by Nikki Chase
I have to thank Alejandra. If it wasn’t for her, Alice wouldn’t have come to see me. I told her to give Alice anything she needs, so she must’ve known some groceries wouldn’t have been a problem. But I guess she decided that we needed to talk, and she was right, like she often is.
I was getting sick of Ana’s cooking. Don’t get me wrong, she’s decent, but she’s no Alice.
Alice has a keen sense of taste and some kind of obsession with perfection. It’s like an addiction to her, the need to control every single aspect of her creation. We’re kind of alike in that way.
Every time I visited The Local, I could tell she had tweaked her cooking according to my weekly feedback. Even if she acted unaffected or insulted or angry, I knew soon she’d be chasing after that perfection again, and she’d come up with something better next time.
Honestly, that dogged pursuit of perfection was the first thing that jumped out at me when I first laid my eyes on her.
In my mind, I thought, this was a woman who’d be going places; she’d spend all her energy on her craft and come up with something amazing. And it was that same obsessive quality in her that drew me to food, as well. I learned to love what she loves.
I was obsessed with her. Raphael was sick of hearing me talk about her, but there was no escape for him because we were cell mates for years.
Raphael thought I was crazy for tracking Alice down as soon as I got released, but my obsession left me with no other choice. Let me put it this way: I couldn’t not search for her.
The way I found her wasn’t exactly legal either, which could’ve gotten me into hot water if my probation officer ever found out.
I don’t know, maybe Alice had a point. Maybe once I’ve committed a crime, I’m bound to do it again. Maybe once I’ve crossed a line, it blurs everything together and makes it harder to determine where to stop next time.
I definitely have a problem knowing when to stop. Alice could be right, the tracker may be overkill.
I swivel in my office chair to look out the window at my highly trained, heavily armed bodyguards. I spare no expense when it comes to security.
When Alice is involved, I’m even more cautious. She can’t defend herself, after all. And I was the one who got her into this mess in the first place, so I’m the one responsible for her safety. I take that responsibility seriously.
We’re not dealing with common robbers here. We’re dealing with torturers, murderers, people who treat their fellow humans worse than animals.
Again, it’s ironic.
If the police and the justice system hadn’t gotten involved in my life, I never would’ve had any contact with violence ever, except for a stupid backyard fight when I was a stupid teenager.
But I found myself in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and they caught me. I don’t think I even did anything particularly bad.
It all started when I became friends with Brian, who was a junkie. I wasn’t innocent either—I tried the stuff once or twice, but a big aspect of enjoying drugs is losing control over your own body and that’s just not something I’d ever really enjoy.
Anyway, one day Brian took me to see his dealer to buy more “supplies,” but we got there just in time to get caught in a shoot-out between the cops and the dealers’ guys. It was a drug bust gone bad.
I got lucky and only got sent to prison.
Brian died.
I watched him die right in front of me, his eyes confused and panicked, like he couldn’t fathom why his body was falling to the ground. I was frozen in place, just staring at him, and I couldn’t flee the scene in time.
I learned, a long time ago, that one wrong move could risk everything, so I don’t take chances when it comes to safety and security.
Of course, considering my line of work now, that’s kind of a ridiculous thing to say. I face danger all the time, after all. I just surround myself with as much security as it takes to minimize my risk. There’s no other choice now.
Like I said, if it wasn’t for prison, I would’ve become an upstanding member of society, who has absolutely nothing to do with the criminal elements. Now it seems like contact with those criminal elements makes up the biggest part of my life.
My stomach grumbles. I can’t wait to have a meal with Alice again.
Besides the food, I also look forward to watching her try to convince herself that she doesn’t want me. I can see the truth in her eyes, her lips, her thighs, her long legs—every single part of her body betrays her true desires.
She can fight this all she wants, but I know she’s going to end up spread-eagled on my bed anyway. That body was made to be fucked by me.
17
Alice
This damn thing! If it weren’t expensive, I would’ve bashed it against the hard stone counter until its metal guts fly out and get scattered all over the floor.
“So, you understand, right?” Alejandra asks, her pretty brown eyes flicking between my face and the screen.
She looks concerned. Maybe she knows I want to destroy this tablet. Or maybe she feels bad for me, now that she discovers that I’m a moron who can’t even use a device that toddlers play with these days.
“Yeah.” My answer sounds unconvincing even to myself. “I enter the item I want to order by clicking here, and then the quantity here, and…” My voice trails off as I watch the screen freeze. I sigh. “Is it freezing on me now?”
“No,” Alejandra says in frustration. “You just never hit the ‘Submit Order’ button.”
I search all over the screen until I finally find the little red rectangular button at the bottom right corner of the tablet screen. “Oh, right. That button,” I say.
“Yes. God, you’re hopeless.” Alejandra throws her hands in the air. She gestures at Ana and says, “You’re just like this one when she first got here. Completely clueless.”
Ana grins as she watches Alejandra losing her cool.
