Authors: Lynn Viehl
Taire felt a twinge of sympathy. The guys in the kitchen weren’t as nice as the Frenchman, and they didn’t like women. Sometimes on other nights she had listened to a couple of them joking while they stood out in the alley on a smoke break. They considered women good for only two things: folding napkins and fucking. No doubt they were going to make Rowan suffer as much as they could. Men loved it when women cried and quit.
Father hadn’t been as crude or mean, but what he had expected of her had been just as harsh.
If it were easy, my dear, anyone would do.
She pushed her father from her thoughts and looked down each side of the alley. Sometimes bums came to rifle through the garbage bags. There would be plenty of scraps in them, good food from unfinished meals, and even the stink from the older garbage under them didn’t drive off the bums. No matter how hungry she was, Taire knew better than to rummage around a Dumpster. If Rowan or one of the guys from the restaurant didn’t catch her, the rats that were already gnawing their way into the bags would.
Rowan made another run, and this time Taire had to press her arms around her waist to muffle the gurgle of her stomach. Being hungry sucked—and she was always hungry—but sitting there and breathing in the delicious scents that came rolling out along with Rowan made it worse.
It was Taire’s own fault; she’d had all day to sneak out and get more food for her stash. She had enough change for a coffee, and the girl at the doughnut place where Taire usually went almost always slipped her a muffin or something for free. But thinking and dreaming and worrying had led to planning, and she’d paced her room all afternoon while she worked it out different ways in her head and then immediately shot down each one:
I could write her a letter
(but all she had was hotel stationery).
I could call her on the restaurant’s phone
(but the call might be traced).
I could ask one of the kids to give her a message
(and the same kid could go to the cops).
I could break into her apartment upstairs
(but she didn’t know how to pick locks, and anything else she might try would look like a burglary).
All that, and still no plan. She was too afraid to do anything, and would be until she knew for sure she wouldn’t be caught.
Taire didn’t know what Rowan could do, or what she might do to her after she told her. Rowan had to be stronger; not even crashing her bike had really hurt her. And what if she was just as scared as Taire was? She might attack her.
Her head whirled a little as she pushed herself up. Her hunger burned in her, worse than it ever had been; if she wasn’t careful she might pass out and be found. They’d call the police, or an ambulance. They’d take her to a hospital or a shelter. They’d find out who she was, and then they’d kill her.
Or worse, they wouldn’t.
The back door flung open, but Taire didn’t realize she was standing in the light until Rowan turned and looked directly at her. She staggered back into the shadows, but it was too late.
“Hey.” Rowan set down the garbage bags by the curb and squinted at her. “Who’s there?”
In her head Taire was running away, but her legs shook too much for that. She crouched down and huddled over, holding her breath, hoping the other girl would think she was only seeing things.
“Hey, kid.” Rowan took a few steps toward her. “You need some help?”
Taire felt the slate under her heels shift, and pressed her lips together to keep from shrieking.
Yes! Help me! Save me! No! Stay away!
“Wait a second, okay?” Rowan went back into the kitchen.
Now was her chance to get up and out of here. Taire made it as far as the next door when she heard a familiar trotting step and glanced over her shoulder.
Rowan stopped a few feet away. “It’s all right, kid.” In her hands was a large black plastic container with a clear top. “You hungry?”
Taire could smell it now. Roasted chicken, herbs, potatoes, onions. Something more exotic and savory. She turned around, staring at the container—it was stuffed with food—and the red and silver can in Rowan’s other hand.
A Coke. She’d brought her food and a Coke. For nothing.
Rowan didn’t come at her, but held out her arms, putting the container and the can as far out as she could. “It’s for you.” When Taire didn’t move, she crouched and carefully put it on the ground, then stood and moved back. “Take it.”
Taire shuffled forward, keeping one eye on the food and the other on Rowan. Anticipation was making her feel sick now, her belly shrinking in on itself, her chest tight, her throat a vise. At the same time the smell of it had her mouth watering so bad she was practically drooling. She hadn’t eaten real food in weeks.
Jesus. She hadn’t had a Coke since she’d left home.
“Go on,” Rowan urged.
Taire snatched the container and the soda up from the ground. The alley tilted, and she choked back a liquid sound as her stomach heaved. She had to say something, but all she could do was hold the food tight against her so no one would take it back. It was hers now. Rowan had put it on the ground. That made it hers.
“So, what’s your name?” Rowan asked, still peering as if trying to see her face.
Terror forced Taire to trip backward, spinning and clutching the container as she fled. She dodged around the corner and cut through two more streets, not looking back or hearing anything but the ferocious slam of her heart in her ears.
Finally she found a spot between two parked cars, slipped into it and crouched down. She had to hold her breath and press the cold soda can against one ear before the pounding ebbed and she could hear again.
