Authors: Cynthia Sax
“My height shouldn't have given me away.” Disgruntled yet determined to stick to my plan, I move farther south. “I'm average-sized.”
“You're average-sized for a ten-year-old.” Mack strides beside me. “Hawke requests that you return to the building immediately. You'll be safer there.”
“Hawke risks his life every damn day. He can't talk to me about safety.” I scan the neighborhood. There's a bright red help-wanted sign in the window of Chicago Jim's Burger Barn. No, no, no. I vowed I'd never follow in my mom's waitress shoes.
But they would hire me. I'd pocket the cash tips immediately.
Mack follows my gaze. “What are we looking for? Hostiles?”
“I'm looking for a job.” In a perfect world, I'd secure a customer service position in a store selling beautiful clothes or sparkling jewelry.
“Hmmm . . . ” Mack surveys the street. “Chicago Jim's Burger Barn is hiring.”
Shit. I'm not living in a perfect world. “Okay, I'll apply.” I stomp toward the restaurant. Patrons sit on the small sliver of a patio, menus closed on the tables in front of them. Despite this I'm-ready-to-order-now signal, no one serves them.
I enter the restaurant, Mack trailing closely behind me. The scent of french fry grease hits me, the lack of ventilation in the space making me gag.
Although the diner employing my mom has existed for decades, it is immaculately clean. Karl, the chef, is anal about hygiene, refusing to prepare his masterpieces while surrounded by dirt.
This restaurant is newer than the diner, the signage computerized, the design modern, yet black grime hugs the base of the tables. Dirty dishes are stacked on the same counter where the customers' fresh food is set. I wrinkle my nose. The place is a mess.
It's also severely understaffed. A solitary harried waitress in a ghastly red-and-white uniform delivers a tray of drinks to a table of rowdy teenagers. A moist-faced man wearing a hairnet and a white apron works beside a cash register, filling glasses with cola, ringing up sales, and transferring platters of food from the kitchen to the counter.
Moist-faced man must be the manager. I march to the counter. The man doesn't look up as I approach. “Ummm . . . ” I stand directly in front of him, trying to snag his attention. The man ignores me.
“Hi. I'm Bee,” I pipe up, infusing my voice with a perkiness I don't feel. “I'm here about the open position.” I don't know what the position is and I don't care. I've worked every possible role in a restaurant. They all suck.
“Come back when we're not busy,” the manager mumbles.
Hell, no. In the past, an opportunity delayed has been an opportunity missed.
“I might come back later, but the customers sitting on your patio won't,” I point out. “You need help now. I have years of experience as a waitress.”
“And how do I know that?” The manager fills a jumbo-sized glass with a nasty glow-in-the-dark orange beverage.
“You don't.” I could be lying my ass off. “But even the most incompetent employee can clear tables.”
The manager glances at me and his eyes narrow. I meet his gaze, not backing down, confident that I'm right. He needs me.
“Fine,” he concedes. “You can start today, but you're not taking orders or handling cash, not until you fill out the application form and I check your references.” He flips up the pass-through to the back. “There's a uniform in locker number three that should fit you.”
Yippee, I get to wear a uniform. I squelch this sarcastic reply, suspecting my new boss won't appreciate it. “Is there somewhere my friend can wait?” I wave one of my hands at Mack.
“He can wait there.” The manager indicates a bar stool at the end of the counter. If Mack sits with his back against the wall, he should be able to see the entire seating area of the restaurant.
I look at my temporary bodyguard. He nods, giving the spot his approval.
“Hold this.” I hand my purse to Mack, not wishing to leave it unsecured in the back room. “I have to take this shift,” I tell Hawke's man, looking for sympathy, knowing I won't get any. This might be a shitty minimum-wage job, but I'm not risking my life, not like they do every day. “Everyone said I'd become a waitress, just like my mom.” I blow out my breath. “I guess they were right.”
M
Y LIPS CURL
as I button the top of the uniform, the scent of cooking grease clinging to the cheap polyester blend. Today, I'm Khloe with a
k
. I smooth the name tag sewn into the fabric, the edges of the patch lifting. Khloe must have been supermodel height. The hem of the skirt skims my calves.
