Hell's Kitchen (3 page)

I cross the street, threading my way through the cabs and town cars that choke the city at this hour. As I pass over a subway grate, a thick billow of steam blasts up into the street. It’s forceful enough that I cough on the acrid air as it forces into my lungs and coats my face with a filmy residue.

Motherfucker! My makeup is probably ruined, and I’m already running late. I don’t have time to run back up nine flights and reapply, so I keep walking. It doesn’t matter what I look like anymore, so why do I care?

I don’t look at anyone as I walk to the diner. I keep my face down, my eyes skimming the sidewalk and the crowd just ahead, only enough to make sure I don’t collide with anyone. They don’t like that here. In New York, you walk in a straight fucking line and you stay out of everyone’s way. I’m maybe three blocks from my work when I hear it: a high-pitched scream from a child, a car braking so hard its tires squeal in protest. I can’t help it. My knees turn to liquid and I’m in serious danger of passing the fuck out and being trampled to death.

It’s bizarre, the way sounds affect me these days. The way most things affect me. The inconsequential things that other people don’t even register are the same things that set terror alight in my heart. You know, the way dogs howl at sirens and cower, terrified, when they hear thunder. That’s me with
everything.

I just need to get to work. I’ll get to work, swallow one of my little white pills, and I’ll be golden. Three blocks. Three blocks. Three blocks.

I don’t want to turn my eyes toward the scream but I can’t help it; it’s like my mind revels in my frightened state, my awkward inability to block out the simplest of things. I might be a person nobody knows, a girl with my face turned down to the pavement so nobody sees me, but I see them. I see all of them. I hear them.
 

And it hurts.

My eyes scan the ever-moving sea of people in front of me, everybody with their own purpose. Me, I feel like I’m just floating along from one day to the next, eating and working and sleeping and trying to stop the weight of my sins from pulling me under. People say drowning is a peaceful way to die. But I’ve been drowning for nine months, and I can tell you, there’s nothing peaceful about clawing at the air in front of you every time you wake up in the morning, unable to breathe, trying to stay afloat.

I finally find the source of the screaming: a boy with a mop of blond hair, thick and shaggy, but cut blunt all around the bottom. I imagine his mother placing a bowl on his head as he wriggles on a stool, taking great pains to cut the hair that hangs in his eyes without accidentally cutting her antsy child.

I can only see him in profile, but he’s turning toward me, and I know if he does I’ll see the color of his eyes.
Don’t be blue
. My own eyes don’t work quickly enough, can’t swivel to the side before he’s facing me, still screaming, blood on his knee.
They’re fucking blue.

He fell over on the sidewalk and scraped his knee. Of course. He didn’t get hit by a car. He didn’t go underneath the tires with a sickening thud. He needs a Band-Aid, and I need to chill the fuck out. The relief that floods my limbs almost dizzies me. He’s not going to die.
He’s not going to die.

My cell phone beeps loudly, making me jump. I reach into my handbag, seeing a text from my cousin Elliot. I swipe the screen and read his message.

ELLIOT: Hey Scar. Got some friends who need a place to crash tonight. You know the drill. Is your place free?

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I want is someone crashing in my tiny walk-up, but it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I owe Elliot big time after he helped with the court case. Without him, I’d be rotting in a jail cell somewhere. I slow my pace so I can tap a reply message into the screen.

Me: Sure thing. I’m off work at six. There’s a spare key in the plant next to my door if they arrive earlier.

I lock the phone and drop it into my bag, irritated that I won’t be alone tonight. It’s a lot harder to get drunk with strangers in the room. Which makes me think—I need a drink. The Victoria’s Secret perfume bottle in my bag weighs heavy on my shoulder, full of vodka instead of flowery scent—just a fifth, because I’m supposed to be stone-cold sober as part of my parole conditions—and my mouth practically waters at the thought of locking myself away in the bathroom and having just a little sip to make the day slightly less shitty. Booze and pills, the things that get me through the days, until I decide I don’t want to get through them anymore and jump off this express train through hell.

