by Sasha Leone
The customer huffs, but doesn’t push. That’s the kind of customer I like the best. I apologize profusely and serve them their bill.
One down, one to go.
It doesn’t take long for another coffee order to come in. I go through my same routine and get the same response. A disappointed shrug and a request for the bill. I almost feel like I’m regaining a little bit of control in my upturned life as I see the last customer of the day to the door.
The feeling doesn’t last long, though.
Just as I’m returning to the front door to lock up for the night, I spot an oddly familiar face outside. Under the streetlights I can make out his short, tubby, bald features, rumbling towards the same front door I’m about to lock. It takes me a second to realize just how I recognize him, but when I do, a pang of dread fills up my gut.
It’s the rude sausage-lipped customer from the other night—and he’s making a beeline for the diner!
Fuck!
My hands tremble as I fumble with my keys, trying desperately to find the right one. I cannot deal with this motherfucker right now. I’ve got more important things to get to.
Still, I’m crumbling under the sudden pressure. I just can’t seem to get a hold of the right key. The rattle of the master chain distracts me almost as much as the approaching steps of the rude customer.
So much for being a mastermind—I’m choking.
Before I can stick the right key in the lock, a chubby, sausage-finger-filled hand pushes the door open. I’m nearly smacked in the face before I can jump back in defeated surprise.
“... Sorry, sir. We’re closed,” I plead, in my best customer-service voice.
The short, tubby man looks back towards the door as it swings shut. “Doesn’t seem closed to me.’ His voice is just as greasy as his lips—high-pitched and jittery.
This motherfucker...
“Well, I was just closing up, as you see,” I rattle my key chain in front of him.
The man’s beady little eyes dance mischievously under the orange glow of the diner’s light. His gross gaze wanders up and down my body. I shiver ever so slightly, then hold back a sneer. “You’re usually open much later,” he says, with a teasing tone. “Feeling a little lazy tonight?”
I let my expression go flat. “Just following orders,” I lie.
‘Well, you can make an exception for me. I just got off work and I’m hungry. This place is no Taj Mahal, but it’s all that’s open in this area at this hour.” He waves me off and waddles past me towards the same corner booth he’d taken up last time he was here.
Fuck me, I think. This motherfucker must have gotten a job in the area recently, which means that I’ll be seeing a lot more of him. I’m no stranger to customer-service jobs—even my dream job, of becoming a nurse, is all about dealing with people—but there’s a lack of respect that waitresses get that just drives me wild.
I gaze up at the clock over the kitchen-window. It’s five minutes to 11pm. I look back out to the street, desperately hoping to see Ronan. He’d know how to deal with this asshole.
The irony of my desire for his presence isn’t completely lost on me. If he hadn’t come to Chelly’s for lunch and been so sweet, he’d be the last person in the world I’d want to see back at the diner—even more so than sausage-fingers over there—but now, he’s the only person I want. The only person I need.
Where the hell are you, Ronan?
Just my luck, a man like that only shows up when you don’t need or want him to.
“Sir,” I say, more forcefully this time, as I turn around to the fat man getting comfortable in the booth at the far end of the diner. “We’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
It doesn’t seem to matter that my tone has harshened, Sausage-man still digs into a menu. “Is the cook still here?” he asks.
I look over to the pass-through and try to telepathically tell Carlos to stay hidden. He’s probably getting changed right now—or at least, I hope he is. The last thing I need is for him to show up in his cook’s uniform.
“No,” I lie again.
Even that doesn’t deter my tubby little nemesis. “Oh well, I’m sure you can cook, right? A woman must be able to cook,” he points his fat sausage-finger at me like he’s giving a lecture. I want so bad to take off my shoe and beat him over the head with it. “How are you ever going to be able to find a husband if you don’t cook? If anything, you should be thanking me—practice makes perfect, after all. Oh, and smile. Don’t forget to smile this time. Maybe I’ll even give you a tip... if I think you deserve one. Come one now, chop-chop.” He claps his hands together and I just lose it.
