Want You

by Frederick, Jen

"Tell him if he hurts you, I'll come and kick his ass."

  "I will."

  We hug for a few more moments until Audie pushes me away from her. "Go on," she says through her tears. "Or you're going to hit Springfield right during rush hour."

  "I love you," I tell her. "I'll text you when I arrive home."

  I give her a cheery wave, hop into my car, drive five miles and then pull over to let the tears come.

  I couldn't let anyone know, but I'm scared. I'm scared of leaving Boone, which has been my safe place for four years. I'm scared of the rejection I might face from Leka. I'm scared of my future, but I couldn't stay in Boone forever.

  My future is with Leka. I just have to convince him of that.

  I pull out my phone and send him a message.

  I'm coming home.

  I wipe my tears, put my car in gear, and head south.

  * * *

  Worn out and hungry, I pull up in front of the apartment building around three. An unfamiliar doorman comes over and peers through my passenger window, gesturing for me to open it.

  I push the button and once his face is clear of the glass, he says, "You can't park here. This is a private residence."

  "I know. I live here with Leka Moore. I'm his…" I trail off, not sure of what to call myself. I don't want to say sister because when the doorman sees us holding hands or kissing, I don't want him to call the cops. And I will be holding Leka's hand and kissing him in public. That's what couples do. But we're not a couple yet, so I can't exactly call myself his girlfriend. "I live here with Leka," I finally say.

  "Mr. Moore lives alone," the doorman responds. "Move along or I'll call the police."

  "You're going to what?" I sputter. "I'm serious. Here, look at my driver's license." I reach over and fumble for my purse.

  The man barely looks at my license before handing it back. "Where's your key?"

  "My key?"

  "Yeah, your key. If you live here, you have a key."

  I stare at him blankly because I do not have a key. Four years ago, I woke up to a frantic Leka who hustled me from my bed to the car. He'd packed my stuff and it didn't include a key to the apartment. Mrs. M has a key, though. She let herself in and out of the apartment when she came to sit with me after school and before Leka would get home.

  "Mrs. M knows me. Call her."

  "I don't know any Mrs. M. I'm sorry, miss. You need to leave." He steps back onto the curb and makes a show of pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Is he really going to call the police on me?

  I gape in disbelief until the sound of a siren spurs me into motion. Fine, I think as I jam the gear stick to drive. I'll go, but you're going to look damn stupid when I waltz in here tonight with Leka.

  I have no choice but to go to Marjory's. It's probably where I should've gone in the first place, but I kind of hate that place ever since I saw Gerry get his throat sliced there. Not to mention that Marjory's is a symbol of all that keeps Leka and me apart. He carted me up to the Boone School for Girls and left me there because whatever he did for the people at Marjory's was too dangerous for me to be near.

  And now I'm rolling up in my ten-year-old Mercedes, the car that Leka abandoned with me in Vermont. Leka will probably have it repossessed and crushed when he finds out I've come to Marjory's, but it's the afternoon. Going to a restaurant seems safer than sitting like a stalker outside the apartment where I’m fairly positive the doorman is itching to arrest me. I know Leka wouldn't approve of me cooling my heels in the park until he got done doing whatever it is he was doing.

  And, frankly, this is his fault. He should've answered the text I sent nine hours ago. By some miracle, I find on-street parking a block away from Marjory's. I throw on my puffy jacket, stick my phone in my wallet and head down the street for the restaurant.

  There's a tall, slender boy wearing a green apron under a wool coat at the front door of Marjory's. He gives me a once-over, eyes clocking the red goose label on the sleeve and the Dior Leka sent me a month ago, and decides I'm not some random tourist looking to use the bathroom. He pushes the door open.

  I give him a weary smile in return and thank him for holding the door. Inside, I blink a few times until my eyes adjust to the light. A figure halfway across the room moves in my direction, but it's not until she's standing in front of me that I recognize Mary Shaughnessy. The last time I saw her, she had just finished slicing a friend's neck open, and while it's only been a few years, her face is wearing at least a decade's worth of time. Is that what killing a person does to you?

