“Booth or regular seating?” she says again while dragging her eyes down my body in the same manner I just did hers. “Even if you’re eating alone, I’d still suggest the booth. It’ll save the clientele getting depressed when they see you eating by yourself on Thanksgiving weekend.”
Ouch.
“I’m not here to eat.”
She cocks a faultless brow. “Then why are you here? This is a restaurant.”
Her pitied glare doubles my annoyance. “I’m aware it’s a restaurant. I can read.” Unlike you. “I’m here for an interview.” I dig out the piece of paper I jotted my interview details on this morning before thrusting it the blonde’s way. “I’m supposed to ask for Dimitri.”
“You’re here for Dimitri?” When I nod, her humored gaze extends to her collagen-filled lips. “Trust me, honey, excluding your hair coloring, you’re not his type. One sideways glance, and he’ll kick you to the curb. Save the bruise, leave now.” She ushers me away from her podium with a wave of her hand like I’m worthless.
I’m not backing down this time. It’s been a hard and long twelve months for me, and this blonde is about to be hit with the brunt of my annoyance. “I don’t care if I’m not Dimitri’s type.” I air quote my last word an inch from her face, issuing her the same snap-snap dismissal her nails did when she waved me off. “I’m here to be interviewed for a position on his team, so I’m not leaving until Dimitri himself tells me to leave.”
I fold my arms in front of my chest to hide the shake of my hands when the blonde says, “Okay.” I hadn’t expected her to give in so easily. “Dimitri’s office is at the back of the restaurant. You need to go down the side alley and take the third door on the left.”
“Side alley, third door on the left?” I repeat like I’m suddenly stupid.
When she purses her lips with an agreeing nod, I say, “Okay. Thank you.”
I won’t lie, I strut like Catwoman under Batman’s watch while following the restaurant hostess’s directions. I’ll never be picked as the demurest woman in a room, but for how many times my ass has been kicked the past year, I’m taking tonight’s triumph as a win. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll feed off the adrenaline of my victory for weeks to come.
The quickest flashback of a pair of golden-brown eyes flashes before my eyes when I’m partway down the dark alleyway. The food scraps on the ground make it obvious the restaurant receives most of its deliveries here, but because of the late hour and the early closure of businesses due to Thanksgiving, it seems shadier and more obsolete.
“Third door on the right,” I mumble to myself when I stop in front of one that has ‘Distribution’ etched on the door.
Believing there will be a less-shady entrance past the graffiti-coated door, I push it open with only the slightest creak. The décor isn’t any more inviting on the inside. There’s nothing but scary shadows dancing across the faces of four middle-aged men.
The scene grows more confronting when I notice who their attention is fixed on. They’re honing in on a smaller, more timid-looking man huddled against an outer wall. His face is bleeding, and his hands are held out in front of himself in a non-defensive manner. He’s clearly scared.
My throat dries when a lone soldier breaks away from the pack of hungry wolves. He speaks to the frightened man in a heavy accent, his tone both demoralizing and angry. “The service you ordered was delivered as specified, so not only am I refusing your request for a refund, I’m anticipating a subsequent payment for your insolence.”
Even with my business diploma unfinished, I’m not so stupid to believe this is a distribution disagreement. I’ve heard rumors about a mob mentality in Hopeton, but I’ve previously brushed them off as hearsay. I can’t do that this time around. My potential employer is getting fleeced—fleeced of money that could possibly come from my thirty-five dollar an hour salary.
With my veins still hot with adrenaline from my clash with the restaurant hostess, I conjure up a ruse that will see both Mr. Petretti and me leave this room uninjured. I should be scared, but seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? The men I’m about to confront are pushing sixty, if not seventy. I survived being run over by a car, so I can most certainly handle a mobility scooter.
Confident I’ve got what it takes to divert disaster, I blurt out, “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here at any moment.” I didn’t call anyone. My cell battery died 1.8 miles from Hopeton. I just want them as scared as Mr. Petretti. “If you don’t want to be arrested, I suggest you leave right now.”
My gall takes a step back when the man in the center of the group pulls a large black gun out of the back of his pants. I was prepared to face a handful of bruises from the whack of a walking cane, not a maiming bullet from a semi-automatic weapon. “Or perhaps I’ll just take care of business now instead of later.”
The minute snippet of air in my lungs races out with a scream when he cocks back the hammer on his gun before he squeezes the trigger. He doesn’t just gun down the man he was in the process of shaking down. He blows off his entire face.
Certain I’m next on the maniac’s hit list, I mumble out, “Never mind,” before pivoting on my heels and darting away.
I make it three steps before a bullet whizzing past my ear stops me in my tracks. “The next one I’ll aim at your head.” Confident he has me scared enough I will do anything he asks, the lone soldier requests that I spin around. “I want to see your pretty face one final time before I blow it away.”
After forcefully swallowing the bile racing up my throat, I do as requested. My knees weaken halfway around. The elderly gentlemen circling the now-faceless man aren’t the only men in the room. There are another four in the far corner of the dark space. They’re all wearing black and have guns much larger and more capable of hindering facial recognition in their hands.
They appear bored until the only man seated rises to his feet. Unlike his mean-looking counterparts, he starts his assessment of my body from my snap-frozen toes to my whitened face. He takes his time, seemingly storing every little detail for future use.
I wonder if he does that to all his victims, or am I special in some sick, twisted way?
My hand unintentionally moves to flatten my frizzed hair when the stranger’s narrowed gaze shifts from my eyes to my hair. It’s longer than I normally wear it, and back to its natural red color. Waking up in a hospital room cuffed to a bed changed me. I’m not as straight as an arrow, but I’m most certainly trying to improve myself.
Being ‘me’ was the very first step.
I drop my hand like it’s a bomb when the dark-haired man pushes off his feet to cross the room. He has an arrogant walk full of cockiness and self-assuredness. It matches his persona, which is almost as suffocating as my lungs’ inability to suck in air when he stops to stand in front of me.
Goosebumps rise across my skin when he raises his hand to my face. I’m anticipating for him to wipe away the blobs of wetness rolling down my cheeks, so you can imagine my shock when he merely brushes away the bangs I had cut to cover a scar no amount of concealer can hide.