“Well, I’m glad it’s not just me,” I say, meeting Ana’s gaze and grinning back at her.
I don’t often meet my fellow Luddites. People look down on us, but really, it’s not that we can’t use new technology. We just don’t see the point. Why do I have to learn a new software when I can just scribble the shopping list onto a piece of paper?
“Don’t look so smug,” Alejandra says. “She doesn’t speak much English, which is the only language the software supports. It should be a lot easier for you.”
“You know what?” I look at Alejandra. “I don’t care. Technology is just not my thing, and I’m okay with that. It always seems to bother the people around me, though.”
“Okay, I’ll consider you taught. I just can’t anymore,” she says as she raises both her hands up in defeat.
I laugh. I’m not actually mad. I really am used to this. Kitchen banter can sometimes get pretty mean, and I’ve developed a thick skin to adapt.
I know Alejandra doesn’t mean to insult me; she’s just frustrated. Just like many other people who have tried to teach me various cooking softwares over the years.
If anything, this whole scene in the kitchen makes me happy. For a moment, I forget about Seth, or about the fact that I’m being held against my will here. All that matters is the kitchen, the people in it, and the food we’re making.
This is nice. This feels familiar. It comforts me. After just one week, I can’t stay away from the kitchen anymore. I guess my cooking strike hurt me more than it did Seth.
Ana says something in Spanish to Alejandra, making her nod and shrug as they both look at me.
“What is it?” I ask.
I’ve worked in several multicultural kitchens, and I’ve been shut out of conversations in various foreign languages.
Now, I don’t feel shy about just asking for a translation. Most of the time, they don’t realize how uncomfortable it is for the person who doesn’t understand the language.
Alejandra hesitates, then she says, “Ana says you also don’t have her horrible nightmares and…baggage.”
She smiles politely, like she’s uncomfortable with where the conversation is going, which only makes me want to find out more.
“The nightmares, they started long ago?” I ask Ana.
She nods. “Yes, years ago.”
“They’re just bad dreams,” Alejandra says with that same stiff smile on her pretty face. “So now that you know how to use the software, I’ll just leave it here in the kitchen and you can make your own orders every morning.”
“Okey-dokey,” I say.
“Great. Now, I have some other things to take care of, so I’ll leave you to it,” Alejandra says.
“Cool.” I give her a smile.
Of course Alejandra has other things to do. She’s always so busy. As she walks away, her four-inch heels click noisily against the marble floor, the sound echoing through the space. It occurs to me that she can never sneak up on anyone, wearing those ridiculous heels.
“Have you started the coffee, Ana?” I ask. We were in the middle of preparing breakfast when Alejandra came in with the tablet.
“I’ll do that now.” She grabs the container of coffee beans and opens it, letting the refreshing scent fill the kitchen.
“You don’t have nightmares every night, do you?” I ask as Ana scoops the coffee beans into the machine and turns it on.
I open the fridge, pretending to look inside, while I peer at her over the fridge door. There are so many things I don’t know, and Ana seems to be the person to ask, seeing as she doesn’t mind my questions as much as Seth or Alejandra.
The only barrier between us is the language, and I guess that’s why nobody’s worried about Ana saying too much to me. But she actually understands most of the things I say, judging by how well she follows my directions.
She uses simple words, but she has enough vocabulary for us to discuss ingredients and cooking directions. It remains to be seen if she’s fluent enough to talk about abstract, emotional stuff.
“No. Sorry, I was loud last night?”
“No, no. You didn’t make a sound last night. That’s why I asked.”
Ana grows quiet as she coaxes the coffee machine to life. I wonder what kind of a life she has led, to end up so young and so alone in a foreign country. She can’t be much older than twenty.
“What are your nightmares about, if you don’t mind me asking?” I grab a couple of bagels from the bread box on top of the counter and turn on the toaster oven.
I don’t usually like toasting bagels, but I’m also used to getting good, freshly baked bagels in the city. Here, where I’m reduced to getting grocery-store bagels, I have to improvise. Toasting is necessary to make these subpar bagels taste decent.
“Bad men chasing me,” Ana says. She’s done with the coffee machine now, and she leans back on the cabinet with her hands on the counter and her eyes looking far into the distance.
“Are these real men? Like, are they really from your past? You didn’t just dream them up?”
“No, I am not scared of fake men,” she says with a smile. “They are real. Real bad men.”
“Why are they bad? Did they do bad things to you?” I put the bagels I was slicing down on the cutting board and give Ana my full attention.
I feel like I’m prying, but Ana and I have spent some time together. Surely it’s okay to start talking about something personal? She could give me some clues about why I’m really here and help me solve some of the mysteries.
“Very bad,” Ana says, widening her eyes. “They hit me, and kick me.”
“God, I’m so sorry that happened to you, Ana.” I sidle closer to Ana and rub her arm.
“It’s okay. I’m okay now.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Ana looks down at her own feet. Softly, she says, “They kick my stomach and kill my baby.”
