Beauty and the Wolf

by Bridget Essex

  Betty glances at me, her blue eyes as wild and wide as those of a rabbit caught in a hunter's snare.

  “Hey,” I say, crouching down beside her as she sits back down again, “it's okay. Everything's fine.”

  “No. It's not. He's going to find out,” she whispers, and there are tears shining at the corners of her eyes. “Bella, what if he presses charges? What if he calls the police because I can't pay? What if—”

  “He's not going to press charges,” I tell her with conviction, shoving my long brown hair over my shoulders. “It's only one meal, worth maybe...twenty bucks. If he wants to press charges, he's going to do it to me, not you. I promise, okay? Please don't worry.” I grit my teeth together, imploring her.

  And though my exterior projects careful calmness, I'm seething inside.

  I am so sick of dealing with this, with him. With his lack of compassion and empathy, his utter absence of humanity.

  Betty shouldn't have been let go in the first place, and if she hadn't been, she wouldn’t be in danger of losing her apartment now.

  I've had enough.

  Freddie rings the bell from the back; the orders are up, and I rise, turning, gathering up the plates from the kitchen and then setting them down in front of Betty and her kids. The kids dig into the food with gusto, but Betty doesn't even pick up her fork. Instead, she looks at me, her face pale.

  I offer her a resolute nod, and then I take a glass of water and a cup of black coffee over to Andrew. When I set them down in front of him, he flashes me a fierce, angry look, glancing up from his cell phone's screen. He doesn't speak, even though he looks displeased, and I treat the silence as a blessing.

  The last plate on my tray is for the Beast.

  She's folded her newspaper and set it down neatly in front of her place at the table. Her chair is pushed back, one ankle resting on her knee, her fingers steepled over her toned belly. She's gazing up at me, and her expression is so clear-eyed, so quizzical; when she cocks her head, I pause, stand still.

  My head is full of chaos: my job is on the line, and there's no clear path to explaining my way out of this. But the Beast leans forward a little, and she reaches up with hesitation, keeping her eyes on me as she lifts her hand...

  And then her fingers are curling gently around my wrist.

  God, her skin is warm. Hot, really. And soft. So soft. The sensation is just...all that is good and soothing and right.

  The moments before this one were hard and harsh and tense and terrible. But in this moment, this moment right here...my thoughts slow down.

  Everything slows down.

  It's odd, of course, for one of my diners to wrap her fingers around my wrist. In certain contexts, it might come across as an aggressive act, as if she's about to tell me off for bringing her food out late. But there is nothing—nothing—aggressive about the gentle way that she's touching me.

  Her head is still angled to the side, almost as if she's asking me with her body if this is okay. I'm surprised by her, so surprised by how hot and soft she is, and how welcome this contact feels. I remain perfectly still, afraid that if I move, I might startle her into removing her hand.

  And I don't want this moment, this peaceful, warm moment, to end.

  “Thank you,” she says then, and the words are so low that I almost miss them. I lean forward, bringing my face closer to hers so that I can hear her better, and the Beast tips her chin up, a small smile playing over her lips.

  “Thank you,” she repeats, and her eyes graze over my cheek and chin, down my neck, to the name tag pinned to my breast, over my shirt pocket. “...Bella.”

  “Oh. Sure. It's...it's my pleasure,” I stammer. The way she said my name... God. It was so damn sexy. Like a big cat's purr. I feel my knees melt as she blinks her golden-amber eyes at me. “Um...you have an advantage,” I force out, secretly patting myself on the back for forming a complete sentence. I'm not usually articulate around someone I find so attractive. But my mind is still running on autopilot, thank heavens, and I manage to ask her, “You've come in here every day for a month, and I'm ashamed to say that I still don't know your name.”

  Behind me, someone clears his throat, and the Beast abruptly lets go of my hand. I straighten, turning, glancing over my shoulder to see Andrew scowling at his table, coffee cup held in his fist.

