I had enough of a hangover that waking up the next morning at six to meet the seafood supplier was a special kind of hell. Even double-fisting coffee didn't help. The headache beat behind my eyes as I stood on the loading dock and looked at the crates of fish. I counted them up and made notes on my clipboard. I needed to design the menu for the next week, and there was no telling what Joey would decide to get rid of next. I could try to put salmon on special, change things up a bit.
The greasy-looking guy, smelling very strongly of old bait, held out the invoice for my inspection. "Just what you ordered. Joey was supposed to be here for this delivery, though. Where's he at?"
"I'm not his keeper," I said under my breath, then nudged a crate with my foot. "Some of that mahi mahi looks kinda sweaty. How old is it?"
"Caught it myself this morning, sugar." He lit up a cigarette, waving it at me. "Just sign the papers and get back in the kitchen."
I scowled. "You can go fuck yourself. Take back the mahi mahi, I don't want it."
"Joey wants it," he said, then turned and walked away. His truck started up and drove off before I could open my mouth to yell at him, and I stared at the invoice in my hand.
Unbelievable.
The kid I had helping me in the kitchen in the mornings hauled the rest of the crates into the cooler, though I had him leave the offending mahi mahi on the loading dock. It looked off-color when I examined it more closely, and I started unpacking it. Maybe only the top couple of fish were bad, the others...
I sat back on my heels. Wrapped in cellophane, under two overripe fish, were stacks of cash. Hundreds. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of cash. My breath caught as I touched it, looking around to see if anyone else noticed. Nothing. I was alone in the alley, and suddenly more terrified than any other time I'd been almost alone at the restaurant. Especially with Edgar's comment about no cameras. I swallowed hard, then pulled out my phone. I didn't know what to do about cash in the fish, but there was someone who would.
The phone rang at least six times before he picked up, and he sounded half-asleep, voice all rusty and gruff. "Good morning, Natalia."
Shivers ran all the way through me, sparking heat and fire low in my stomach. Logan sounded like rumpled sheets and soft pillows and tangled limbs. I cleared my throat, glad he couldn't see me blush. "I'm sorry to call so early, but —"
"Not a problem." A rush of breath, as if he yawned, then rustling and movement. "What can I do for you?"
For a moment I thought about answering honestly — or at least correcting his question to 'what can I do to you.' I put a hand to my forehead and turned away, praying for maturity and calm. "There's a problem. At the restaurant."
"Oh?" Less flirting, more serious. "What kind of problem? Are you safe?"
"Safe? Yeah, it's just — I got the fish delivery today, and something's wrong with it."
"I don't think I'm the kind of restaurant owner who is overly concerned about —"
"There's money. In the fish." I looked at the mahi mahi, wrinkled my nose. Christ, it smelled.
A long pause. A hint of disbelief in his voice, as if he thought I prank-called at six in the morning. "I'm sorry, say that again?"
I lowered my voice. "There are three crates of mahi mahi, but there are only about six fish in each. Underneath the fish are bundles of cash. Of hundreds. Tens of thousands of dollars. Joey was supposed to be here to accept the delivery, but I haven't seen him all morning, and —"
"Go inside the restaurant." Logan sounded like he was moving very fast, all business and tense. "Lock yourself in one of the offices. Leave the money in the fish, leave the crates where they are. Edgar and Atticus are closer; they should be there in a few minutes. I'm on my way."
"Logan, it's not —"
"Someone put that money there for a reason," he said, his tone that weird overly-calm one used by professionals when the normal people flipped out. Like how doctors talked to incoherent patients. My heart started to beat faster; he was worried. He went on despite the rumble of a car engine in the background, still managing to sound unruffled. "Joey expects it to be there, and since we don't know who put the money there, I don't want you anywhere near that fish. I can't think of many legitimate reasons to put thousands of dollars in fish, can you?"
I backed toward the restaurant, my attention still on the crates. "No, I don't think so."
"Right. Lock yourself in one of the offices, just to be safe in case someone shows up to retrieve the cash, and wait until Edgar or I call you. Okay?"
"S-sure." I cleared my throat, suddenly wishing I had my knives on me. Or a gun. A gun might have been better.