Nothing. No running footsteps, no calling voice. Taire waited to be sure, but after several minutes she knew Rowan hadn’t followed her.
She set down the soda can carefully before she tore off the top of the container and grabbed a small whole potato speckled with flecks of herbs. She shoved the entire thing in her mouth, her eyes leaking thin tears as the alien sensation of having her mouth full nearly choked her.
Slow down slow down slow down.
Taire took the potato out of her mouth and instead held it like an apple so she could take a small bite. The taste was silky and buttery and flavored with thyme and rosemary, and she wanted to gobble the whole thing again. It took all her willpower to hold back and nibble away at it in small bites.
The chicken was even better. She lifted a golden-brown drumstick from the container and smelled it before sinking her teeth into the fragrant, juicy meat. Something soft and dark and thin under the skin came with it, and expanded in a dark, rich cloud of flavor inside her mouth. The taste was so warm and wonderful she moaned.
Oh God that’s so good
.
If she didn’t stop stuffing her face so fast it was all going to come back up, Taire knew, from the shock of so much rich, solid food on the bottomless pit of her belly. Because she had no way to keep it she’d have to eat everything tonight, but it didn’t have to be here or all at once. She could spend the rest of the night savoring the meal.
She couldn’t wait for a taste of the Coke, though, and tapped the top of the soda can before she opened it and took a little sip. It was so cold and sweet it made her teeth ache, and a little slopped over the edge as her hand shook. As she sipped at the spillage from the rim, she tasted a trace of something else that wasn’t as sweet, something tart and dry that took her back to the night before, when she’d watched Rowan take on the young tagger. When she’d seen the blue glow beneath the other girl’s sleeve. She hadn’t remembered every detail before, maybe because it had been another shock, like eating this food, to have so much within reach after having lived with nothing for so long. . . .
I’m the Coke and she’s the Cristal.
Taire laughed as soundlessly as she cried.
She trudged naked in that direction, then stopped and remembered the shared facilities. “God damn it.” She pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans before unlocking the door.
The landing was empty, no light showed under the edge of Meriden’s door, and the bathroom door stood slightly open, so she figured she was alone.
She found out she was wrong as soon as she walked inside.
Sean Meriden, dressed only in a pair of jeans, stood over the sink. He used his razor to remove a strip of white foam from his mostly shaved face before he eyed her in the cabinet mirror. He smelled of soap and menthol and heat, and there were tiny beads of water scattered over the short gilded stubble covering his scalp and the smooth muscles of his back. The pale light from the small window illuminated them, making him look as if he’d been crystallized.
“Morning.” Normally she would take a moment to admire all the bare, sparkling man in her face, but if she didn’t soon pee her first task of the day would be mopping up a puddle. “You almost done?”
He didn’t say a word. She waited, but he simply finished shaving and cleaned his razor under the tap.
“Okay.” She did an about-face to head downstairs. The kitchen had a small half-bathroom for the line cooks to use; that would have to do. Maybe she’d grab something from the pantry; she was so hungry Meriden’s massive biceps was starting to look tasty.
“It’s five thirty.”
She turned around, surprised and confused. “Huh?”
He dried off the bottom of his face with a hand towel, and then looked in the mirror and touched a small bloody spot on his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving. “You said you wanted the bathroom at two and between ten and eleven.” He pressed an edge of the towel over the cut. “It’s five thirty.”
Well, at least he’d listened to her yesterday. And what the hell was she doing up so early? She hadn’t finished work until well after Dansant had left at midnight. “Uh, right. I didn’t look at the time. Sorry.” Something occurred to her, and she swung back around. “You do mean it’s five thirty in the morning, right?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Son of a bitch.” She’d slept through the entire night and day, and she had only thirty minutes before her next shift began. “You’re not planning to do anything like soak in the tub for the next hour, are you?”
He grinned, and it was a beautiful, evil thing to behold. “I might.”
“Leave some room for me, then.” She turned and dashed downstairs.
Once she’d eliminated the risk of puddle making, Rowan ran to the pantry and quickly scanned the shelves. She needed lots of calories she could eat fast, and appropriated several bars of dark sweet baking chocolate and a can of condensed milk. She paused long enough to open and empty the thickened milk into a glass with ice, and then rushed back upstairs.
Meriden wasn’t in the bathroom, so she detoured to get her soap and a towel before running in to turn on the shower and strip. At the same time, she tore open one of the bars of chocolate and crammed half of it into her mouth, chewing in between gulps of the cooled milk.
In the shower she ate the rest of the chocolate bar from one hand while she used the other to soap herself from head to toe before she rinsed off. Just as she was wiping the water from her eyes and reached for the tap, she heard the door open.
Shit, she’d forgotten to lock it. “Almost done,” she called out desperately.
Meriden cast a big shadow on the other side of the curtain. “How did you blow both tires on the bike?”
