by Cathryn Cade
She shuddered. "Only that's not gonna happen, so..."
Tawny shook her head. "Nope, it's not. And there's one thing that worries me—"
"What are you two whispering about over here?" Ronelle demanded, walking behind the counter to eye them suspiciously. "You better not be talking about me. 'Cause I could tell Harry about things I've seen you do, too."
Shelle sighed. "Ronelle, we're not talking about you, so relax."
Tawny gave the redhead a look of scorn. "Yeah, 'cause you just ain't that interesting. Did I see you drop that toast and put it back on the plate earlier? Yes, I did. Do I care? No, I do not, 'cause that customer’s an asshole who doesn't tip and always bitches about our service. Now go on back to work. Shelle's break is next, so you and me got tables to wait." She rose with a flourish.
With a huff, the redhead tossed her head and turned away.
"That girl is like sour milk in my cereal," Tawny muttered.
Shelle grinned, reaching to take her friend's empty bowl. "She's also, let's see, ice cubes down your bra. Salt in your coffee. Sugar on your fries...did I miss any?"
Tawny eyed her. "You just watch yourself, missy. 'Cause I got more where those came from."
Then she stopped, and turned back to Shelle, her face somber. "Listen, though, girl. You saw Albany's goons—and they saw you. That is not good. That man can make a King County law dog disappear...he can get to you too."
"I know that," Shelle said, fear sliming a cold trail through her. "Believe me, that's on the top of my list of things to worry about right now. You think I don't wanna run and hide?"
Tawny grimaced. "Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to scare you more. Just...are they sending another escort for you, when you're off shift? 'Cause I don't think you should go anywhere alone right now."
Shelle took a breath and let it out. "Uh...yeah. Yeah, they said they'll have a cruiser follow me home." And no one could get to her with cops around, right?
"That's good. Holy hazelnuts, just wait till I tell Darren about this. The man will flip his lid."
Shaking her head, Tawny hustled off to set up a new table. Shelle nabbed some more coffee—her third or was it her fourth cup of the morning—and a sausage-and-cheese muffin for her breakfast.
She managed to swallow most of it, with lots of coffee to wash it down, but as she did so, she wondered... would a police escort be enough to keep her safe? And how long would they keep watching over her?
Please God, let it be long enough for them to get Darius Albany and his associates off the streets.
CHAPTER SIX
A few hours later, Shelle didn't give two hoots for her so-called 'police escort'.
They had not shown up at the travel center by the time she came off shift. She waited thirty minutes, under Tawny's watchful and Ronelle's curious gazes. Finally, she called the local police station to ask about their status. After being put on hold for ten minutes, she was informed that she should wait there for a call back.
By one o'clock, Tawny headed off to a doctor's appointment. She made Shelle promise to stay right where she was until her escort arrived, and text her when she got home.
By one thirty, Shelle had tried twice more to get information from the local station.
Finally, she'd had it with them.
She had her period and needed supplies and pain reliever—and not the expensive little packets sold at her place of work. She also had a raging headache from lack of sleep. Her temper was approaching nuclear.
She stomped out to her car and drove first to a big grocery store, where she bought tampons, pads, ibuprofen and a big-ass chocolate bar. After a moment's sour reflection, she walked next door in the shopping center to a sporting goods store and bought a big canister of pepper spray. The outside portrayed a hunter fending off a charging bear, so it should work really well on a human, right?
In her car, she tore open the wrapper on the candy bar, she took a huge bite of gooey, delicious chocolate, and headed to her apartment.
She eyed the parking lot carefully before stepping out of her car, but saw no one except Perry, the manager. A middle-aged pothead, he did little but occupy the manager's apartment. Right now, he was bobbing along with his headphones on, sweeping the sidewalk with a big push-broom, and missing most of the debris there. He wouldn't be much help if Albany's men showed up here.
Neither would her neighbors.
On Shelle's left lived an elderly woman who watched TV with the volume set on I'm-deaf-and-refuse-to-wear-my-hearing-aid. She liked Shelle because she carried her trash bag down with her own and stopped to have a shouted conversation when they met on the walkway.
