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~ Cara ~
“TGIF!”
A roar of cheers resounds at table seventeen as glasses clink nosily. Young professionals, I decide as I watch them sip and laugh as though they’re at happy hour instead of scarfing down their midday meal. Four women and three men, all neatly dressed but not too flashy. Just starting out in their careers, then. Colleagues and friends. One of the men leans down close to the woman next to him and murmurs something, and she tips her head and smiles shyly at him. He flashes her a boyish grin, pleased with her flushed reaction.
An odd pang thumps in my chest and I look away.
Sometimes when I least expect it, there are these intrusive thoughts–the agonizing, useless what ifs. What if Mom hadn’t gotten in the car that night? What if we hadn’t lost everything? What if both of my parents were still alive today? What would I have become? Would I be in college right now like Sissy? Giggling and flicking my hair the way I’ve seen so many of them do in the café, batting my eyelashes at the boys while pretending I don’t notice them? What’s it like to know you belong to something bigger, that no matter what happens someone would be there for you?
I hate these reflections. What ifs are wastes of time. What if I marry some rich, good-looking guy and live happily ever after? Yeah right. Get back to work, Cara.
“Cara! Ohmygosh, Cara,” Sissy rushes over, her blonde tail bobbing behind her as she zealously grabs my arm to still my rigorous wiping of the counter. “You see that guy over there at table ten? The guy in the dark suit? Not the enormous one but the one with dark hair?”
When I take an automatic peek over, it isn’t only my arm that’s stilled but my mind as well at the sight of the trio at the far corner.
Panic. Riotous and paralyzing.
“I served him yesterday–well, two of them, him and the long hair one. He was so super-hot I could barely note down his order. And he left me this big ass tip and now he’s back.” Sissy is practically springing on her tippy toes in her girlish excitement, her words running together in a race to get out with no clue of my threatening anxiety attack. “In the exact same table! My table! It’s fate! Ohmygosh,” she repeats, her eyes sparkling with elation. “How do I look?”
What are they doing here?
Somehow, I can’t see them being addicted to the clam chowder so much they’d come back for seconds the next day. It blows my mind when I consider how much the guy had in his wallet to think he actually frequents a simple, unpretentious place like Love’s.
Is he here to rat on me to Bob?
“You always look great.” Intense turquoise eyes zero in on me and I hastily dart my flustered gaze back to the glowing Sissy. My entire body flames with gnawing apprehension. “But what about Paul? I thought you guys were serious?”
She scoffs. “Oh please. Paul’s a pastime. This here,” she glances over and all but drools. “This here’s a commitment. Full commitment. And all man.”
All man. All rich. All gorgeous. What sane woman wouldn’t drool over him?
I think my drool was declared a drought by measuring blue-green eyes.
“Well,” I utter as I return to swiping the counter with the wet rag. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Maybe I can wipe a hole big enough to hide in. “Then you better get back to him. I’m sure they’re hungry.”
On a squeal, Sissy sashays between packed tables until she reaches her destination with a wicked, devastating smile. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to sneak back into the kitchen while they’re otherwise occupied.
Tossing the dirty cloth into a bin, I tell Gus, “I’m taking five.” The dishwasher looks surprised but doesn’t say anything as I make my way to the backdoor.
We’re allowed a fifteen-minute break if we work half days and two if we put in a full day. I’ve never taken any and wouldn’t know what to do with myself if someone forced me to. Though the wintry air is out in ample glory, I hardly notice it as I step outside, pacing like I never have in the dank alley over the unexpected and troubling turn of events.
What are the odds? The rich jerks aren’t here just to eat. I’m certain of that. There are hundreds of restaurants in the area, a lot of them more suitable for their class, yet here they are for two consecutive days. I tilt my head to the sky as Sissy’s animated eagerness flashes in my mind. Maybe they’re here for Sissy, after all, I consider with hope. She’s a pretty girl and knows how to play her game with the boys, so it wouldn’t surprise me too much to discover one or both of them have fallen for her blatant and liberal charm.
Except those are men, not boys.
Or maybe Mr. Giant isn’t done patting me down.
At the maddening reminder, my indignant head drops as my blood heats all over again.