  "Hey Mary," I say, wondering if she recognizes me. I'm different, too. I’ve lost a bit of my baby fat in my cheeks. I’m an inch taller. She still towers over me since I'm wearing tennis shoes and she's got on six-inch red-bottomed platforms.

  "Why if it isn't young Elizabeth. Although, what does Leka call you? Bitsy, right? Only you're not so young anymore, are you?" Like the boy in the front, Mary inspects me from head to toe, but she's not evaluating whether I'm here to spend money. She's looking at me as if I'm a…threat? Leka has never liked her. I wonder if that's changed.

  "Where have you been all these years?" she asks.

  "School." I force a smile on my face and hide the unease that’s tickling the back of my neck. Mary's the type to take advantage of every weakness, but most especially fear.

  "You didn't say where."

  "No." If she doesn’t know, it means she's not supposed to. I don't volunteer any new information. I just keep smiling. She knows why I'm here. There's only one person I'd be waiting to see.

  "Leka's not here," she says.

  "I know," I lie.

  "He might be a while, but that's good for us." She smiles back and threads an arm around my stiff limb. "We have a lot to catch up on. I'll introduce you around. The nice young man out front is Mason. Isn't he delicious? He started working a year ago for us. I haven't had a taste of him, but the girls in the stable say that he's very good in bed. You should try him out." She gives Mason, who is thankfully out of earshot, a little wave. Innocently, he returns it. Mary swings me around, past the few tables filled with patrons and into the back.

  A lanky guy with an army buzz cut wearing a white chef's coat is bent over a pot. "This is Justin. He replaced Gerry. You remember Gerry, don't you, Bitsy?"

  Despite the down coat that promised to keep me warm in thirty below temps, I'm growing chilled. "It's Liz," I inform Mary. "Everyone calls me Liz." No one is allowed to call me Bitsy. That's Leka's name for me.

  "Is that right? All grown up and now you're calling the shots?" She laughs and pinches my cheek way too hard to be cute. "Anyway, Bitsy, like I said, this is Justin. Justin, honey, come over here and meet Leka's little girl. He raised her since she was a baby and she's just come home from boarding school."

  Justin jerks back in surprise. This is obviously the first he's ever heard of Leka having a kid. Don't let that bother you, I counsel myself. This is Leka's way. He never wanted me to be around his work.

  I use the opportunity to get out from under Mary's arm and move forward to offer my hand to Justin. "Call me Liz, and I'm not Leka's child. Obviously, I'm too old for that. We grew up together."

  The man's brows crash together in obvious confusion, not sure who to believe. "Uh, okay. Nice to meet you, uh, Liz."

  Score one for Elizabeth Moore. I make a point of not waiting for Mary to take charge again and introduce myself to the rest of the kitchen crew. The tatted sous chef with the shock of red spiked hair is Brady. He's been here for three years. The two line cooks, both of them short and round and looking a little like Porky Pig, tell me their names are Otto and Jannik. Everyone seems friendly.

  Otto makes me a spiced cider and Brady fires up a pan to make me chicken alfredo. "Best you e'er had," he declares.

  Mary stands off to the side, arms folded under her envious rack, carefully watching every move. Does she think I'm going to announce to everyone that she murdered the last chef? I'm not that naïve. I never was.

/>   Jannik grabs me a stool and helps me take my jacket off.

  "Never knew Leka had family," the man says as he toddles over to the back to hang the coat on one of the empty hooks that line the rear wall. “You don’t look much alike.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Mary agrees.

  The kitchen looks the same even if the people are different. There are two stainless steel tables. One is speckled with floor. A plastic container full of dough sits to the side. Along the front wall are the cooktops—one large gas-fueled one and one long flat metal surface. Underneath are the ovens. It smells good back here—warm and inviting.

  "Priest never does talk much about anything. Hell, the guy could have his own stable and none of us would know," Otto replies and then shoots a guilty look in my direction as if I might tell Leka the men mentioned bad things in my presence. It makes one wonder what Leka does that inspires such a reaction. Of course, I never ponder this in Leka’s presence because I know it would bother him.