On Shelle's right lived the stripper, who likely wouldn't call the cops if thugs broke in and murdered Shelle under her nose.
Shelle forced herself to read at least one article for her research paper that evening. But between starting every time she heard a loud noise outside and staring at her phone, waiting for the police to call and say they were on duty outside, she didn't get much done.
Even though she was exhausted, when she went to bed, her sleep was fitful. She dreamed that a huge, faceless stranger had stalked her into her apartment, and followed her down the hallway to her bedroom, his booted feet thudding hard on the floor, ready to grab her. She woke with a strangled scream of fear, her clothing damp with sweat, her heart pounding.
A door banged next door, and loud voices echoed, male and female. Shelle recognized the high-pitched one as Princess'. Screaming at her latest man, no doubt.
"Shut up, bitch," the man snarled. "Or I'll teach you your place right here, right now. Where is she?"
The hair stood up on the back of Shelle's neck. One, that was not an angry lover voice. Two, he was looking for someone. Princess was in trouble, or some other woman was.
Another man's voice spoke, muffled so Shelle couldn't understand him. There were two of them—maybe more.
Heart thudding, Shelle grabbed her phone from the charger beside her bed, slid quietly out of bed and to the door of her tiny bedroom, where she could see the window beside her front door. A man's silhouette filled the window, dark against the street-light. He leaned in, lifting his hands to cup his face as he peered into her window.
She froze, and then forced her trembling fingers to tap out 9-1-1. She lifted the phone to her ear.
"I don't know who the hell you're looking for!" the stripper shrieked. "So how the hell am I gonna tell you anything?"
"We're lookin' for Shelle Mason. Where is she? She live with you?"
"No—oww!" Princess let out a yelp as if he'd hurt her. "She's there—right next door! Lemme go, lemme go. Nothin' to do with me."
"What is your emergency?" a calm voice asked in Shelle's ear.
"This is Shelle Mason I'm supposed to have a cop car outside but they're not here and someone's outside threatening my neighbor, looking for me!" Shelle said in rush. "Please, send help, fast!"
Another man shoved past the one at her window, and heavy fists beat on her door, bam, bam, bam! "Open up, bitch. We know you're in there."
"Yes, ma'am," the dispatcher said. "Please stay on the line while I contact the nearest patrol for you."
Bam! Bam! Bam—crash! The flimsy front door of Shelle's apartment cracked, the door frame splintering.
"Oh my God!" Shelle called. "They're in—they're in my apartment—hurry!" She lunged for her new pepper spray.
Her front door crashed open, swinging open so hard that it hit the wall with a bang and bounced back. Shelle flinched in response, skittering back between the kitchen counter and the wall.
A tall, rawboned figure filled the doorway, long arms spread in attack stance, booted feet thudding her way—just like her nightmare. "There she is," he growled. "C'mere, bitch. Got someone wants to see you."
Shelle let out a shriek, aimed the pepper spray and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Panting and sobbing, she fumbled with the cover and tried again, just as the intruder loomed close enough to t
ouch. His long arms reached, his big hands clawed to grasp her—no, that was a knife in his hand!
Something stung Shelle's upper arm and across one side of her chest, white-hot like the sting of a yellow-jacket. She screamed, and pumped the pepper spray frantically.
The spray shot out in a stream, straight into her assailant's face and eyes. He froze, then let out a bellow of rage and pain and staggered back, clawing at his face. The big knife clattered to her kitchen floor.
His skinny cohort burst through Shelle's door. "Hey, Grinder, what the fuck? Augh, what is that shit?" He stumbled back toward the door, deserting his cohort, who was still bellowing as he staggered aimlessly, hands to his face. "Can't breathe, can't breathe."
"Fuckin' bitch," the big one groaned, his voice thick with tears. "I'mma gut you for this. I'mma.."
Shelle did not wait around to find out what else he had in mind. Sleep tee pulled up to cover her own smarting eyes and her nose, she scrambled right over the top of the kitchen counter and out the front door.
