Merle yelled from the door.

Daryl looked up from the table and set off after his brother, not looking my way even once.

I walked over to grab the pitchers and return them to the kitchen, when something caught my eye.

Wedged under the menu Daryl had been fiddling with was a whole twenty-five bucks. Before Huck could notice I snatched up the cash and tucked it into my apron. It was a huge tip that more than covered my loss from the beer incident.

I felt a smile spread across my face - my first genuine smile of the day. How strange, I thought, that Daryl Dixon of all people would do something so kind…

I walked a few paces to the window, and saw Merle rummaging around in the back of Daryl's battered Ute. Merle's motorcycle was parked right alongside it. I couldn't hear what they were talking about through the glass.

Daryl leaned against the back of the Ute with an expression of boredom, but when he looked up and saw me staring out I could swear I saw a flash of something else, if only for a second. I waved through the glass, hoping to communicate my thanks.

Maybe it was just the fact that he'd left such a good tip, but I was all of a sudden struck by the thought that Daryl was actually kinda... good-looking.

He inched his head ever so slightly, holding my gaze from across the lot. I smiled at him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and looking down bashfully.

I waited till he had hopped into driver's seat of the Ute before moving away from the window. It was a real effort to tear my eyes away. What had gotten into me? I'd never given him a second look before, nor he I, I bet.

I remembered his intent stare from earlier. Perhaps I had been to quick to assume his ill-intentions. Perhaps he was just interested in me.

I felt my cheeks colour at the thought. I couldn't remember the last time a boy made blush. Flush in rage, yes. But blush? It just didn't happen. Ever. And certainly not for unwashed local boys with bad tempers and drug connections.

No, I decided. I refused to be blushing over Daryl Dixon. It just wasn't happening.