  “That's Mel Grim,” barks Andrew, saying the name as if he's spitting out a swear word. “She's the one who bought the old Ambassador Hotel out from under me.”

  I stare in surprise at the Beast—Mel—as she crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her golden eyes.

  She's watching Andrew like someone might watch a particularly ugly bug: her brows raised, her mouth turning into another sly smile...but this one a little bit more wicked.

  “Andrew,” she growls, acknowledging him with a nod. She lifts her chin as her eyes flash. “It's...good to see you.” Her tone negates the truth of her words, and her full mouth hardens.

  “Hmm. You know, I'm still a little sore at you for beating my bid on that place.” Andrew pouts, like a sullen little boy, but his dark brown gaze seethes with adult rage.

  “So you're the person who bought the Ambassador?” I ask, belatedly, as I stare down at Mel with wide eyes. A month or two ago, Andrew threw a temper tantrum over the fact that someone had usurped his efforts to purchase the decrepit hotel building.

  She nods and sighs, and then she holds out her hand to me. I take it and shake it up and down—a little robotically—feeling her hot, smooth palm glide against mine.

  “I'm Mel Grim,” she introduces herself, lifting a brow, as if Andrew hadn’t spoken her name at all—basically ignoring the hell out of his existence. Which I love. “Most people call me Grim.”

  Andrew snorts, but Mel goes on breezily. “And, yes,” she says, inclining her head, “I bought the Ambassador. I’ve renamed it Grim Tower.”

  I chuckle before I can catch myself, and she gazes at me with a question in her eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly, and then I realize that I haven't let go of her hand. I drop it like it's hot. Which...it is. “It's just... Would anyone really want to stay in a hotel called 'Grim Tower'?” I realize halfway through the question that it might come across as insulting, and I smile at her weakly.

  “Yes, well, I'm counting on that.” Grim nods toward me, her mouth widening into a wolfish grin. “I don’t really want people to stay there.”

  Now I stare at her, mystified.

  “No one other than my family.” She lounges more comfortably against the back of her chair. “I bought the building so that my family could all live together. And they”—her lips twitch up at the corners—“don't care what the building is named.”

  “Your...family?” I blink.

  She nods slightly. “My siblings and my nephew. We need our space. And...we like to stick together.” Then she's reaching for her paper again, opening it up, as if she's done with the conversation.

  “You can clear this away now.” Andrew stands impatiently, dropping his empty coffee cup to the table with a clatter. I glance back at Betty, who still hasn't touched her food, and her kids, who are almost done with theirs.

  Andrew's leaving.

  My heart flips giddily.

  Everything's going to be okay, I realize, sagging with relief.

  I glance down at Grim, and she raises both of her brows, looking up at me over the edge of her paper with a softer smile. My heart flips again, but for an entirely different reason.

  “Chop, chop,” growls Andrew, breaking me from my Grim-induced reverie, and I nod, crossing over to the table and taking his glass. He brushes past me, full of brisk impatience, and aims for the men's restroom.

  Betty motions me over, and I start to stack up the kids' empty plates as I lean in to her.

  “Is he going now?” she whispers.

  I glance toward the restrooms. “Yeah, probably.” Patting her shoulder, I offer her an encouraging smile. “It's okay, Betty. No worries.”


  Her eyes are swimming with tears, but she nods; I know she's doing her best to stay calm.

  “And please try to eat.” I pat her shoulder again before taking the stack of plates toward the kitchen. Freddie's in there, frying up some eggs for the staff's lunch.

  Freddie is a big guy, and he's covered in tattoos. His bald head glistens with sweat as he flips the eggs in the frying pan and regards me with a frown. He’s a little more direct than me: “Is the royal douche gone?” he asks, almost conversationally.

  I shake my head, pressing a finger to my lips in warning. “Not yet.” I place the plates in the sink, and then I start to slice up an apple pie. Betty's kids love apple pie.

  But when I carry the plates of pie—a la mode—out to Betty's table, she's rising to leave, rounding up her kids. She glances at me furtively, and I nod in understanding. Then she's making her way toward the front door.