  "Shut up and shred those carrots," Justin orders.

  The line cooks fall silent as Chef Justin turns up the music to, I suppose, mask the dirty talk the two are exchanging. Priest? Is that his nickname now? Better than Monkey, although, I’ve never heard anyone call him that.

  This nickname implies a certain…celibate lifestyle which means his practice of staying away from women still exists. Delighted, I hunch over the cider, breathe in the spicy cinnamon and nutmeg scent, and hide my smile. This is all going well. Leka’s not had any serious relationship while I've been gone. No one seems particularly dangerous—except for the viper in the corner. But I know what she's capable of and all I need to do is keep an eye on her.

  The long day catches up with me and I blink sleepily over the mug. Driving can really wear a person out. It'd be nice if Leka could show up soon and take me home. I could shower off the grime of the drive and then sleep in my bed—alone, sadly, but I'll convince Leka to join me soon enough.

  The back door opens and I jolt upright only to slump again when I see Beefer, followed by three more men I don't recognize. There's been a lot of turnover in the last four years.

  "Mother Mary, is that you, Liz?" Beefer booms. "I haven't seen you since you were yay high." He gestures at his waist.

  I climb off the stool. "I was at least to your chest.”

  "Nah. You weren't more than a babe when Leka took off with you. Come here and let me take a look at you."

  Obediently, I walk over.

  "You're looking good. Real good. All grown up and everything. Leka know you're here?"

  Just by the way Beefer says it, I feel like he knows that Leka's in the dark and I'm a giant surprise. Guilt spirals up my spine. I should’ve called Leka again, but I’d been mad that he hadn’t texted me back. My pettiness better not hurt Leka. I need to do better.

  "It's been in the works for a while," I hedge. "I graduated early."

  “I didn’t know that was a thing. Congratulations. You got a job or you going to college? What’s your plan?”

  It feels like he's fishing. "I've got a deferred placement," I reply.

  The three men I don't know leave Beefer's side to come around and crowd behind me. I move forward to avoid them but find Beefer unmoving in front of me. There's a strange glint in his eye that sends a wisp of unease down my spine. Unlike the kitchen crew, these men radiate menace. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my fight or flight response is being triggered. I rise on the balls of my feet when the back door opens again.

  Beefer twists to see who it is.

  "Bitsy." It's Leka and he's not happy, but…he also doesn't seem surprised. "What are you doing here?"

  "Surprise." I clasp my hands together and smile. "I'm done with school."

  "But you, we just…" He trails off as he realizes that everyone in the room is watching us raptly.

  Please, please, please, I plead silently. Don't send me away. Not in front of everyone here.

  A thousand emotions flicker through his eyes, but in the end, he holds out his hand.

  I grab my coat from the hook on the wall, yell my thanks over my shoulder and run to Leka. He folds one arm around my shoulders, keeping his right arm free. He's always done this, and I've finally realized why. It's so he can keep his gun arm free. I let him go immediately and move to the side.

  "I'm parked out front. A block down the street," I say quietly.

  "I know," he murmurs. He dips his head toward Beefer. "I'm gonna settle Bit at home. I'll text when I’m available." He doesn't wait for a response. He steers me past three bulky men who came in behind Beefer.

  Leka gives them all a silent nod but doesn't introduce us. Instead, he hurries me through the front of the restaurant and out the door. On the sidewalk, just out of earshot of the young man who held the door open for me when I arrived, Leka asks “How long have you been planning this?”

  I lift my chin. “Since the day you left me.”

  25

  Leka

  Sheer panic. That’s what’s in my veins. Dread started replacing my blood a couple of hours ago when I pulled out my phone and saw that the green dot wasn't in Vermont anymore. Instead, it was on the outskirts of the city. Beefer asked me to drive upstate about four hours away to retrieve a lost shipment. I found it right away, but I had to deal with a couple stupid people who thought that they could steal from Cesaro. That took time and I didn't get an opportunity to look at my phone until I was on my way home. By the time I pulled into town, Bitsy's car was parked a block away from the restaurant.