I pull Ana into a hug, unable to come up with words comforting enough to say out loud.
So they forced her to have sex, they forced her to get pregnant, and then they forced her body to abort the fetus? Jesus, who are these people who’d do all those things to such a sweet young girl?
“I also dream about dirty house. No floor. Dirty toilets,” she continues.
“Is that where you used to live, where the bad men kept you?”
“Yes,” she says softly.
“Where was this? In the U.S.?”
“Yes. California.”
I can’t imagine a house that fits that description to meet the building codes. If it has no floor, it sounds more like a shack than a house. And dirty toilets? I wonder if she means there’s no running water, because that would be vile.
“It’s okay,” Ana says as she pulls away from the hug. “I’m okay now. Only bad dreams.”
“Yeah, they’re only dreams now. You’re right.” I smile back at Ana, agreeing with her, even though in my mind I wonder if she’s truly free when her past still plagues her in the night.
I want to ask why she didn’t just run away, but that would be silly. She could ask me the same question.
She’s talking about violent men. They probably had tight security. They also don’t sound like the kind of people who’d just forgive her for trying to escape. It’s easy to imagine that they’d hit her or worse if she ever ran away and got caught.
“It’s not the same, Alice,” Ana says, her eyes staring straight at me with lucidity. We’re using simple words, but I feel like she really understands me, in this moment. She continues, “Not the same. The bad men and Seth. Different.”
“Yeah, I know Seth treats me well, but he’s still keeping me here against my will, Ana. There’s no excuse for that.” I go back to my cutting board.
“He protects you,” Ana says.
“Yes, so everyone tells me. But I don’t feel like I’m in any danger. In fact, Seth is about the only dangerous thing in my life right now.” I finish slicing the bagel into halves and place them inside the toaster oven.
“Because Seth protects you. Like he protects me. He saves me,” Ana says, her gaze fixed on my face.
“Are you saying, he’s the one who saved you from the bad men?”
“Yes,” she says.
I furrow my brows. Could I be completely wrong in my judgment of Seth’s character, or is Ana just another employee who’d do and say whatever Seth wants her to?
18
Alice
I bring out the bagels on two separate plates and place them on the long dining table, where Seth and I had that first omelette breakfast together.
It’s not just the menu that has changed since then. Everything has.
It’s crazy that I’m still basically spending my days doing the same things I used to do, and yet I feel completely different from how I used to feel. I can’t even believe it has only been a little over two weeks since I moved in.
Technically, Seth is still enjoying my professional services, even if I no longer consider myself his personal chef. Everything is still basically the same for him. It annoys me, but I can’t stand another day of complete and utter idleness.
This way, at least I have other things to think about, other than my captivity.
Like when I opened the fridge this morning, for example.
I saw the package of lox I had ordered last week, when I still thought this was my job. I also found some cream cheese in the fridge so when I saw the bagels, I knew what I was going to make.
Then I rummaged through the produce and found some red onions and tomatoes. It was perfect. Or almost perfect—I just couldn’t find any capers.
In that moment, my focus was on preparing food. I was in my element.
I love coming up with something on the spot with whatever is available; it forces me to be creative and there’s no telling what I’m going to end up with. It always feels like everything just falls into place when I get that spark of ideas.
Okay, so my focus wasn’t completely on the breakfast. I did pry into Ana’s life a little. I asked her some pretty intrusive questions.
She was nice enou
gh to try to answer everything with her limited English. But as soon as I started to ask for details, she couldn’t understand my questions, or she couldn’t think of the right words to convey what she wanted to say.
“You’re not wearing the uniform,” a deep voice says from the doorway, making me jump from the shock.
“I told you. I’m not your chef anymore,” I say as I put the mugs of coffee down on coasters. I don’t want to damage the grain on this beautiful wooden table. “And don’t surprise me like that. I almost spilled the coffee.”
“You’re going to wear the uniform tomorrow, or you won’t be allowed in the kitchen,” he says.
With defiance, I take a seat at the head of the table without waiting for him, making it clear I’m still going to do whatever I want. Just because I’m cooking for him doesn’t mean I’m happy with how things are.
Without acknowledging that anything is out of the ordinary, Seth pulls out the chair to the right of me, where I’ve placed his bagel and coffee. He picks up the mug with one hand and peers inside. He asks, “Black?”
“Of course.”
“I see you didn’t even bring out milk, creamer, or sugar.”
“Nope.” I take a bite of the bagel. It tastes good. Could be better, if I had capers and better bagels, but this is acceptable.
“How did you know I wouldn’t need them? I’ve never ordered coffee at The Local.”
“You are the coffee that you drink. And you’re black and bitter inside,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
Seth laughs, making lines appear around his eyes and mouth. His blue eyes look dazzling this morning, especially when the sun hits them at just the right angle.
To be honest, I gave him black coffee because it’s what I drink. It just so happens that he and I have similar tastes. It’s easy for me to come up with something he likes, because that usually turns out to be something that I like, as well.