The diner is already busy when I arrive, morose and with the image of two little boys with blond hair and blue eyes stuck firmly in the front of my mind. One from this morning, and the other from nine months ago. It strikes me as strange that the
sound
of a kid’s voice sets me off. The boy nine months ago didn’t scream; I never even heard his voice. I saw him on the news once after I’d been arrested. It was a home video the reporters had somehow gotten their hands on when the media frenzy was at its peak. He liked Spiderman. He had this excited little voice when he spoke, a rasp in his throat, the tail end of a cold. In the video, he was showing his dad how he could climb a tree.

His name was Ryder. He was five years old, and then he was dead.

“You’re late, Scarlett,” Sylvia hisses as I pour coffee and take a sip, burning the entire roof of my mouth. My throat protests as the bitter liquid scalds on its way down, settling uneasily in my stomach where it will churn until Serge hands me a plate of leftovers and tries to slap my ass around ten-thirty, when the breakfast crowd slows.

Sylvia’s a bitch. I know she steals my tips when I’m with other customers. For some reason, I’m the highest-tipped waitress in Cabrezzi’s. Something about my shiny white teeth and my convincing smile? Or maybe it’s because they feel like they know me, like I’m familiar, a washed-out, slightly chubbier version of the actress who used to appear on their TV screens every Tuesday night and save the world. It’s the only reason she doesn’t fire my ass. Italian Sylvia owns the place with her Russian husband, Serge, and together they’re the oddest couple I’ve ever met. She wears the pants, bossing everyone around as she taps her taloned fingernails on her chipped coffee cup that says Cabrezzi’s down the side, black letters on a yellowed white mug. She talks a mile a minute, makes me serve her family every time they come in, even though I’m the only waitress who doesn’t speak Italian. And they don’t tip. Like, at all. And Serge, her husband, fifty, with a paunch and a hint of his Russian accent still lingering on after thirty years in the Big Apple. He cooks greasy breakfast plates for the hungry hordes and tries to shove his hand in my dress whenever I have the misfortune to pass through the kitchen.

I choke a little, put the coffee down on the pass, and try to compose myself. In the first few months that I was here, I used to get angry when she spoke to me like this. Now, I barely even notice.

I pull my long brown hair up into a messy bun, the ends crunchy and dry as they slide through my fingers. I used to visit this hairdresser on Rodeo Drive every four weeks when I was back in LA, get my roots done and my ends trimmed, conditioning treatments, the works. I was sad in the beginning, after I’d lost everything, after all the money was gone and the best I could do was a package of dye from the supermarket that promised chocolate brunette but delivered dull black strands that looked oily all the time. Since then, I’ve barely bothered. The black has mostly faded. I don’t even care anymore. When you’ve already lost everything, you eventually get to this weird place where you’ve got nothing left to lose, and no good reason to try and get anything better. I guess that’s why I’m here, slinging coffees and waiting tables with my split ends and the ten pounds I’ve gained since my agent stopped passing me coke to help me starve myself. The camera adds ten pounds, they’d all said, but there were no cameras pointed at me anymore. Coke’s an expensive habit, and I’m a poor bitch these days. I drink vodka, and I take as many Oxycontin pills as I can afford. It’s better than fastening bricks to my feet and throwing myself in the Hudson. I think.

The first twenty minutes of my shift are predictably dull. The place gets busy. I smile until my face hurts, pocket my tips, duck off to the bathroom for a shot of the good stuff, keep my eagle eyes on both Sylvia’s sticky fingers and the fingers Serge wishes he could get sticky in my pants, and then
shit. Gets. Interesting
.

The girl runs in first. Or rather, she bursts in, all wild blonde hair and too-large sunglasses. She rips the glasses off her face, her pale green eyes wild as she scans the diner. She’s pretty, at least conventionally. She looks young, but like she’s already had some work. I can spot it a mile off. Nose job? Definite. Lips? Filled with collagen to the hilt. I’m still not sure about her eyelids.

When she bursts in, I just happen to be the closest to the register up front. I’ve just started to feel a pleasant buzz from the vodka I drank in the bathroom, and her sudden entrance crashes right through the dulled edges of my morning.

“Can I help you?” I ask, irritated by her for some reason I can’t put my finger on.

And then she starts to cry. Jesus Christ, I do not need a crying girl today. “I’m being chased,” she whimpers, fat tears sliding down her face.

“Chased?” I’m so far unaffected. This is New York City; I’ve seen my fair share of crazy.