“Cara.” Bob let the metal door slam behind him. “I was looking for ya.”
“Sorry. Just taking a short break.” Still riled by what happened this morning, I keep my gaze down, kicking at soiled litter on the ground. “You need me?”
“There’s a customer by the name of Damian Delevan in there. He asked me to give ya this.” Thrust in my sight is a stack of hundred-dollar bills. There’s no way to decipher how many are in there since they’re folded neatly in half. “He said you found his wallet and returned it to him, but you left before he could give this to ya.”
I’m shaking my head before Bob’s even finished. Why is Damian Delevan doing this? I’m no one. Why take the time to get me in trouble? I didn’t take anything from him.
Bracing, I glance up and meet Bob’s questioning gaze. “No. He’s mistaken. Give it back to him.”
“He might be,” Bob agrees easily, though he doesn’t look too convinced. “Except he doesn’t look the type to make those often. He did say the Good Samaritan was Cara Nightingale. I assured him there was no Cara Nightingale here.” Gray mustache crinkles as he purses his lips, nearly stopping my heart. “I told him we have a Sissy Nightingale, which was why I put them at one of her tables. But funny, after she took their order, he told me Cara Nightingale was a petite, pretty strawberry blonde with large gray eyes.”
Feigning nonchalance, I shrug. “Go figure. I guess I’ll just get back to work and let you guys figure it out.”
“Do you really want me to return the money to him?”
“It’s not my money, Bob,” I reason as dismissively as I can fake, stomping up the three steps to take me back inside, hoping like hell he can’t see the nerves eating me alive. “It’s not for me to accept.”
For the next hour I stay away from that side of the restaurant, and when table nine needs to be cleaned, I switch with Ahmad and bring the tray of food to one of his tables while he busts mine. I don’t know if Bob had, in fact, given the money back to Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Cash, but at this point all I care about is to see the back end of them through the front door.
And they sure are taking their uppity time with their meals. For three large men, they eat like turtles on hiatus, all but pausing for a nap in between dainty jerk-off bites. As often and as swiftly as I can, I duck back into the kitchen at each opportunity, not wanting to accidentally catch their inquisitive gazes. It’s nearing two o’clock and the midday crowd is starting to thin drastically, leaving only three tables filled with hesitant lingerers. Unfortunately, table ten is one of them.
“Hey, Cara.” Sissy swings in, all happy energy. “Hot guy spilled some water on the table–and I mean like a whole lake worth of it. Would you help him out? He’s a big tipper,” she adds as she quickly refills a Coke and breezes back out without waiting for my response.
Trepidation rattles inside me, a poisonous snake snapping to bite.
My cheeks puff as I shoot out annoyed air. Fine. Bob pays me to do a job, not to coward in the back from loaded, idiotic men who can’t take a hint if it shoots out of their gold encrusted noses. Snatching up a dry, clean cloth, I make over to table ten with purposeful strides and my best apathetic face.
The flushed but clumsy man must have dumped an entire pitcher of water onto the dripping table. From the looks of it, I’d need a mop and a boat to clean up that mess.
Damian Delevan is off his seat and staring down at the puddle where his feet would’ve been if he’d remained on the chair. Brainless Behemoth is also up and standing guard next to him, a blocking tower. The third man, the one with the electronic device earlier, is nowhere in sight.
The liquid is gushing down the edge of the already drenched surface. Reaching out, I hastily intercept with the rag. The fabric is immediately saturated–probably from my sweaty palms-and I belatedly wish I brought more. I hadn’t realized a glass could hold that much water.
“Ms. Nightingale.” A voice I’ve only been acquainted with a few hours ago but is now the stuff of leaky-tampon-nightmares proclaim from just behind me as I bend over the table. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see me. Not bothering to acknowledge what he so cheekily said, I respond, “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.”
“Take your time, Ms. Nightingale. The food is excellent here, by the way. I do believe I can come here every day and still not be tired of it. How about you, Ivan?”
Giant makes a hum sound, probably trying to gobble up a fly from thin air, or the sound of his scraped knuckles dragging on the ground. The pompous snob is goading me but I keep stubbornly silent, my busy hand circling the table again and again with the rag until I notice wet streaks trailing behind it. Luckily Sissy briefly rushes over with a couple more and I’m able to get the surface wiped clean.