Before I can explode on him, though, the chime over the front door dings and my attention turns to the entrance. I’m just as ready to go nuclear on whoever has come in for a late-night snack as I am on the short, tubby motherfucker in the corner booth.
But, to my surprise, it’s not a customer who stands in the doorway behind me now. It’s Ronan.
My anger instantly dissipates into something else. Relief? I’m not sure. I haven’t felt relief in such a long time.
“Hey,” he smiles, in his deep, gruff voice. Those dimples. Those eyes.
I turn back to the sausage-man.
This motherfucker....
11
Ronan
“Out!” I command, forcefully pointing towards the front door with my good arm.
This motherfucker....
He’s obviously upset Nia, but all she’ll say to me is, “We’re closed, and this man won’t leave.”
Well, I’ll make him.
I stare down the little, round bastard as he tries to conceal the tremble in his hands. “I... I have a right to... to be here,” he stutters.
I take a step forward and loom over him. Normally, I would never even consider taking a swing at such a pathetic and feeble human—I like my fights to be challenging—but to think that this man’s disrespecting Nia’s wishes, after all she’s been through over the past 48-hours, is infuriating. It doesn’t matter to me than I’ve been the cause of so much of her stress, now’s my turn to make her feel better.
It definitely doesn’t hurt that I already have some pent-up anger of my own to let out. Earlier in the evening, I finally found what I think might be a lead in the Santino case, but I’m still no closer to catching the rat. If this chubby motherfucker tests me one more time, I’m liable to throw him through Chelly’s saran-wrap window and then splatter his blood on the sidewalk—making a new stain right next to my old one.
“I’m going to count to three,” I growl.
This is no man, sitting in front of me, I decide. This is a greasy, bald child, and I’m going to talk to him like it until he understands what’s at stake.
“I—” he starts again.
“ONE,” I interrupt.
That does it. The fat, greasy rat scrambles out from his booth like a garbage bag in the wind. I step aside and let him flee to the front door, almost regretting that he is. I could have used a good punching bag for the night...
Earlier, Finn had gotten word about some unreported burglaries on grocery stores and restaurants on this strip. People around here tend to go straight to the Triad about their problems, because they know how crooked the cops can be, but Finn has a way about him that seems to put regular people at ease. He’s got such an All-American look that it’s hard not to trust that he has your best interest in mind. It’s part of what makes him such a useful accomplice.
His new intel has got me thinking that I might actually be right about Santino hiding out somewhere in this area. It’s the only bit of hope I’ve got right now. Still, the rest of the evening has been frustratingly fruitless. If Santino’s nearby, no one seems ready to give him up.
I wonder why? Why protect such an unimportant scumbag?
My brain was wracked with unanswered questions all afternoon and night, until I saw that it was almost 11pm.
My first and only break in the Santino c
ase had come soon after I’d decided to finally give myself a rest and go for lunch earlier in the day—and so I figured I might be able to establish a pattern if I gave myself another little break to walk Nia home. Maybe I just need some time to not think about Santino in order to really get to him...
“Where do you live, anyway?” I ask, holding the front door to Chelly’s open for Nia. She’s changed into her street clothes and looks as hot as ever. I hadn’t realized just how curvy she is.
Her tight blue jeans hug her thick thighs and flaunt her amazing ass. She’s wearing a big, red, puffy quilted jacket now, but before she slipped it on, I got a good look at her body in the beige cardigan that she’s wearing underneath. It’s all enough to make a man drool.
“West end,” she says, locking up the diner for the night.
Hmm. How to get her there? The fastest way is through Russian territory, but I don’t know if I want to risk that, even if the Volkov Bratva is supposed to be on good terms with my boss.
I figure I’ll let Nia lead the way, and if we start walking toward something too dicey, I’ll steer us in another direction—she’s probably made this walk countless times before without incident, but there’s a new tension in the Chinatown air that makes me worried for her. A looming underworld war threatens to tear these streets apart, and I feel like I’m the only thing standing in the way of complete chaos. I need to stay vigilant.