“Please,” she says, stepping closer to me, and it’s then I notice the bits of glass in her blonde hair. Her hand’s bleeding, too.
Shit
. My concern kicks in, better late than never, as I study the rest of her. Torn shirt. Cuts and scratches on her face and arms, her knee purplish and bloated below her skirt. I return my gaze to her face. Her lips have seen some work, but the top one is swelling even bigger, the part below her nostrils turning a nice shade of yellowy-blue in front of my eyes.

“I’ll call the police,” I say, turning to grab the phone from next to the register. Before I can, a wet hand clamps down on my wrist and tugs forcefully. I turn back, suddenly pissed. I hate it when people touch me. Ever since that night, I can’t stand it when people fucking touch me. The blonde must see the look on my face, because she drops my wrist like it’s made of lead. I bring it up in front of me, finding a nice smear of her blood around my wrist. I’m both worried and revolted at once; this chick could have hepatitis or worse, and she’s gone and bled on my fucking arm.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Please, these guys have guns. These guys are going to kill me! Don’t you have a back exit or something I could just sneak out of?”

A thrill shoots down my stomach before landing unpleasantly in my gut, where it churns away, mixing together with the bitter coffee and vodka I just drank, cheap caffeine and alcohol and fear bubbling through my veins. Suddenly, I want to be sick.

I look around the diner uneasily. What do I do? Do I help this girl? Is she telling the truth? I can’t handle this shit so early in the morning.

I need another drink. Or a pill. Or both.

“Come with me,” I say finally, taking her elbow and pulling her toward the ladies’ room. She follows obediently, struggling to keep up as I march toward the bathroom and shove the door open.

“In here,” I say. She hesitates for a moment, scanning my face, and I realize she probably thinks the toilets don’t have an escape path.

“There’s a fire escape in here,” I say, tugging her arm again. “You want me to lose my job or what? Hurry up.”

She follows me into the bathroom, and once she’s safely inside I lock the door behind us. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly pallor over both of us—yet somehow, this girl still looks amazing, and I still look like I’ve been chewed up and spat out. Lovely.

“Fire escape,” I say, pointing past three toilet stalls to a large steel door. These buildings in New York have the weirdest shit. Like, why anyone would have a fire escape in a women’s bathroom beats me. Still, when I used to smoke, it became a well-loved refuge of mine in between taking orders and dodging Serge and Sylvia.

The chick pushes on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She looks at me, and the panic on her face is almost comical.

“The key,” I say dryly, reaching up to a windowsill and sliding a dust-covered key from its hiding spot. I unlock the door and push it open, gesturing for her to go inside.

“Oh, God, I thought you were one of them,” she babbles as she steps slowly through the door.
Faster,
I think, pushing her gently through the doorway. I’m suddenly less worried and more irritated again. I need her to get the fuck out before Sylvia fires me for disappearing in the middle of breakfast service.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, as she shrinks into the fire escape.

“Kaitlin,” she says. “Kaitlin McLaughlin.”

And then I know she’s telling the truth.

I hear shouting in the diner, heavy footsteps. Kaitlin’s eyes grow wide and glassy again. On impulse, I take my apartment key from my apron and press it into her palm. Reciting the address to her, I give rough directions and make her repeat them to me.

“Keep your head down,” I instruct her, having no fucking idea what I’m about to get into. I don’t want to get involved with the Irish. But I also don’t want this girl to get shot while I watch. I’ve already got enough blood on my hands. “Go there and wait. I’ll come help you.”

The footsteps are getting closer. Shit! Someone’s kicking the bathroom door. It splinters easily, flimsy piece of shit.

Kaitlin nods gratefully. I give her one last look before closing the fire escape door, locking it with the key.
She didn’t even say thank you
, I think, as adrenaline spikes in my gut. I hurry over to the closest toilet stall as the bathroom door explodes off its hinges. I don’t have time to look, though. I drop the key into the toilet bowl with a
plink
and reach for the flusher. At the same time, footsteps rain down on the tiles like bullets as a blur passes by the open toilet stall I’m crammed into. Someone throws themselves at the locked fire escape door, using their body weight to try and open it and failing miserably. The door is made of steel. Even Ironman isn’t breaking that shit down.