This was not the conversation she wanted to have while she was standing naked and dripping wet with a paper-thin piece of opaque plastic between them. “I don’t know. Something hit me from behind.”
“They’re fucked.”
So was she. “Okay.”
“I ordered new.” He made it sound as if he’d paid for them in blood.
“Thanks.” Could she reach for her towel without flashing him? Probably not. “Let me get dressed and then we’ll go over—”
“Don’t bother.” His voice sounded odd. “I’m outta here.” And then he was.
Rowan peeked around the edge of the curtain to be sure, then stepped out and dried off with two swipes. Her damp body made it harder to get back into her clothes, but she was nothing if not determined.
Once she’d covered everything she didn’t want him ogling, she stepped out onto the landing. Meriden wasn’t there, so she knocked on his door and waited, rubbing the towel over her wet curls. He didn’t answer.
“Snotty bastard.” She stomped back into the bathroom, collected her stuff and went into her apartment. She had meant to go shopping today for supplies, but she’d blown that. She ate the rest of the chocolate she’d filched from the pantry to quiet her belly and chugged the last of the iced condensed milk, wishing for coffee but not daring to spare the time to make it. By the time her watch read 5:55 p.m., she had made herself presentable and went downstairs.
Lonzo was waiting for her. “You’re late.”
Maybe Dansant hadn’t told him what her working hours were. “I start at six.”
“If you’re not fifteen minutes early,” he told her with a stab of his finger at the wall clock, “you’re late.”
From the depth of his scowl Lonzo was clearly in a bad mood. “I’m sorry, Chef. It won’t happen again.” She glanced around. “Did you see Meriden—uh, the other tenant who lives upstairs—come down and leave?”
“What am I, your fucking doorman?” He made a rude gesture. “We got a truck waiting outside and five
meez
to restock. Get your ass out there and start unloading.”
Rowan started for the back door.
“Trick.” When she turned, Lonzo tossed an apron at her. “This is your uniform. I see you outta uniform again, you’re cleaning squid for a week.”
She’d probably be cleaning squid for a week anyway. “Understood, Chef.”
The delivery truck’s driver was only slightly less annoyed with her than Lonzo, but Rowan kept her mouth shut, her head down, and unloaded the boxes marked for D’Anges. By the time she stowed the last one inside, another truck rolled up. While she was unloading that one, the line cooks started arriving. No one offered to help, but Rowan knew better than to ask. Vince, the
rôtisseur
, stayed outside the back door to smoke a cigarette and watch.
Of all the line cooks, Vince was the one Rowan liked least. He was a few inches shorter than her and about a hundred pounds heavier, with wiry strawberry-blond hair and a pudgy face. Rosacea bloomed like heat rash on his chin and cheeks, and a network of broken capillaries around his nostrils attested to a serious drinking problem. He had light brown eyes nested in the puffy bags and deep wrinkles of a much older man. He’d visited the kitchen john several times the night before, and from the used-ashtray smell of his whites she guessed he’d gone in to sneak a smoke.
Vince had a wheezing, high-pitched voice like a washed-up boxer who had gotten punched in the nose and throat too many times, and when he spoke to her it was mainly in the direction of her tits. “You enjoying the new job, baby?”
“Love it.” Rowan counted the boxes before she checked the driver’s invoice and signed off on it. She bent to pick up a box, and straightened into a cloud of smoke. He’d shifted a little so he could blow it in her face, but she’d be damned if she’d let out a single cough. “Those things will kill you.”
“That or the whiskey,” he agreed. He squinted again at her chest, his lips pursed as if he were judging it for a boobs contest. “Danz gave you a place upstairs, I heard.”
She started to carry the box inside, but he barred the door with one beefy arm. The box dragged at her arms, and if she ducked under she’d drop it. “Yeah. He did.”
“You getting lonely up there, by yourself?” He showed her his crooked, nicotine-yellowed teeth. “Maybe you want a little company later?”
Telling him she was a lesbian would probably just turn him on. “I got company, thanks.”
“Oh, yeah? Who? Not Danz,” he said, answering himself. “He don’t exactly go for the ladies, know what I mean?”
“Guy across the hall does.” She leaned into his envelope of smoke. “About six-six, two-fifty, works on bikes and cars. You know him?”
Vince cleared his throat. “The Irishman. Sure, I seen that guy.” He tried to curl his lip. “Not really your type, baby.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t listen to your girlfriends.” She let her gaze drift down and then back up. “Size
does
matter.”
He dropped his arm, and she carried the box in. Lonzo was standing just inside, but now he wasn’t glowering. He was looking at her as if she’d just grown another head.
Here we go
, Rowan thought, kissing her job good-bye.
“Vince,” he yelled, not looking away from her face. “Drop that butt and start getting them boxes in here.”
All Vince said in return was a remarkably meek “Yes, Chef.”