There she ran straight into the other man, body-slamming him so hard he reeled back against the railing of the walkway. Shelle danced backward, sliding along the outside wall. The rough boards caught on her tank, scratching her shoulder.
Skinny lunged for her. "Hey, c'mere, bitch. You gonna pay for that."
Shelle held out the pepper spray between them, arms stiff. "One more step and I'll spray!"
He backed away, reaching behind him with one hand.
"He's got a gun!" Princess shrieked through her front door, behind which she had retreated, leaving it open only a crack. "Spray him! Do it—do it!"
Shelle took her advice. Another stream of noxious pepper spray flew and met its target. The skinny guy fell backwards, screaming and kicking like a beetle stuck on its back.
Shelle coughed as she breathed in a tinge of the pepper spray, and hurried farther along the walkway, past Princess' apartment, face shielded by her tee. Euww, her eyes burned and her nose was on fire, and she’d just gotten a bit of over-drift.
Sirens split the night and two police cars raced along the street toward them.
"About fuckin' time," Princess called through her cracked door.
Footsteps pounded behind Shelle. The big biker was getting away!
She peered over the railing as the cruisers disgorged uniformed cops. Four of them came up the stairs, weapons at the ready. “One of them went that way!” she screamed, pointing.
The cops looked to Shelle. "Ma'am, put down the pepper spray."
Shelle looked at the canister, still in her hand. "Oh, right. Sorry, sorry." She set it down carefully on the dingy carpet of the balcony, and backed to the wall, ending up between her apartment and Princess'.
She was shaking, she realized with vague surprise. Kind of like the time she'd ridden the tall roller-coaster at the amusement park. She'd walked off of it and had to sit down right on the ground. The other foster kids had laughed at her—well, all except the one who'd peed himself. She knew how he felt.
One cop nudged Skinny over onto his back and began to cuff him and read him his rights. The other cops moved to Shelle. Two ran past. One stopped before her. "Miss, you're bleeding. What are your injuries?"
She looked down at herself. He was right. She had a cut on her upper arm, and one across the upper slope of her left breast. "He had a knife," she said.
He shone a flashlight on her. "Looks superficial, so you're in no immediate danger. We'll get you some medical attention in a few." He moved on into her apartment after his fellow cops.
Princess opened her door a bit wider. She wore a black lace robe. Her long blonde hair hung in ropy curls, sprayed into place. Her wide eyes, enhanced with dramatic makeup and false eyelashes, met Shelle's. "Who the hell you got after you, chickie?"
Shelle winced. "Uh...apparently a businessman who is secretly a drug dealer. Darius Albany."
The stripper gasped. "No shit? You're lucky to be alive right now. That dude is bad news—his drug dealing ain't so secret, if you know what I mean."
"I'm getting that." Hugging herself with her arms around her middle, Shelle watched the police officers haul Skinny to his feet. He wore a black leather vest, she saw, with some kind of insignia on the back. A big, coiled rattlesnake. Ugh, that was fitting.
They turned him and marched him toward her. She shrank against the wall. He looked like a demon from hell with red, streaming eyes and a snarl on his face.
"We'll ged you, cud," he snarled nasally as he passed Shelle. "Don't thig you're save dow. You're nod."
"Keep talking," one of the cops said. "More evidence against you."
Nice that they were so calm about his threats. Shelle was not—it was a good thing she was leaning against the wall, because she was pretty sure it was the only thing holding her up. She wanted nothing more than to drop to her ass, hug her knees and cry like a little girl.
Bikers. She hated bikers, almost as much as she hated drug dealers. They were both the scum of society. Bottom-feeders preying on the weak, not caring who they destroyed to control their territory and make their money.
And now she had both of them after her. Her apartment wasn't safe, not with a busted front door. And not when Albany knew where she lived.
She just did not see how her life could get any worse than this.
Unfortunately, she was about to find out.
Once Shelle's knife wound had been tended to—the slices were glancing and superficial, so the EMT cleaned them with stinging antiseptic and put light bandages over them—the cops questioned both her and Princess.