The red-and-white uniform is hideous, and my shoes don't add to the ensemble. My black socks had to be removed. They're placed neatly in the open locker with the baseball cap, T-shirt, and pants. My cheap ballerina flats already rub against my damaged toe. I'll have blisters by the end of my shift.
But I should also have some much-needed cash, maybe enough to convince Hawke he doesn't have to take extra assignments. This shift could save his life.
I ignore the dust bunnies gathered around the base of the lockers and hurry to the front of the restaurant, passing the kitchen. A large Asian man perspires over a grill, flipping burgers with a metal spatula, his black wifebeater soaked with sweat. He mumbles cuss words in another language and I smile. The chef at Chicago Jim's Burger Barn seems as temperamental as Karl, the chef at the diner.
I enter the main dining area and Mack turns his head. His eyebrows lift. Before the idiot makes a wisecrack about the uniform, I give him the say-anything-and-I'll-smack-you-into-next-Tuesday death glare.
This stops Mack's comment but not the humiliation. He holds up his phone and snaps a photo of my horrible outfit.
“What happened to client confidentiality?” I force these words through gritted teeth.
“I'm sending this to Hawke.” Mack's fingers fly over the little screen, a small smile playing around his lips. “He requested that I keep him informed.”
“There's no need to distract him,” I protest.
“He's already distracted, and there's every need.” The bald security professional looks at me. “This could end badly, Belinda. You don't know who will walk through the door and recognize you.”
“Who'd recognize me wearing this?” I sweep my hands over my skirt, a garment I thought I'd commit armed robbery before donning. “I'll be fine. No one, not even my mom, would believe I took this job.” I grab the tub of dirty dishes set on the counter and heft it to the kitchen, my muscles screaming in protest.
Hawke, my huge mountain of a man, made bussing tables at the diner look easy, but it isn't. It's difficult, grubby, thankless work.
Mack doesn't help me, having his own job to do. He alternates his attention among the restaurant, me, and his phone while I clear tables, refill water glasses, fetch missing condiments for customers. There's little opportunity to talk to Yelena, the other waitress. We're both too busy.
This is good, because I also don't have time to think about my future, to worry that I might be a waitress forever, might never escape from this minimum-wage-paying job.
There won't be any tips for me today. I've seen Yelena's receipts. Many of the customers, mistaking the place for a fast-food restaurant, put zero on the gratuity line.
This is why they're short-staffed. No waitress would work in a restaurant with cheap customers. Once I find another job, I'll put in my notice also.
Not that I've been officially hired.
As the lunchtime service slows, I sneak in some cleaning, gaining satisfaction from returning order to the restaurant. It wouldn't yet meet Karl's lofty standards, but it would now pass a health inspection.
I fill a pitcher with ice water and start when Mack grabs my wrist. “We should leave,” he informs me, his forehead furrowed. “I don't like the looks of those men.” He nods toward nine guys huddled around two tables, cameras and other recording equipment hanging around their necks.
I stiffen. They must be paparazzi, taking a break from stalking me.
My gut says to run, to save myself. I glance at the dozens of waiting customers and then at Yelena, my solitary sister in the service trenches. My sense of honor won't allow this option. “I can't abandon the other waitress.”
Mack's eyes gleam with respect. “Then avoid those tables. This could go FUBAR quickly.”
“Avoiding those tables will look too suspicious.” I pull away from him. “They won't recognize me. No one notices the busboy.”
“They notice when the busboy looks like you,” Mack mumbles. “I'm calling this in.” He presses his right index finger against his phone's screen and raises the device to his ear.
So much for not distracting Hawke. My lips twist. I hurry from table to table, topping customers' glasses up, quieting some loud complainers, and earning a thankful smile from Yelena.
I scurry around a tall skinny man with bloodshot eyes. He plays with his bill, his fingers trembling, his gaze flicking between Yelena, me, and the door. I recognize his look of desperation, having seen it in hitchhikers' faces as they stop at the diner. He plans to dine and dash, running away without paying for his meal.
