“Yes, one more thing.” Ava’s voice is surprisingly sharp.
I cock a brow and wait. She keeps quiet. What the hell is wrong with these girls?
“Amanda!” Lindy yells. “You ain’t getting paid for small talk with your friends.”
I shiver at the word friends. Those girls are stupid bitches, not my fucking friends.
“It can wait,” Chelsea says more to her friends than me.
“Suit yourself,” I hiss before I stomp back to the counter.
Keeping a safe distance from table five, I refill napkins. Ava’s hand shoots up. “Waitress,” she says, as if she doesn’t know my name.
“Go,” Lindy orders, nudging me in the ribs so hard I think she might have cracked one.
I give my boss a dirty look and saunter to the table. “What do you need?” I sound as annoyed as I am.
“The bill,” Ava says with a mischievous grin.
I spin on my heels, ready to get their check so they can get the hell outta my face, but Chelsea stops me. “Wait.”
I peek over my shoulder.
“There’s something else.” She sounds so innocent, it’s hard to believe she’s a racist bigot.
Ava wears a smug expression and drums her too-long fingernails on the tabletop. The sound drives me nuts.
“Are you dating Bridge DeLuca?” Chelsea asks, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.
Growing increasingly irritated, I knit my brows. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Actually, it is.” Ava’s voice brims with confidence.
Is she for real? I cross my arms. “Yeah? How so?”
Ava tilts her chin at Jules. “Bridge is already spoken for.”
Jules blushes and looks out the window. I knew she was into him. Saw it when she approached him in the hallway, but DeLuca plays in another league. Even the bitch squad should have realized that by now.
I meet Jules’s gaze. Unrequited love sucks, and I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t part of NYU’s Mean Girls. “No offense, but DeLuca isn’t exactly I-put-a-promise-ring-on-your-finger material.”
Ava purses her glossy lips. “Bridge is a good guy.” She jumps up and gets in my face. “He deserves better than a devil-worshipping freak. So stay the fuck away from him or—”
“Or what?” The darkness in my voice makes Chelsea and Jules flinch.
“Or you’ll regret it,” Ava warns.
I tried to play nice, but they just crossed a line, and there’s no going back. “Listen to me very carefully. If any of you dares to come to my workplace again to threaten me, it’ll be the last thing you do.” I glare at each of them in turn. “Capiche?”
Unlike Jules and Chelsea, Ava doesn’t even blink. “We’re not scared of your devil’s craft, Amanda.”
A psycho grin tugs at my lips. “Oh, but you should be.”
Ava balls her hands into fists. Looks like Ms. Church never heard physical violence is a sin. “You are the worst kind of evil there is.”
Chelsea and Jules are on their feet too. “Let’s go, Ava.”
“Yeah,” Jules says. “She’s not worth it.”
How about that coma hex now?
****
Lindy is famous for payback, but this time she’s outdone herself. It’s twenty past eleven, and instead of screwing DeLuca, I’m scrubbing the greasy exhaust hood in the diner kitchen. Gross doesn’t even begin to cover how disgusting that thing looks. I’d bet my ass no one has touched it since the Noachian flood. What’s even worse is the freaking cleaning agent Lindy insisted I use. The translucent liquid burns away my fingertips like pure acid. Why the fuck couldn’t I keep my mouth shut when she accused me of dating Legend? Because I possess a little thing called dignity.
Putting away the pans, Joe watches me from the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you let me help you, principessa?”
I wipe grease off my cheek and look down. “Nah, don’t worry. I’m almost done.” Of course, I’m lying. I could stay all night and the thing would still look like shit, but Joe works here full-time. He deserves to go home to drown this day with plenty of grappa—or whatever else it is Italians drink when they want to get wasted.
He frowns and then, as if he were struck by lightning, he smites his forehead. “Dio mio, I almost forgot.” He gets on his knees, opens a drawer, and pulls out a tiny bottle filled with yellow liquid. “Here.” He tosses it to me. “Use this. It works miracles.”
I almost fall from the ladder catching it. “What is it?” I ask, ogling the liquid suspiciously.