We start our march in close contact, not touching, but hovering just close enough so that I can feel the heat from her body. It’s driving me wild. I’ve been at war with myself all day—a younger me had once sworn off all women, but Nia doesn’t feel like all women. There’s something special about the way I feel when I think of her that’s making me reconsider my pledge. I still don’t know how close I’m going to let myself get to her, but the truth is, I might not have a choice. She’s shot a harpoon into my chest, and every time I manage to stop thinking about her for even a moment, she tugs at the line and sends an ache through my heart. The combined business of my developing feelings for her, as well as the non-developing case with Santino, is testing my resolve to its limits. I’m being drained too quickly, and I fear I might have to just give into Nia in order to save enough energy for Santino. When you’re in such a dire situation, what do you focus your fight on? Your sense of duty or your sense of affection?
I’m quickly losing my fight against my feelings for Nia, and so, earlier today, I made an executive decision. I’m going to go where the wind takes me with her, and focus all of my fight on figuring out this Santino shit, because if I don’t, they’ll be no future for me at all, with or without the girl I’m currently walking home with.
A lonely gust howls by us. I take the brunt of its chill. My injured arm doesn’t feel so bad right now.
“Oh, so, you’re good for something,” Nia teases, after I jokingly mention my sacrifice to keep her warm.
“Aren’t you glad you said yes to letting me walk you home now?”
Nia shakes her head. “Maybe.” Before clarifying. “Thank you, though. For dealing with that rude customer too.”
I wave her gratitude off. “He was a piece of cake compared to what I usually have to deal with.”
“What do you usually have to deal with...?” Nia asks, hesitating before adding, “A lot of shootouts?”
I purse my lips. I knew this would come up, but I didn’t have enough energy to think of a lie. If she hadn’t seen me get shot the other night, I might have just told her the same old fib I tell everyone who doesn’t know me: that I work in construction. It’s a fake occupation as old as the mafia itself and it’s usually good enough for most.
Nia isn’t most, though.
“It’s complicated,” I tell her, trying to handle her with care. It’s a strange feeling, thinking of another person as human. I’ve been forced to become so cold that the idea of trying to treat someone carefully is foreign to me. Still, I try my best. “I work for a very important and powerful family. I guess you could say I’m their... muscle. A soldier, if you will. Do soldiers get into shootouts once in a while? Sure. It’s part of the job.”
Nia doesn’t respond to my explanation right away, and I feel a pang of dread when I think that I might have already screwed this up. What’s an innocent girl like her want with the kind of soldier who gets into shootouts on her front porch? She doesn’t deserve that kind of violence anyway...
“So, you’re an enforcer for a crime family?” she asks, almost as casually as she might have if she’d been asking me to clarify what I did at a more regular job.
“Um, yeah,” I answer, admittedly shocked by her relaxed candor. She hasn’t had much of a chance to relax around me yet, but if she can take the news of my occupation in stride, then there isn’t much else that can truly shock her. I take it as a good sign.
“You dress better than your average goon, though. I’ll give you that,” she teases, looking me up and down.
I let out a laugh. I almost like the way she digs at my pride, it’s an unexpected change in pace from how I’m usually treated. Most fear me; even those who have power over me fear me, if they’re smart. Only the top crust of the underworld would ever even dare to take a shot in my direction. Gianni Barone might truly be the only one—Santino was just dumb and lucky. Luca thinks he’s another, but he might find out soon enough that he’s not. Other than that, though, there’s no one... except, now, for Nia—a small curvy waitress from the westside.
“Yeah, well, I rank a little bit higher than your average goon,” I chuckle. I don’t like to show it too ostentatiously, but I’ve made a good living for myself doing what I do and I dress accordingly, if in an understated style. “You have good taste to notice,” I compliment her.