  I broke a dozen traffic laws to get to the restaurant. Fear rode me hard. Bitsy was at Marjory’s. People saw her. People talked to her. I reach inside my jacket and rub the metal butt of my gun for reassurance. I need to get her back to Vermont, immediately.

  “Did you get kicked out?” It’s the only reason she would have come home. While I didn’t go to school like she did, after nearly four years of paying tuition, I know that she’s got a semester left.

  I had this all planned out. Vermont and then a summer in Europe or some fancy shit like that. In the fall, she'd go to college south or west. I sent her a bunch of admissions brochures I’d picked up from a life coach who was trying to move his mother’s jewelry to cover funds he’d embezzled from his firm. Thinking back, she never told me which one she was interested in. Or whether she even applied.

  “No. I graduated.”

  “You what?" I almost trip on the sidewalk in surprise. "How? You got a semester left.”

  “I graduated early. Aren’t you proud of me?” She opens her arms wide. Snow's starting to fall. It catches on her curls, twinkling like diamonds against a dark velvet backdrop. A few tendrils of her hair rest at the base of her neck. Her zipper is undone and above the collar of her plain striped shirt, I can see the delicate rise of her collarbone, the tender hollow of her throat.

  I lose my breath as I take her in. I haven't seen her in four years and she's changed. Her round face has slimmed down. Her eyebrows are finer and her lashes longer. Her lips are plush and full—a look she comes by naturally. The puffy coat I had to stand in line to buy her is open, and underneath I can see how her leggings hug and mold to her figure. How the long-sleeve shirt hugs her upper curves. Curves I've spent years trying to forget.

  Seeing her for the first time in all these years is a shock. It's a kick in the gut. It's a burn lower.

  "Yeah, I'm proud of you," I manage to get out past the rock in my throat and my thickening tongue.

  Everything’s changed. She’s older and smarter. I’m older and weaker. I wish I could blink and transform her into the little elementary girl I used to know, the one that didn't come up much farther than my hip, the one that didn't make me want things no good man should want.

  I didn’t plan for this, and I don’t know what to do.

  She starts shivering and pulls her jacket close. "It’s cold out."

  I give myself a mental slap. She's standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside
Marjory's in the middle of winter while I wrestle with my guilty conscience. I can do that shit job somewhere warmer.

  “Why didn’t you text me?”

  “I did. Like ten hours ago. Or is it eleven?” I start to check my phone when a huge yawn cracks across her face. "I’m losing track of time.”

  Reluctantly, I replace my phone in the inside pocket of my leather coat. "Let's go."

  She reaches for me, tucking her arm into the crook of my elbow and resting her tired head against my arm. I swallow hard and try not to let the brief contact turn me to ash, but my heart's pounding wildly and my body's feeling abnormally hot.

  We walk to the car that's packed to the gills. A surge of happiness courses through me at the idea of having Bitsy home. I remind myself that this is temporary. As soon as possible, she has to leave.

  "What'd you do with the college brochures?" I ask as I settle into the driver’s seat.

  "They're somewhere back there." She waves a casual hand over her shoulder. "I've got a lot of time to go over them now."

  Okay. So she's not abandoned the idea of college. She probably graduated early to attend college earlier. She's always been smart like that. I was getting worried over nothing. She hasn’t come home to stay. She’s come home to pass a few days until she moves on to her next adventure—somewhere far away from Marjory’s and the city…and me.

  That thought leaves a bitter residue in my mouth. I swallow again, but it doesn't go away. We don't speak again until we arrive at the apartment. Bitsy is tired and I’m a mess of contradictions. If I open my mouth, I will be telling her to leave one second and begging her to stay the next.

  As I pull next to the curb, Terry, the doorman, rushes over to open the car door.

  When Bitsy steps out of the car, she gives him an uncharacteristically curt nod. "I told you I lived here."

  Terry flushes all the way to his dyed roots. A frown creases my brow. Am I going to have to teach my doorman a painful lesson?

  "What happened?" I demand.