“Mama’s secret recipe,” he whispers.
Still not convinced anything can remove the grease from the exhaust hood, I unscrew the bottle. What the—“Whoa, smells like freakin’ poison.”
Joe’s warm laughter fills the kitchen. “It’s no poison, principessa.” He looks over his shoulder, making sure we really are alone, and adds, “Vinegar, lemon, eucalyptus, and baking soda. It removes every stain in seconds.”
I pour some of the stuff onto a cloth and scrub the metal surface with it. Jesus freakin’ Christ, it works. The grease dissolves as if it’s never been there, and the hood sparkles. “You’re a genius,” I shout, happy I might get some sleep after all.
“Mama knows best,” he says proudly.
I don’t necessarily agree with that statement. In Joe’s case, however, I’m inclined to make an exception. “Thanks, man.”
He winks and grabs his bag from the counter. “Goodnight, principessa.”
“Night, Joe.”
Scrubbing like a lunatic, I’m so focused on the task at hand, I almost suffer a heart attack when I hear a loud bang come from the storage. Lindy left hours ago. I should be alone.
I decide not to check on the noise, because I really want to be done with the exhaust hood. Minutes fly by and nothing strange happens. Then an icy breeze flows over the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. What the hell? I don’t suffer from ghost-sickness, but I’ll be damned if I don’t recognize the supernatural when it touches me.
I step down from the ladder, scanning the kitchen. The pans on the hanging pot rack move. Clanging against each other, they create a spooky melody. “Who the hell is this?” Gotta admit, I’m a little freaked out.
“Manda,” a faint, barely audible voice whispers.
Hell, no. That can’t be—
“Manda, help me.”
“Alex?” I shout, horrified.
“Manda, please.” Definitely Alex’s voice.
I stumble backward. My hip knocks against the counter. Could Alex be—No, I’d know if something had happened to him. I’d feel it. But the nightmares.
A violent wind gusts through the kitchen, and when it touches my arm, I freeze like a deer in headlights. Whatever is here isn’t Alex’s ghost. I’m sure of it, because its touch left a mark of pure evil.
“Manda.” Alex’s voice thunders in my ears and another loud bang rings from the storage.
This ain’t no rat. I ignore the horror chewing on my guts and slowly walk toward the source of the noise. You can do this, I tell myself, opening the door.
Utter darkness stares back at me. I take another step, searching the wall for the light switch. A flesh-creeping howl echoes off the walls. Shit, what the—
I blink several times, but I still see it. The shadow of a gigantic dog manifests a couple of feet in front of me. Its eyes are a fiery red, and its shadowy teeth look like they could bite a head off without much effort.
My heart drops into my belly and a scream forms in the depth of my soul, but it never comes out. Run, the voice in my head orders. My fucking feet won’t move.
“Save me, Manda. You’re the only one who can.” Alex’s voice floats through the darkness, and I swear the dog smiles.
“Amanda?” A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump higher than I ever thought I could.
Ready to show off the round-house kick Jesse once taught me, I pivot and see DeLuca.
He stares at me as if I l
ost my marbles on the kitchen floor. “Wow, what’s with you?”
I’d answer, but I’m too busy scanning the room for the gigantic shadow dog.
“Hey,” he says calmly. “Is everything okay?”
Nothing is okay. Not only did I hear Alex begging me for help, I also saw a larger-than-life dog with fiery red eyes that seems to have disappeared into thin air.
DeLuca switches the light on and snaps his fingers in my face. “What the hell happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A ghost? Nah. More like a demon dog. Slowly regaining control, I ogle DeLuca. “What are you doing here?” My voice is laced with suspicion. I’d texted him earlier and canceled our sex date, so why the hell did he show up here?
He shrugs. “Thought I’d pick you up. You know, brighten your night with some mind-blowing Magic Bridge tricks.”
I’d laugh at him using his own nickname to describe what kind of dirty things he has up his sleeve, but I’m still too startled by what just happened.
“Amanda.” He cups my cheeks. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He sounds genuinely worried.