"I'll be there soon. Everything will be fine." It sounded like he wanted to convince himself as much as me.
I concentrated on breathing, "Yeah, it's —" and retreated another step. I bumped into something and froze. Hands grabbed my arms and Joey said, "Going somewhere?" right in my ear.
The phone slipped from my hand and I elbowed him, tried to throw off his grip. Instead, his fingers tightened on my elbow, and he yanked me into the shadows near the edge of the loading dock. "Who were you talking to, Nat?"
"No one." I cleared my throat. "Let me go, Joey. I need to figure out what we're going to do with the salmon this week, and the menus go to the printer in a couple hours."
"You don't want to use the mahi mahi?"
"No." I swallowed, wrenching at his grip once more as I waved at the three crates. "It's shit. Smells off. Send it back."
"Stop fucking around," he said, low and cold. Shoved me up against the wall and pinned me, his forearm a bar across my throat. For a short guy, his upper body strength surpassed mine, even as I kicked at him. "Who did you tell about the money?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. I choked, clawing at his arm and his face. "Let me go."
"You've been a pain in my ass for too long." Joey glanced behind him before looking back at me, exerting more pressure on my throat until my breath rasped. "How about a little lesson in remembering your place, hmm?"
His knee pressed between my thighs, and I screamed. Screamed and prayed someone would hear, would intervene. Joey back-handed me, grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against the wall until my head bounced off the bricks. I swung at him, stomped at his feet, elbowed and raged. Never again. Wasn't going to be a victim again. I clawed at his eyes and he cursed, struggled to keep a hand on me as I fumbled at a loose brick.
I almost had it in hand when he tripped me and I landed hard on my knees, crying out. He landed on top of me, a knee in my back. The frozen concrete burned against my skin as my sweater and coat hiked up, and Joey shoved my cheek to the dirty ground. I tried to breathe. Had to stay calm. Panic meant dead.
His voice hissed in my ear, hateful and cruel. "Should I fuck you out here in the garbage, Nat? Or drag you inside and have you in the cooler? You're a cold fish anyway, might as well —"
The brick in his face cut him off. My shoulder and back screamed as I swung it behind me, into his nose until the blood gushed and spattered across my coat and hair. I shoved at him to get free, desperate to get back on my feet, and screamed again, mostly in rage.
Son of a bitch. That unbelievable, dirty son of a bitch. I elbowed him in the throat, half blind from dirt and his blood.
His fingers dug into my thigh. "Don't you —"
His hand disappeared and then so did the rest of him.
Silence.
I scrambled to my feet, staggering to lean against the brick wall as my knees objected and my back spasmed. Pain everywhere, blinding pain — but escape was more important. Pain would heal. What he threatened — would not. Breath sobbed in my throat as I searched the alley. Ten feet away, a mountain of muscle held Joey by the throat, his heels dangling three feet off the ground. Atticus. He looked at me, unmindful as the much smaller man flopped around in his grip like a dying fish. "Are you okay?"
Was I okay. My mouth opened, I wanted to answer him, but nothing came out. Nothing worked. I inhaled, gulped air, couldn't stop gulping until I choked. Hyperventilated. Stared at him, at Joey, at Edgar, wearing a long dark overcoat and talking into his phone as he approached me.
His voice was calm, soothing as if he spoke to a wild animal. "You're okay, Natalia. We're here. We've got him. Just slow down a little. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Breathe with me, okay? Just like me. In. And out."
He took exaggerated breaths, taking another step closer, and I flinched. Edgar stopped, retreated. Sat on his heels, making himself smaller, less threatening. Tears burned my eyes and I looked away. Great. Just fucking wonderful. Nothing even happened and I was ready to break. I was stronger this time. I wasn't a kid. Joey couldn't hurt me. I stood on my own.
And still I couldn't breathe, couldn't calm anything down as my heart raced and sweat broke out all over me and my stomach heaved at the smell of myself. I stank like bad fish and week-old garbage and old blood, and almost every part of me was sticky. The tears started to fall and I cursed more, turning away to hide my face and the rest of me. God damn it.