by Sara Hubbard
“Just the way I like it.”
“You know you’re the only one who’ll drink this shit, right?”
“My Uncle Mickey drinks three or four cups every time he comes in.”
“Then I guess liking awful coffee is genetic,” she says, her face sour.
I fake smile at her and she fake smiles back.
The place picks up and I’m practically run off my feet. We aren’t usually this busy, but we’re short staffed after Hannah called in sick. Thankfully, Evie has agreed to come in and help. This will be her first shift back since the attack and I’m kind of nervous to see her. My stomach turns as I imagine her outside The Pipeline late at night, waiting for a cab, only to have a man spring from the bushes and pull her in.
No. I shake my head, refusing to let those thoughts and images creep into my mind. My imagination isn’t kind when it comes to thinking about what happened to her.
When she walks through the front door, I heave a sigh and note the bruising on her face and arms and her blackened eye. I want to talk to her the moment I see her, but I’m ringing someone in at the cash. I’m thankful for the time to collect myself. It allows me to build up some courage to face her and apologize for my mistake—which I don’t usually do. But this one can’t be avoided. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.
She grabs a cloth to clean the recently vacated tables but I take it from her. “Oh, just relax,” I say. “We can do that later.” I stare at her injuries.
“What’s up?” she says.
“Up?” I shift my weight onto my other foot. “Nothing’s up… I just feel like we haven’t talked much lately. Maybe we could hang out again sometime…go someplace a little safer?” I’m sorry. So sorry. Why can’t I say these words when my mind is screaming them inside my head?
“Because that worked out so well the last time,” she says, grimacing.
I don’t think she’s trying to be mean, but her words sting me, and I frown at her and lower my gaze to the floor.
“Hey, Beth,” she says, gripping my shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. Going home alone was my stupid decision. I own it. You have nothing to feel bad about. If anything, I should feel bad about wrecking your dress and shoes—which, by the way, I’ll replace.”
Is she serious? She was attacked and she’s concerned about wrecking the clothing she borrowed? Just when I thought I couldn’t feel like a bigger jerk. “Oh my God. Don’t you dare. I never wore them anyway.”
“Maybe not, but I ruined them and I’ll replace them,” she says. “I—” She stops mid-sentence and her eyes go wide. Her bottom lip trembles and she starts to shake. When I turn to see what or who has got her so rattled, I’m at a loss. “Evie, you’re as white as a ghost.”
Sam Tanner glides into the pub and takes a seat near the bar. He’s wearing a wicked grin. His eyes are focused on Evie and she can’t seem to take her gaze off of him. Now, I’m confused. The two of them are from completely opposite social circles. Besides that, Mona married a Dante and this guy belongs to Danny Hill’s crew. His men aren’t welcome here and they know it.
I take her hand to comfort her, but also because I’m not entirely sure she has the strength to continue standing. “Evie, you’re freaking me out.”
“It’s him,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
Sam licks his lips and purses his lips as if to blow a kiss. It’s only then I connect the dots, because only the man who attacked her could inspire her to respond like this. It was Sam; he’s the sick bastard who tried to kill her. Heat swallows me whole and I see red. I try to keep calm, keep the anger from my voice but can’t manage it.
“Evie, go out back and I’ll take care of this.”
She shakes her head.
I charge past her and head out back to grab Mona. She’s tapping away on her computer, one finger at a time. “We got a problem,” I say quickly. “We need you out front, right now.”
“What is it?”
“The guy who attacked Evie is out there. It’s Sam fucking Tanner.”
“Who?”
“One of Danny Hill’s boys.”
“Oh, no, he fucking doesn’t. Come into my fucking bar, will he?”
Mona reaches into her desk and pulls out a handgun. She raises it chest-high and cocks it with a sneer on her face. She powers by me, the gun at her hip, and I follow, close on her heels. Out front, she lifts the counter arm and marches over to Sam who continues to smile widely, not even fazed by the red-haired woman heading for him with a gun hanging at her side.