“Yeah,” I assure him, my gaze once again wandering to the spot where the creature stood seconds ago. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
He flashes me a mesmerizing smile. “Whatever you say, sugar.”
DeLuca stands behind me when I lock the diner. “You shouldn’t leave the front door open when you’re alone. Any scumbag could just walk in and mug you.”
Something tells me getting mugged is the least of my worries.
Chapter 8
Two weeks later.
It’s Saturday morning, aka my only day off. I could have slept in, finished my essay on Freud, or spent a lazy day on the couch reading a Stephen King book. Due to temporary mental incapacity, I let Bonnie drag me to the Victoria Secret’s store in Soho instead. She didn’t leave me much of a choice when she barged into my room and threw me out of my warm bed. It’s not why I came along though. The second I laid eyes on her, I knew something was wrong. Saying she looked like hell wouldn’t have done her someone-road-killed-my-puppy-and-left-it-to-die expression justice. I didn’t have the heart to brush her off.
“This one’s nice,” I say, holding up a peach lace bra with a matching thong.
Bonnie hardly looks at it. “It’s kinda girly.”
We’ve been roaming the store for hours—push-up, full coverage, demi, strapless—we’ve checked them all out. Somehow Bonnie doesn’t like anything. Scary. Following her to the lounging bottoms, I seize hold of her arm. “All right.” I spin her around. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She shies away from making eye contact.
I might not have had any nightmares lately, but ever since I heard Alex’s voice in the diner and saw that monstrous dog, I’m on edge. Meaning: I’m not in the mood to beat around the bush. I cross my arms and tilt my head. “Cut the crap and tell me what this shopping spree is really about.”
She bites her nails. “It’s nothing.” She glances at a kissing couple near the sports bras. “Really.” Who is she trying to convince, me or herself?
I point to the shadows under her eyes. “Then why the fuck do you look like you’ve been up all night crying?” Her honey-colored skin may mask some of the red spots accompanying nasty tears, but there’s no mistaking the swollen face and puffy eyes.
She pulls the corners of her mouth down and gives me a dirty look. “I didn’t cry,” she insists. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
Ticked off, I pull a face. “Bonnie Marie Lacroix. You’ve got about two seconds to tell me what the hell is going on with you, or so help me God, I will try that truth spell on you. A word of advice? I wrote it when I was seven. Chances are it goes horribly wrong, and you’ll be damned to speak the truth for all eternity.”
Her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t—”
“Try me.”
When she realizes how serious I am, her shoulders sink. “It’s Jason.” She fiddles with the ribbons of her alabaster boho blouse. “He…he kinda fell for me.” Most chicks would be overwhelmed with joy, but for Bonnie the three magic words equal the end of the world.
“Did you break up with him?” Considering her track record, I already know the answer.
She nods sheepishly. “Yesterday.”
The girl doesn’t need a new bra. She needs a new lover. Preferably one who’ll never use those diabolic words. I might not be able to provide her with said guy, but I can give her the next best thing. I throw an arm around her shoulders. “Breakfast at Landmark?”
She shrugs.
“C’mon,” I say, pulling her toward the exit. “I’m buying.”
She bats her thick irresistible lashes at me. “Dessert, too?”
I smile at her reassuringly. “All you can eat, baby girl.” Bearing in mind how much Bonnie can eat, I probably shouldn’t have said that, but I’d rather be broke than see her so unhappy.
****
New York Saturdays aren’t necessarily crazier than any other day. The city is always crawling with selfie-addicted tourists and busy residents. Yet it took us half an hour to get to Little Italy—I blame Bonnie’s snail-walk—and another twenty minutes to get a table at Landmark. No need to say it was way past breakfast time when we finally sat down. Fortunately—for Bonnie, not my bank account—Landmark also offers yummy lunch.
“You’re killing the poor thing again,” I groan, watching her poke her chicken souvlaki with the fork.
Keeping her eyes on the meat, she sighs heavily. “Isn’t that what I do best?”
I shove a forkful of tasty falafel in my mouth. “Assaulting dead meat?”