“Enjoy the rest of your meal.” It’s an automatic parting, one I’m used to reciting without thought. Long, warm fingers clasp my arm when I make to leave and like a practiced, choreographed dance, Ivan instantly sidesteps and gives us his back, effectively obscuring us with his massive frame from casual onlookers.
Damian Delevan leans in close. Menacingly close. “Who are you?”
My skin breaks out with flesh bumps. “Unhand me.”
Ignoring me, he demands instead, “Why did you lie about who you were? I know it’s Cara, but you’re no Nightingale.”
Nerves invade my blood. Tugging at my arm doesn’t seem to deter him. “If I tell you, will you promise to leave me alone?”
A dark eyebrow wings up. “Perhaps.”
“Fine.” I look pointedly at the hand that still imprisons my arm. “Let go first. Cara,” I say when his fingers slowly drop. “My name is Cara. Cara... Taylor.”
Turquoise eyes narrow at me, a human lie detector blinking red. “Are you sure about that?”
“I know my own name.”
“How did you get my wallet?”
“What?” My jaw drops at the accusation in his tone. “I didn’t pick your pocket if that’s what you’re implying.” What an asshole. That’s what I get for trying to do the right thing. “I told you I found it here. At this very spot, as a matter of fact. Why would I go through the trouble of returning something I snatched?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
My teeth grind. “You know what? I don’t give a shit if you believe me or not. Most people would be thanking me, not harassing me and accusing me of something I didn’t do. I didn’t steal anything from you, and that’s all that matters, so leave me the hell alone.” Shaking with rage, with foreboding, I take one step before it’s clear I can’t go anywhere unless they allow it. “Get out of my way.”
His eyes burn as he watches me for a heavy beat, drilling into me as though if he looks hard enough, long enough, he can see the truth in my soul. Then, after what feels like centuries, my path is abruptly cleared with a muttered, “Ivan,” and I’m freed.
Relief exhales out of me as they leave a few minutes later, making Sissy wiggle with elation at yet another whopping tip.
The next five hours drag by. By the time my shift is over my feet are sore, my back is stiff, and I have a headache. Lugging the canvas tote bag to my shoulder, I wave a goodnight to Bob and Gus, heading out to trek a block to the subway station. The hibernating sun set hours ago, with fluffy snow starting to drift, coating the streets. I’m used to the cold, so it doesn’t really bother me. Being out and about at thirty-degrees has nothing on hiding out in a frosted alley with nothing for warmth but the thin, ragged clothes on my back during the dead of winter. This? This is might be uncomfortable but nothing I can’t handle with a dismissive shrug. I have a steady home to go to, a full, satisfied belly, and a day’s earnings in my pocket. What more can I possibly want?
There’s always traffic in the city, day or night, so when a silver car pulls up in a place full of them, I don’t think anything of it.
It lazes for several seconds, hot engine at the ready.
The driver side door pushes out. My feet freeze on the spot at the familiar large figure rolling out, descending upon me with dark purpose.
“Ms. Taylor.” Ivan tips his head. Perfectly pleasant in expression, lethal in his gaze. “Damian Delevan would like to have a word with you.”
No. No. No.
Innocent people on TV shows always get whacked following such an outwardly harmless order. Floating on the river. Buried in the forgotten desert. In pieces. Oh hell, no. I worked too hard to make something of myself. I am not going to be fish or scorpion bait.
Brisk heartbeats pound against my chest. “I have nothing to say to Mr. Delevan.”
“It’s not a request.” He throws open the rear passenger door and I catch a glimpse of tasteful leather and gleaming mahogany. “Please get inside the vehicle.”
I don’t argue. I don’t take a moment to reevaluate the situation. I don’t think.
I whip around and run.
My terrified feet pump and pound like they’ve never done before.
I’m going to die.
Heavy feet thumps in rapid succession behind me. My mouth opens wide for a scream to rival an emergency siren. Before even a peep is out of me a trunk of an arm latches around, swiftly shoving a damp cloth over my nose and open mouth.