Some of the customers spy the weapon and quietly push away from their tables and leave the pub. They don’t look surprised by the scene or remotely concerned by it. Just a normal day in Sterling, I guess. And they know enough to get out of the way.
Mona raises the gun and points it at Sam’s temple. His smile finally fades. “Hello, Mona.”
Evie rounds the counter and slowly moves toward Mona. I stand between them, high on adrenaline. I’m not much of a fighter, but I have a temper, and if my aunt needs backup, I’m ready to kick ass.
“You’re not welcome here,” Mona snaps at him. “Stand up and walk out or I’ll put a round in your head right now.”
“I sincerely doubt that you’re going to kill me in front of all of your customers.”
“Anyone see anything?” Mona yells to the people still left in the room. I watch as a dozen heads shake and a few of them mumble quiet ‘nopes’.
“Mona?” Evie says, putting her hand on Mona’s arm. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Ain’t about you, kid. No one comes in here and upsets my staff. Period.”
“Mona, you pull that trigger and there’ll be a lot of trouble for you,” Sam says.
He stands tall, with his shoulders back and his chin up. It’s like he’s an animal trying to puff up his size and show dominance. Yeah, like that’ll work with my aunt. He obviously hasn’t met her before.
“I’ll take my chances.” Mona closes in and lines up her shot after lowering the barrel to his crotch.
“Mona? Please,” Evie says, her face strained and her eyes teary.
“Please?” Mona parrots. “Are you serious? He attacked you. Beat you. He deserves this and a hell of a lot more.”
“Mona!” she yells. “Please. You don’t understand. There’s more going on than you know.”
Mona studies Evie’s face, then flicks on the safety and lowers the gun. To Sam, she screams, “Get the fuck out of here!”
He walks backward, toward the door, his hands protectively cupping his cock and balls. “I’ll see you again,” he says, tipping his head to Evie. “Soon. Real soon.”
Mona raises the gun again and he disappears through the doors. Evie and I heave sighs of relief, but before my racing heart has a chance to slow, Mona grips Evie’s arm and drags her out back. I’m left stunned, not sure what to do next.
Thankfully, the place goes quiet after this, which is great because I’m not up for any more surprises today. I putter around, cleaning and wiping down tables and chairs, hoping Sam doesn’t come back and Mona doesn’t go Annie Oakley again.
A few hours later Declan strolls in looking for Evie. I’m sitting by the bar, devoid of energy from the adrenaline rush I experienced earlier. I have my phone at my ear, talking to Carrie. I give him a friendly nod, but he responds with his usually sour face so I give him the finger and he gives it back, making me chuckle. I can’t believe I used to think he was hot.
He sits down at the counter opposite me and waits for me to hang up my cell phone. I could try to prolong the conversation, just to be a stubborn bitch, but chances are he’d just take my phone and hang it up for me so I cut my call short.
“Hey, crank. What’s up?”
“Evie around?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Of course. Anxious to see her?”
He stares blankly at me.
“You’re so not friendly, you know that?”
He rubs his temples an
d sighs at me. “Go get her.”
“Get her yourself, ass.”
“Always a pleasure, Beth.” He pushes out from his bar stool and the scraping sound it makes along the hardwood floor makes me wince. After ducking under the arm of the bar he disappears out back.
“Be nice to her,” I yell, loud enough for him to hear. “She had a rough night.”
I don’t see Declan or Evie again tonight. I don’t see Mona either. This surprises me because she’s always checking up on us out front. At close, I lock the doors and turn the sign around. The waitresses leave and when I head out back to get my stuff, I’m surprised to see the cooks are still there. They should have left hours ago and it gives me pause. Eyeing them as they’re rooted in their spots, I wait for one of them to speak. When they can’t find their tongues, I help them.
“What’s going on?” I snatch my jacket from one of the hooks by the back door.