Yelena or I will be blamed, our wages docked. That can't happen. I need every dollar.
Seeking to dissuade the fraudster, I move between him and the exit. Unfortunately, this places me closer to the paparazzi's tables.
“Fill me up, baby doll.” A husky man with a thick beard holds out his empty glass. A camera with a huge lens is set on the table beside him. “I'm thirsty for everything you've got.” He waggles his untamed eyebrows.
Having already heard every cheesy line ever given to a female waitress, I fix a smile on my face and pour water into Romeo's glass.
He leans closer to me, the scent of old perspiration surrounding him. “You smell delicious.” Romeo licks his lips. “What perfume are you wearing?”
“Eau de french fry.” I edge away from him and fill his friend's glass.
“Hey, don't run away.” Romeo grabs my hand and pulls me backward. “If you give me some love, I'll make you famous.” He touches his camera.
Mack stands, looming large and menacing near the counter. I shake my head and twist away from the overzealous customer, not wishing Hawke's friend to interfere.
“I don't want to be famous.” As I say this, I realize it's the truth. I desire to be seen, to be watched, but I don't want my identity to be known. The thought of passersby on the street recognizing me, confronting me, knowing my perverted secrets, horrifies me.
“Everyone wants to be famous.” Romeo reaches for me again.
“Dave, leave her alone,” one of the men seated at the table states. This customer wears a faded “We are the 99 Percent” T-shirt and is as lean and smooth-shaven as Romeo is round and hairy. “She served our country and deserves some respect.”
Romeo throws his head back and laughs, his big belly jiggling. “Only you would call being a waitress serving our country, you union-loving bastard.”
I move farther away from the man, pouring water into glasses, yearning to disappear into the white tiled floor.
“I meant she's military, you fat fuck.” My defender curls his top lip.
“She's not military,” Romeo scoffs. “She's too small.”
I'm not small. I'm average-sized
, I silently scream as I retrieve a fallen fork. I stick the dirty piece of silverware into my apron, steal a clean fork from an empty table, and hand it to the clumsy customer.
“She's wearing dog tags.” Mr. 99 percent is determined to defend me.
“Dog tags are the hip thing.” Romeo rolls his eyes. “Didn't you notice Belinda Carter, that fine piece of ass the billionaire tried to buy, wore them too? Sheâ” He stops talking. His head turns.
Oh shit. He recognizes me. I hustle toward the kitchen, ignoring the customers holding out their glasses and the pleas for menus. Metal chair feet scrape along the floor behind me.
“Don't change your clothes and don't wait for me,” Mack barks. “Run.” He slides between me and the paparazzi, blocking my pursuers, my purse clutched in his big fists.
I sprint forward, rushing through the restaurant, passing my bewildered manager and the cursing chef. Blasting through the back door, I enter a stinky garbage-strewn alley. Dumpsters overflow with food cooking in the heat, serving as a buffet for flies. Plastic bags blow across the narrow space.
I don't know where the hell I'm going, but I run because Mack told me to run. My shoes slap against the pavement, and my lungs feel as though they'll burst. “Cardio,” I huff. “I need more cardio.”
A group of young people wearing red polo shirts and ill-fitting khaki pants smoke by an open door. They stare at me, their expressions vacant, lit cigarettes dangling from their limp fingers, as I pelt past them, clad in my waitress uniform. None of them say or do anything.
I'm not surprised. They work in retail. They must have seen everything: the good, the bad, and the crazy. A black car rolls to a stop at the end of the alley. A man with a white T-shirt jumps out of the vehicle, a camera in his hand.
Shit. I glance around me, looking for an escape. The paparazzi from the restaurant won't allow me to backtrack. To the left, there's an endless expanse of brick building. To the right, two buildings are separated by a solid metal fence extending well above my head. The gate is locked and equally substantial, blocking anyone from seeing or accessing whatever is hidden behind it.
It blocks anyone huge.
I eye the gap between the bottom of the iron gate and the dip in the pavement. It might fit a slender woman of average height, but it will be tight . . . and dirty.
I don't have a choice. More paparazzi have joined the pursuit, the crowd rushing toward me. I can't face them. They'll trample me.