She puts her cutlery down and frowns. “Killing things.”
I’m used to Bonnie’s melodramatic-drama-queen streak, but I’ve never seen her so disturbed over a breakup. “Let me get this straight, B.” I take a sip of my icy soda. “You broke up with the poor bastard because he confessed he’s irrevocably in love with you, and now you’re miserable because you regret breaking up with him?”
She almost chokes on an olive. “I don’t regret a thing, and that’s the problem.”
Either I’m too tired to understand Bonnie-language, or she’s talking crazy. “Explain,” I order, nibbling on my fries.
She slams her head against the table, barely missing the plate. “There’s something wrong with me, Amanda.” She looks up, and her eyes are glazed. “Every time a guy professes his love for me, my tummy aches and all I want to do is run. As fast and as far away as possible.”
I wipe my mouth on a napkin and knit my brows. “You’re totally overreacting. Jason wasn’t exactly boyfriend material.” He isn’t even screw material.
Bonnie’s leg rocks against the table, a clear sign the conversation makes her uncomfortable. “I’m an enchanting, nineteen-year-old chick who’s never been in love.” She’s frustrated and angry. “Gosh, maybe I should see a shrink or join Chelsea and become a nun.”
Bonnie as a nun? Hilarious. She’d probably spend most of the day in the confessional, committing sins with a priest instead of confessing them. Swallowing the hysterical laughter climbing up my throat, I lock my gaze on hers. “Cut it out, B. There’s nothing wrong with you. Period.” She gives me a killer look, but I don’t care. “Love is an illusion. An invention of the brain to save humanity from extinction.” I shrug. “Totally overrated if you ask me.”
A muscle thrums along her jaw. “Says the girl who took a bullet for a hunter?”
Home run. Scared I might lose it if we go down this road, I opt for a quick topic change. “By the way, where the hell is the Nun? Haven’t seen her in days.” For all I care, Chelsea could have been deported to Guantanamo Bay, but talking about her is better than broaching the Alex topic.
Bonnie gives me her best how-the-hell-do-you-not-know look. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Haven’t I heard what?”
A spark ignites in her glazed eyes. Seems like good old gossip can cure self-doubt and insec
urity in a heartbeat. “One of her friends—what was her name again?” She pushes an index finger against her temple. “Jackie? Jenny? Julianne?”
“Jules?”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s the one.”
My interest piques. “What about her?”
Bonnie rests her elbows on each side of her plate and leans in. “She’s been missing for a couple of days.”
My eyes widen. “What? How? I mean, why?” I can’t form a coherent sentence. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like I care about the girl.
Bonnie leans back. “There are several theories. They range from urban legend material to rational explanation. Which one would you like to hear?”
“How about the official one?” I grumble, feeling a bit twitchy all of a sudden.
Bonnie picks her fork up and shoves a piece of chicken in her mouth. “Apparently, her best friend…damn, I’m so fucking bad with names.”
“Ava?” I offer.
She waves her fork in the air. “Yeah, so that Ava chick found a letter in Jules’s room. Said something like she needs a time-out and some distance from some dude she fell for.”
That would be DeLuca.
“The dean and the police took the note as indication there was no foul play.” Bonnie pauses. “Happens all the time, you know. College kids running away from pressure or a broken heart.”
Plenty of people run away from their problems. The thing is, Jules doesn’t strike me as one of them. She might be a bit heartbroken over DeLuca, but that’s hardly enough to provoke a prissy girl like her to throw away her future. “All right,” I grumble. “What’s the R-rated version?”
Bonnie averts her gaze. “Can’t believe you haven’t heard,” she mutters under her breath. “The whole campus is talking about it.”
“’Bout what, B?” I’m certain I don’t want to hear it. I probably should, though.
“Remember what you said to the Nun and her friends when they came to the diner?” she asks.
“I said a lot of things, B. Gotta be more specific.” I’d told Bonnie all about that day two weeks ago. Okay, I’d told her everything that happened before the creepy monster-dog incident.
She bites her lip. “The part where you threatened them.”
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