Then Shelle was given a few moments to pack her things.
She had a suitcase, given to her by Vicky as a graduation gift. But it was way too big for a couple of nights at a hotel, so she packed her backpack instead. This was a sturdy, dark green hiking pack that she'd scored at a thrift store. Big for day use, but she liked the feeling that she could put as much as she wanted into it. For now, she packed her laptop, chargers, notebook and pens, shorts and leggings, undies, flip-flops, sleepwear, three tees, her one good summer outfit of white skinny jeans, white tank and little blush cardi, the Seahawks polar fleece—because summer or not, this was Seattle—and her wash kit.
At the last minute, she added her little photo album, because if her apartment was broken into again, these photos and her laptop were the two items she could not lose.
She was then escorted to a chain hotel, along with a female cop. Her name was Officer Renata Ruiz. She was stocky, polite but not exactly chatty. She checked the locks on the door of their room, then settled on the bed nearest the door to text or whatever on her phone.
Shelle perched on the other bed, holding her phone. She was at once exhausted and jittery, like a deflating balloon that still wanted to break its string and float away. She wanted badly to talk with Tawny or Vicky—or both. But it was now three in the morning Seattle time, and midnight Hawaii time, which meant they would both be asleep.
And in a normal, peaceful world, she'd be asleep too.
But since she couldn't even imagine closing her eyes and trying to sleep right now, she checked her messages instead.
She had three from Tawny, and one from Harry, the cafe manager. Oh, good, maybe he was giving her more hours. Maybe she could just sort of live at the Travel Center until Darius Albany was arrested, like those homeless people who lived at a big mall until they got caught.
She opened the message. Then she stared at it. The room was quiet, and over the hissing of the air conditioning, Shelle could hear her heart beating, ker-thunk, ker-thunk in her ears. She could feel her breath ratcheting in and out of her throat.
And the ice of Harry's terse message penetrating her brain, and her heart.
'Sorry, but can't use you any more. Recevd complant from custmers about yur servic. Come in n pick up yur paychek, n leav uniforme.'
What? She'd been fired? She read again.
Yes. Yes, she had. She'd been fired by a man who could not ev
en spell.
"You should get some sleep," Officer Ruiz said, her sudden speech jerking Shelle out of her daze.
Shelle looked at her blankly. Then she nodded. She rose and took her backpack into the bathroom, which was spacious and spotless, all bright white and gleaming fixtures.
Numbly, she changed into her sleep wear, brushed her teeth, washed her face, did her business, and went back out into the room. Officer Ruiz had turned off all the lights but one aimed at her corner of her bed. "I'm going to read," she told Shelle. "But I'll be awake. You okay?"
Shelle shrugged. She had no idea how she was. How did a person decide something like that when her life had just shattered around her? She had no job and no safe place to call home, but she did have criminals after her.
She got under the covers and lay down. She'd never sleep, but at least she was safe...for now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Amazingly, Shelle slept.
The next morning, Officer Ruiz, looking tired and frazzled, ordered room service for the two of them.
Shelle ate rubbery scrambled eggs, limp toast and overdone bacon with the determination of one who wasn't sure where her next meal was coming from.
"Thanks," she said.
"Yeah." Ruiz yawned hugely. "I'm off shift in an hour, but my replacement will be here before that."
"What...where will I go today?"
"Sorry, don't know. Maybe downtown."
Shelle took her coffee into the bathroom to shower. Armored in the white skinny jeans, white cami, and blush cardi—all courtesy of a consignment store—her hair tamed and enough makeup applied to make her look like a normal woman, not a refugee, Shelle got ready to do battle—figuratively—for her job.
She called Harry to set up an appointment to see him. The phone rang on his end as she stood by the room window. It had a fabulous view of a parking lot and several warehouses, the Port of Tacoma in the background.
"Yeah?" he answered impatiently, hacked a cough and spat. Shelle jerked the phone away from her ear in disgust. He must be smoking out back of the travel center.