Sucking in my gut, I drop to the urine-scented pavement and slide my body under the gate. A bar grazes my ass, leaving a burning trail across my curves. My ponytail catches on a scrap of metal. I yank on my hair and the elastic snaps, freeing me.
“Motherfucker,” a man curses. Hands slap the gate. The barrier doesn't move. A lens wiggles under the barrier. I grab a rock and smash it, deriving glee from its destruction. The same man cusses while other men laugh, mocking him.
That'll teach him to pursue me. I push myself to my feet, look around me, and my triumph turns to dust. Sheets of metal, rolls of rubber tubing, and barrels of I-don't-know-what are stored in the narrow space. Bags, fast-food wrappers, and other garbage carpet the ground. The far exit is blocked, that gate having no gap at its bottom.
I'm trapped.
Relax, Bee.
I rub my grubby hands against my uniform, the dirt icking me out. The paparazzi can't get to me. Mack knows in which direction I ran. I glance at the security cameras attached to the gray building. The company monitoring this site will send people to investigate. If I stay here, I'll be safe.
A piece of newsprint rustles. I turn. What the hell was that?
Fear creeps up my spine. Rats like construction sites. The rubber tubing closest to the ground is frayed, as though it has been chewed by sharp little teeth. I kick aside the litter, clearing a section of pavement around me, a perimeter I can monitor for rodents.
Everything will be fine. Hawke will find me before the sun sets. Rats prefer the dark. Theyâ
A plastic bag shifts. The movement could be due to the wind except the wind is blowing the garbage toward the northeast and the bag is heading south . . . and east . . . and turns in a circle. I stare at it with horror, my palms moistening. If it's a rat, I'm rolling under the gate and facing the paparazzi.
The plastic bag shakes, a pitiful noise rising from the garbage. It isn't a sound a rodent would make. I listen carefully. The second plea for help is louder.
That's a meow . . . isn't it? Yes, it must be. Cats meow. Rats squeak.
The plastic bag thrashes. Is the cat suffocating? I surge forward, pluck at the garbage, and jump back, retreating to my circle of bare pavement.
A skinny black cat gazes up at me, her yellow eyes large and unblinking. Awww . . . my heart melts. She's as terrified as I am.
“Where are your cat friends?” I survey the expanse of garbage. Nothing moves. “Are you alone?”
The cat stares at me. There's no collar around her neck, no sign of ownership. She has been left, abandoned, forgotten. My hands twist. She must be so scared and confused, not knowing if anyone will ever return for her, will ever love her.
“What's your name?” I ask, using the voice I reserve for animals and small children. The cat flicks her tail. If my former marine was here, he'd know what that answer means. I have no experience with cats.
“I'm Belinda.” I lower to the pavement, trying to make myself as small as she is. Being around much larger beings can be frightening. “I won't trample you,” I promise.
The cat prowls toward me, walking as soundlessly and smoothly as Hawke. Scars mar her short black fur. One of her little ears has a chunk carved out of it.
“Have you been in the kitty cat wars?” I hold out my fingers, coaxing her closer to me, my motivation partially empathy, partially self-preservation. Cats eat rats and mice. She can protect me and I will protect her. Neither of us will be alone.
“You're here. You must have survived.” I touch the dog tags Hawke gave me to hold for him, the oval pieces of metal having belonged to his best friend. “I suspect not every cat did.” Has she lost loved ones also?
The cat stops, sits, and daintily licks her paws, cleaning herself. Every inch of her black fur is laved by her pink cat tongue. She's a neat little creature. I watch her with approval and a peculiar amount of pride.
“You're so pretty,” I coo. “How could anyone abandon you?” How could my dad have abandoned me? He didn't know me. I shake my head. “People make no damn sense.”
Men yell my name. Not recognizing their voices, I ignore them.
I'm not a dumb ass. I've listened to and learned from the war stories Hawke's men have shared with me. When a soldier is surrounded by the enemy, he maintains his position, holds the hard-won ground, and waits for reinforcements to show up. I'll leave my filthy sanctuary when Hawke arrives.