But it’s an act, I know, because everyone is afraid of something. Everyone. Even the most courageous man in the world fears cowardice. Hell, even I have fears, but I’m not telling you what they are, so don’t even ask me.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, “but I bet I can guess.”
She arches an eyebrow. It looks a lot like a challenge.
“I’m guessing it was a man,” I say, “a man who swore he would save you from the world but one that ended up destroying your world instead.”
Her cheek twitches.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
Without responding, she shoves her stool back, away from the bar, and stands up. She pauses there, between us, looking me in the face again. “Sixty-six cents.”
“What?”
“You owe me sixty-six cents,” she says, matter-of-fact.
I turn around in my stool, watching as she walks away, leaving me with those words. Sixty-six cents. The corners of my lips twitch, amusement finally winning the battle, wiping away all annoyance for the moment. She heads for the door just as it opens, a blast of cold air rushing through the bar, carried inside with a group of loud guys. White, every single one of them, the blond-haired, blue-eyed frat boy variety, three-sheets to the wind. Scarlet slams right into one of the guys so hard she nearly knocks him on his ass.
BAM.
He staggers as she grabs ahold of him, like she’s attempting to keep the guy upright. Her hand slips into his pocket, yanking out a wallet, as she says, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”
He gets his wits about him and drunkenly grins at her like she’s the prettiest thing in the world, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, it’s okay, babe! Don’t tell me you’re leaving? Come on, let me buy you a drink!”
“Wish I could,” she says, “maybe next time.”
She slips under his arm, skirting around him, pushing him toward his friends, the whole group laughing as they stagger toward the other side of the bar. Scarlet glances inside the wallet, scowling, before tossing it on a table nearby as she walks out.
No cash.
Shaking my head, I turn back to the bar. The bartender’s standing in front of me, staring past me, his eyes fixed to the abandoned wallet by the door. He blinks a few times as he seems to put the pieces together, turning toward the group of guys, his lips parting, barely a sound escaping before I grab his arm. I drag him across the bar, yanking so hard that his head almost slams into mine.
“Mind your own business,” I say, “if you know what’s good for you.”
I shove him, and he stumbles, letting out a shaky breath. He doesn’t utter a single word about the wallet, heeding my warning.
Pity, really.
Since it seems there’s no fucking happening tonight, I probably would’ve enjoyed splitting his head wide open.
Chapter Nine
They say Disney World is the happiest place on earth.
I can’t attest to that, since I’ve never been, but I’m pretty sure I do know where the most miserable place is: the 60th precinct in Brooklyn.
“Detective Gabriel Jones, please.”
The woman sitting at the front desk, Officer Josephine Rimmel, leans back in her chair, the receiver of the ancient switchboard phone tucked in the crook of her chubby neck. She greets me revulsion, like I’m a skunk stinking up her lobby, spraying my funk all over the place, her muddy brown eyes picking me apart as she glowers, like she’s contemplating calling pest control to ask them to exterminate the vermin scurrying around her precinct.
“Hold, please.” Her long pink-painted fingernail hits a button on the switchboard, cutting off the call, before barking a lone word at me: “Name.”
She should know my name.
I’ve told her it thirty-nine times. Not once. Not twice. Not even a dozen times. Thirty-nine. As often as we’ve seen each other, starting on my first visit to this brick and concrete hellhole nine months ago, you’d think we’d be best friends by now. I certainly remember her name. I remember every excruciating detail I’ve been forced to learn about her over time—like how she can’t go a week without a fresh manicure, picking out a new pink polish every time, which means I’ve seen thirty-fucking-nine different shades of pussy pink coating her nails, but yet she can’t be bothered with something as simple as my name.
“Morgan,” I say. “Morgan Myers.”
Officer Rimmel grabs the phone again, dialing the extension for Gabe’s third-floor office. I drum my chipped red-painted nails on the top of the counter as I wait, my stomach twisted in tight knots, the only thing keeping my sickness at bay. It rings a few times before I can faintly hear his voice through the line.
“Uh, yeah, that woman’s here… yeah, yeah… okay, sure thing.” Officer Rimmel hangs up, glaring at me. It didn’t escape my notice that she didn’t even have to use my name. “He’ll be down when he gets the chance.”
Sighing, I walk over and plop down in the first cheap blue plastic chair I come to in the cramped lobby, angling my body to where I can see the entrance, making sure nobody walks in that I recognize. I shouldn’t be here. This is arguably the most dangerous place for me to show my face. I shouldn’t even be in Brooklyn.
My gaze scans the others waiting in the lobby, skimming along faces I’ve never seen before, unguarded eyes that aren’t the least bit worried about my presence, forever in suspense as I wait for that singular moment where recognition sparks. It’s bound to happen someday. Millions of people might live in New York City, but the circles most of us run in are small. It’s inevitable, I think, that someday, I’m going walk in here and somebody is going to take one look at me and know exactly who I am. They’re going to know my story. They’re going to know my history.
Unlike Officer Rimmel, they’re going to remember my name, and then what?
The elevator past the front desk dings, opening, before I have to think about those potential consequences. Death, if I’m lucky. Gabe steps halfway out, grasping the elevator door, holding it open and blocking it with his body as his stern eyes seek me out. He motions with a sharp nod of his head for me to join him, and I stand up, grateful today isn’t the day I’m going to be spotted. I slip past him, onto the elevator, my sneakers quiet against the floor. Gabe joins me, pressing the number ‘3’ before repeatedly hitting the ‘door close’ button, pounding against it, as if that’ll make it work any faster. As soon as the door finally closes, the elevator moving, he leans back against the wall.
He says nothing, but his eyes speak volumes as they scan me. Up. Down. Up. Down. It’s only a few seconds as the old creaky elevator takes us up two floors, but it’s an eternity under his scrutiny, as he eye-fucks me from across the stifling confined space. Even wearing layer upon layer of clothes, dressed down in sweats and a thermal long-sleeved shirt covered with a hoodie, a black knit hat pulled down low, over my ears, he has a way of making me feel exposed. He reminds me of someone else… someone I once knew, a long time ago.
He reminds me of the man who stole my innocence.
He looks at me like I’m something and not somebody.
The elevator dings, opening again, and Gabe steps off without acknowledging me, knowing I’ll follow. I keep my head down as I trail him to his office in the back corner, glass walls surrounding it, leaving the space exposed. Transparency, they boast, but it doesn’t make a difference, not when they give them blinds to shut out the world if they choose to. And the moment we’re inside, Gabe closes the vertical blind. Of course.
“Did you talk to them?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Whoever you needed to talk to. You promised you’d talk to them about me again.”
“Oh, yeah… I did.”
“You did?”
“Yep.” He offers a small smile as he pulls me around so my back is to him. His arms wind around me, his hands grasping my breasts over my clothes, roughly kneading them through the thick fabric. “I talked to my Sarge just this morning about you.”
“Really? You did?”
“Of course,” he says, leaning down, forcing my head to the side as his lips find my neck, kissing and licking, nothing gentle about it. He sucks on the skin, sending small bites of pain through me. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”