  And that's when Andrew comes out of the restroom.

  He’s wiping his hands on a paper towel, and he stops in mid-motion when he notices Betty's vacated table. He looks perplexed, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

  Oh, no, no, no...

  “Hey, Betty,” he calls out then, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

  He starts to smile.

  I kid you not: he looks exactly like the Grinch when he starts to smile...

  Shit.

  “What, no tip?” Andrew asks mildly.

  His grin is malicious now.

  He's out for blood.

  See, Andrew is the type of person who really, really, really holds grudges. Stupid, illogical grudges. He's almost gleeful about them.

  It offended him deeply that Betty was taking scraps of food home when she worked here, even though those scraps were destined for the trashcan, because he claimed to equate her act of desperation with theft. But the thing is, I don't think Andrew really cared about the food. I think he just leapt at the excuse to cause her pain. Betty's sweet, and that makes her a ridiculously easy target for pompous bullies like him.

  And he does look the spitting image of a schoolyard bully as he stands there, arms folded in front of him, his expression one of cruel satisfaction.

  “I told her that she doesn't need to tip me,” I start, my voice calm.

  He glares daggers at me. “You're letting her go without paying, aren't you, Bella?”

  I freeze.

  There are a thousand things I could say right now. I could argue and accuse and bluster. I could try to lie my way out of this predicament.

  But I'm tired. I'm tired of his sneers. I'm tired of him holding the fact that my family used to own this diner over my head. I work damn hard, and I was going to run this place when my dad passed it on to me—and, sure, it wasn't exactly my lifelong dream, but it was my path, you know? My legacy. I'd always known, since I was a child, that this was what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to feed good food to the people I cared about. It was going to be a simple life, a good life.

  And then...Dad got sick. And I stayed strong when I realized that we had to sell the diner to Andrew, who flattered my father and whispered into his ear like a snake.

  And when Dad did sell to him—for half of what the place is worth—he turned on us with so much vitriol that it was like a punch to the gut.

  I hate this man.

  I really, truly hate him.

  My hands are curling into fists as Andrew laughs at me, as Betty starts to cry quietly, holding onto her kids, bracing herself for the worst.

  No.

  I'm done with waiting for the worst. I'm done with working for this half-man, half-monster.

  Pam's wrong. There's only one beast in this room. And it's certainly not Mel, the woman who's been nothing but kind to me.

  “Yes,” I tell Andrew then, and I'm standing up straight as I stare him down.

  He's slime.

  And I am fed up with working for slime.

  “Betty was getting a free lunch, Andrew.” I spit out his name just as hatefully as he always spits out mine.

  And then all of my pent-up anger just sort of comes out.

  I...snap.

  “But, Andrew, she would have been able to pay for lunch if you hadn't been such an asshole and fired her in the first place. Oh, and in case you've forgotten, you fired her for taking garbage home to eat. Which, I'd like to remind you, she wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't reduced her wages.”

  Now that the words are pouring from my mouth, I find that it's difficult to stop them. “And now you're going to kick her out of her apartment? Can you possibly get lower than that? You fired her for no reason, and now you're going to evict a woman and her kids because she can't pay her rent because she doesn't have a job because of you!”

  Andrew's face shifts through an interesting range of colors, from white to pink to a deep, disturbing red. I half-expect to see smoke pour out of his ears.

  No one, no one speaks to Andrew like that.

  “You're fired,” he whispers in a low, deadly tone, and when I raise a brow as if to indicate that I hadn't heard him, he bellows the phrase into the relatively quiet space: “You're fired!” He's fuming, making angry, guttural sounds in his throat. “Do you think you can steal from me and get away with it? Do you think you're special because your family used to own this diner? You're a waitress, Bella, and there are a million other waitresses just like you in the world. You're nothing. You're worthless.”

  Worthless.

  I blink, and then I draw myself up to my full height.

  Why should I care what Andrew thinks of me?

  I don't.