“Look, I wasn’t going to say anything…it’s not my business,” Henry says. He removes his ball cap with one hand and runs his other hand through his hair.
“Say anything about what?”
“It’s Mona. When…uh…she left earlier…she and Evie were packing,” Carey adds.
“Packing?” I still. “Were they going after Sam?”
Henry shrugs. “Don’t know. Not my business. But…you might want to give Mickey a call—just in case.” He starts to leave and then turns back quickly. “Don’t tell Mona I said nothing. She’s fucking scary when she’s pissed.”
I nod. “No, I won’t. Thanks, Henry.”
As the cooks leave, I stand by the open door. The wind blows in, chilling me, and the fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I rub my arms and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. Carey and Henry seemed genuinely concerned and not much rattles them. Plus, like Mona, they’re usually pretty consistent about minding their own business.
Am I worrying about nothing? Mona carries a weapon all the time, so it’s not like this is strange and unusual. But after today…her threatening Sam…I have to wonder if she’s about to do something really stupid—or if maybe she has already. Fuck, Mona. Because if Sam turns up dead, Mona is likely to be the first person the cops question.
Motive? Yep. Deadly? Um, absolutely. And she flat out threatened Sam.
Oh, Jesus. Carey and Henry are right to be worried. Why couldn’t they have told me this earlier? I punch Mickey’s number into my cell phone as I pull the heavy door closed with a thud that seems to rock the walls. Every ring on my phone makes my heart beat faster.
Chapter Three
When I called Mickey earlier, he didn’t answer. Neither did Mona. After a half dozen voice mail messages, it becomes clear to me that they’re not going to answer until they’re good and ready. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong. It’s a gut feeling that leaves me practically sick.
I curse them both as I sit in front of the television in my apartment, biting at my nails and continuously checking my phone to make sure the ringer isn’t off. After a few hours, I can’t help but fall asleep. It’s been a long day and working on my feet takes its toll on me. There are times when I feel like I have the body of a seventy-year-old. Without meaning to, I sleep well into the middle of the night, dreaming about poor Evie and the man who beat her up, except I feel every punch, every kick. I taste blood in mouth. Though I try to scream, nothing comes out.
Bang, bang, bang.
My eyes pop open. I take a breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. The dream felt so real.
Bang, bang, bang.
Dazed from sleep, I reach for my phone but after another rap at my door, I quickly realize the noise isn’t coming from my phone. I turn the clock around and frown at the digital reading: 5:00 a.m. That better not be Mason. I swear to God I don’t have the patience for him tonight and sex is the last thing on my mind.
Bang, bang, bang.
I scurry to my apartment door and stretch up on my tiptoes, hoping to God it’s Mona or Mickey. My heart plummets into my stomach when I see two men I don’t recognize: two men wearing blazers and collared shirts—with jeans. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize them for who they are: cops.
Please be okay. Please, please be okay.
I open the door, but leave it latched. I’m wearing a tank and panties—not that it matters, but I don’t exactly want to give them a free show. Plus, I’ve been trained not to trust cops any more than I trust criminals. They try to make you feel as if they’re your friends when they’re really looking for information or attempting to nail your ass to the wall. Cops might just be the fakest people I know.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice still hoarse from sleep.
“Beth Bilski?”
“Who’s asking?”
One of the men reaches to his waist and removes a badge from his belt. I catch the butt of a handgun poking out from under his arm when his blazer hitches.
“I’m Detective Keith Russell, and this is my partner, Detective Mitch Connor.”
I stare at them blankly, waiting for them to tell me why they’re here at this ungodly hour.
“May we come in?” Russell asks. Although his smile looks forced, his chocolate brown eyes look sincere. Still, I’m skeptical, and talking to cops in my world is a mortal sin—one people don’t recover from.
“You can talk to me from there,” I say.