“I only know that I couldn’t afford any of what you’re wearing,” she jokes.
I feel a familiar bite in my heart. “... When did you realize I was dressed up to the nines?” I ask, hoping to hear the right answer.
“After you showed up tonight and told that tubby motherfucker off,” she laughs.
I sigh in relief. She’s not after you for your money or your status, I tell myself. This isn’t like the last time.
“You weren’t wearing an outfit like that when you got shot, were you?”
I shrug. “Yeah. My favorite jacket was ruined.”
“... You sound more disappointed about that than being shot.”
I laugh. “I survived. The jacket did not.”
Nia sways next to me, getting closer and closer with every step. “I can stitch it up for you, if you want.”
“Ah, it’s already long gone. I had to get rid of it entirely,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“Because it became evidence.”
“... Oh, yeah.”
I let her take a left on Thornberry street. We’re getting awfully close to Russian territory, but I don’t want to suggest anything that might deter us from the path we’re heading down. Nia really seems to be warming up to me, even if it’s just because I’m blocking the occasional gust of wind for her.
We walk a little further in a cozy silence. There’s hardly another soul around—the streets are empty but for the occasional false dawn of approaching headlights. I just want to grab Nia’s hand and let all the stress I’m under melt in her warmth. The inner battle I’ve been fighting all day has become hopeless—the pledges I’ve made in my past can go fuck themselves.
I want her.
12
Nia
I can feel Ronan pull away as I try to lead him off the beaten path. For such a big scary man, he sure seems reluctant to follow me into the dark. Every time we pass by an alleyway, I lean towards it, hoping that he’ll finally take the hint and shoot some true excitement into my life.
He’s already pinned me to a wall once before, when will he understand that I want him to do it again?
“I know a shortcut,” I tell him. There’s a well-lit back street just up ahead that I’ve always thought looked almost
romantic under the right light—a perfect place to get kissed by a big lug with a shady past for the first time.
“We should stay on the streets,” Ronan suggests. The sheer gravity of his body is enough to keep me from wandering too far off, but I want him bad and I’m not about to give up just yet.
“A backstreet’s still a street,” I tease, brushing my shoulder up against his. “it’s even in the name.”
Ronan eyes me slyly and I feel the back of his hand against mine. My skin tingles and my stomach flutters at his touch. I can feel his pulse through the veins that run just under his rough skin. It’s slow and steady—I want it to quicken up and match my racing heart.
Without giving him much of a choice, I intertwine my fingers with his until our palms are flat together. His hand dwarfs mine, and I’m injected with a shot of pure, warm arousal. My legs go weak, but Ronan’s grip is enough to keep me off the ground—it’s too bad, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than on my back, as long as he’s on top of me.
I look up at him with my best doe-eyes, willing him to take advantage of the poor frightened waitress he’s terrorized over the past two nights. He stares down at me with a desperate look I can’t quite seem to put my finger on. I change tactics.
“Listen,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. Ronan’s thumb slowly starts to brush up and down the backside of my hand. A warm shiver tingles up my spine. “I forgive you for the past two nights,” I tell him. “I’m glad you came into Chelly’s earlier today and apologized, and I’m glad you’re walking me home tonight. My life’s sucked for the past... well, maybe forever. It’s been a long and boring ride for me, filled with way more downs than ups... I was in nursing school once, you know? Back then, I thought I might be able to make something of myself, but I should have known better. My mom died while I was in my first year. She’d been helping me pay the bills and loans, but then, suddenly I had nothing. No support, no safety net, no love. Just nothing. I fell, and I fell hard, and I still haven’t been able to get myself back up to the cliff I fell from. It wasn’t a high cliff, but at least from that perch I could see light on the horizon. These days all I see is darkness. Boring old darkness. I was getting so sick of the daily grind to nowhere... until I met you. I’ve never been so unsure and excited as I am right now. It’s scary, but it’s also exhilarating. So, I guess I just want to say thank you for that.”