  Adrenaline is making me as brave as hell.

  Staring Andrew down, I pull my apron off over my head, wadding up the well-worn fabric and throwing it to the floor. This gesture would have been a lot more dramatic if the ties of the apron hadn't entangled with my hands. But I don't even care, because I've finally thrown down my apron, just like I imagined doing a million times since Andrew first took ownership of my family's diner.

  There are so many things I could say right now; the possibilities are overwhelming. But I settle on this: “My family built this diner from the ground up.” My voice is strong, dangerous, the words loud in the pin-drop silence. I realize then that Freddie and Pam are standing in the kitchen doorway, staring with open mouths, and their presence gives me a little more courage, righteous anger bubbling through my veins. I curl my hands into fists, lean forward onto my toes. “And you came and bought it for a song from people who needed that money to survive. You used us. You took advantage of us.” I regard him with slitted eyes. “You're scum.”

  He shrugs, raking his fingers through his dark hair as if he's in a shampoo commercial, as if he hasn't a care in the world. “Call me whatever name you want, but it doesn't change the facts. You're a loser, Bella. You're the daughter of some washed-up guy who used to own a small-town diner.” He scoffs. “Get out of here.” And he's pointing at the doorway, where Betty and the kids are standing, watching, Betty's mouth drawn in a thin, hard line.

  She's doesn't look cowed anymore.

  She looks mad.

  I nod, grabbing my purse from beneath the counter and tossing the strap over my shoulder (probably more aggressively than necessary; my adrenaline is still pumping like crazy). I turn to glance back at Pam and Freddie, and I nod to them, too, my nostrils flaring.

  Pam's expression... Well, she looks a little sick, as if she's not quite sure which emotion to settle on, but her eyes are wide as she struggles to give me a soft smile.

  I turn, about to head out the door.

  But then I realize that I have one last thing to say.

  “You know what, Andrew? Fuck you.”

  The words are sharp, harsh; we stare at one another, Andrew and me.

  The thing is, I've imagined telling him “fuck you” for so long that, once I've actually said it...it just doesn't have the emotional power that it held in my daydreams.

  But it provokes a
brighter shade of scarlet from his face, and I guess I'll have to be satisfied with that.

  I start to leave, but Andrew picks up a glass of fake roses—a simple centerpiece from one of the tables—and he slams it to the floor. It doesn't break. I imagine he wanted it to explode into a thousand tiny shards, but instead, the makeshift vase rolls against the toes of my shoe with a soft thud.

  “Screw you,” he snarls, his eyes flickering with rage. “You lost the diner. It's all mine now. And that’s the only inheritance you’re going to get,” he says, indicating the plastic rose on the floor.

  I consider this for a moment, smiling faintly to myself. Then I scoop up the fake rose and twirl its plastic-encased wire stem between my fingers.

  My mother chose the roses for the diner before she passed; I remember her expounding about how “real” they looked. That was back in the eighties, when artificial flowers fooled no one, but these roses were as close as you could get to the real thing.

  She was proud of them. I watched her place each bloom in its squat little glass and then lean against my father, sighing with contentment.

  If this flower is my inheritance, the joke's on Andrew, because it's actually meaningful, something I'll cherish.

  With the fake rose in my hand, I match Andrew's fiery gaze with my cool one. “Goodbye,” I say with finality, as the adrenaline begins to seep out of my body.

  I just lost my job.

  I don't have any money.

  I am screwed.

  “Let's go,” I tell Betty, slinging an arm around her shoulders; kids in tow, we step out of the front door, the bell jingling merrily, and incongruously, behind us.

  “I'm so sorry, Bella,” Betty begins, taking short breaths. “I'm so sorry. If I hadn't—”

  “Honey, it had nothing to do with you,” I promise her.

  When we're several paces away from the diner and no longer within Andrew's sight, I turn and hold Betty out at arm's length, my hands wrapped tightly around her shoulders. I keep my gaze locked on hers. “Everything's okay,” I say.