Russell opens his mouth to speak but Connor taps Russell’s chest with an open hand and shuts him up. “Look, we’ve got some news. The kind of news you don’t want while staring at us through a half-open door. You understand?”
“Give me a minute.” I shut the door and grab my old white robe from the back of the bathroom door. After wrapping it around me and tying it shut, I open the door while taking a deep breath to prepare myself for the worst. But nothing can prepare me, because I know in my gut what’s coming and I’m not ready for it. I want them to tell me Mona fucked up and she’s in jail…or on the run. It’s funny how the thought of losing her makes me wish for her criminality. I just want her to be okay. I’m not ready to be alone any time soon.
I wave for them to come inside and they file in, Russell first. I don’t have much space in my apartment and my endless supply of clothes is littered around my bachelor. I pad forward, grabbing armloads of clothes from the couch and tossing them behind it.
“Wow,” Russell says, scanning the mess.
“Maid’s day off,” I say.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush, here,” Connor says. “This kind of news is hard to deliver and even harder—I’m sure—to hear. So I’m going to go right ahead and say it. Last night your Aunt Mona was shot. She was taken to Sterling General Hospital but…I’m afraid she died en route.”
The room goes silent and I reach for the chair behind me to sit down. I don’t feel anything at first; it’s like my whole body has shut down. It hurts to breathe, hurts to think…it just plain hurts. And I feel like I might be sick.
“Oh, God.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. For all intents and purposes, Mona has been my mother all these years. After hyperventilating for a minute, I whisper, “Are you sure?”
“‘Fraid so, kid,” Russell says.
Connor walks around the room, eyeing my bookshelf, and fingers through some books and papers. I don’t have the strength to chastise him or kick him out. All I can focus on is this building tension in my gut and my chest, like I can’t get enough air because I’m so constricted. Mona. Dead. This can’t be happening. It just can’t.
“We won’t always be around to take care of you,” she said. Like she knew her days were numbered. How could she possibly know?
Russell clears his throat and approaches me, tentatively laying his hand on my shoulder. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
“Does my Uncle Mickey know?”
When I look up at Russell, he shakes his head and his face softens. He bends down so we’re eye level. His voice is soft, comforting. �
��We’ve been trying to locate him but so far have been unsuccessful.” Russell pauses a beat before adding, “Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“No.” And I wouldn’t tell you if I knew. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“I see,” Russell says.
“Who did this to her?” I ask. I bat away tears and try to control my breathing but I’m not sure that’s possible right now. I assume it was Sam Tanner who’s done this to Mona, but I’m not about to throw out his name. That’s not smart when you’re talking to cops. The fewer details you give them, the better.
“We can’t go into the details right now, ma’am,” Connor says.
“You can’t go into details?” My voice grows stronger, louder. “Are you kidding me? My aunt is dead and you can’t tell me who’s responsible?”
“The man who shot her was also killed,” he says, as if that makes this situation any better.
I narrow my eyes, confused. What aren’t they telling me?
“Declan,” I say quietly. “Mona practically raised him. Oh my God, I need to call Declan.”
I attempt to rise and Russell puts out his hands to gently push me back down. I don’t like the look on his face and am afraid he has more bad news. Just what the hell happened last night?
“Declan was injured, but he’s stable. I’m afraid you can’t see him right now. He’s in protective custody.”
“What?” I stand now, getting angrier and angrier. None of this makes any sense at all. Declan is the most hardcore person I know, but if he’s in protective custody then that means he’s a rat. Declan would rather die than work with the cops. “That’s bullshit!” I snap.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Connor says, picking a sticky note up off the countertop, next to my cordless phone. “He and his girlfriend.”
“Evie?”
Connor offers a slow nod.
“You need to leave. Now.”
“Connor, give us a minute, will ya?” Russell says.
Detective Connor shrugs, tips his head at me as he passes. I hold my middle finger up sky high.
“You, too,” I tell Russell.