“Good…morning?” His voice sounds hesitant, unsure, and heavy with trepidation. He eyes me warily as I dance around him towards the coffee pot. Pouring myself an overflowing mug, I prop my hip against the counter and watch him as attentively as he watches me.
“How are you this fine, beautiful morning?” I query, flashing him a bright smile.
His frown deepens.
“Worried. Confused. A little scared,” he admits with a shrug. On the griddle, his pancake begins to burn, and he releases a heated curse as he dumps it onto a plate with a spatula.
“No need to be scared,” I say jovially. “Everything is fine.”
“You sound like a cult leader,” he points out, but my smile only broadens.
“Have some Kool-Aid,” I whisper in my best creepy-psycho voice, extending the steaming cup of coffee. He snorts, some of the confusion and wariness dissipating from his gaze.
“I’m just glad you’re okay, sweetheart. I was worried for a while.” He hesitates, nibbling on his bottom lip. “Is this about the prank on your car? I know that was probably scary—”
“It’s fine,” I dismiss immediately. The last thing I want to do is discuss what had transpired those many weeks earlier with first the car bomb and then the shooter.
I’m safe, and that’s all that matters.
“Em…”
“I actually have a shift scheduled in… Shit! I have to be there in thirty minutes.” Cursing, I race around Avery, pause, and then turn back and kiss him once more on the cheek. “Thanks for being such an amazing friend.”
A delicate blush erupts on his cheeks, darkening the already tan skin.
Once in my bedroom, I grab my work clothes—a skimpy black skirt and skin-tight tank top—before hurrying towards the bathroom. I take a quick shower before dressing and brushing my black hair into a ponytail. The owner, Georgie, demands that all of his staff wear less clothing than most strippers. It’s demeaning and sexist, but it does provide us significantly better tips.
I made a choice late last night when I was huddled beneath my mound of blankets, cursing the world and everyone in it. I won’t let fear dictate my life anymore. I refuse to bow down to its oppressive whims. It made me a prisoner, and I can’t have that. You can either let fear control you, or you can let it strengthen you. I choose the latter. This isn’t to say that I’m not afraid anymore—I most definitely am—but I’m not going to stop living because of what happened. An innate voice inside of me, a voice I can’t place, demands that I keep my chin up and head held high.
You can do this, Emily. You can do this.
I’m fortunate that Georgie’s Bar is only a few blocks away from my apartment. Most days, I love walking to work, feeling the blistering rays of the sun warming my face and the wind rustling my hair. Today, however, I’m thrumming with unrestrained energy. I can’t help but glance anxiously at every person who passes me.
Are they here to hurt me?
Kill me?
My paranoia reaches towering heights as I finally make out the silhouette of the sleazy dive bar. I quicken my pace, heart thundering, as I once again feel a familiar pair of eyes caress my back. Still, I don’t slow down until I’m in the kitchen, shoving my bag in one of the many lockers lining the wall.
At this early hour, the bar isn’t open yet, so we serve the breakfast crowd. Though the tips are better when I’m dealing with a bunch of drunk, horny, rowdy males, I love the men and women who come in the morning. Most of them are old enough to be my grandparents and actually treat me with respect.
With a sigh of relief, I tie my apron on and prepare myself for a long, seven-hour shift.
I LEAVE JUST when the bar begins to get busy, each table crowded with raucous, loud college students and nine-to-five workers. Waving goodbye to the cook, Tommy, and the waitress replacing me, Hanna, I hurry outside.
The sky is just turning a shade of metallic violet, ribbons of pink and green dotting the canvas overhead. Fortunately, the morning shift doesn’t end in the middle of the night, forcing me to walk home with only the moonlight as guidance. Thank fuck. My already frayed nerves might explode if that was the case.
I’ve only taken one step—one fucking step—when rough hands grab my shoulders and wrench me backwards. With a startled scream, my arms windmill forward in a desperate attempt to stay upright. When an arm clasps around my waist, pulling me firmly against a muscled body, I do the only thing I can think of—headbutt the fucker as hard as I can.
He roars with pain, but he does what I expect, instantly loosening his grip. With him distracted, I’m able to wiggle free of his embrace, spinning on my heel with my arms raised protectively.
I have just a moment to see a scarily tall man with broad shoulders and a ski mask obscuring his features from view. Before he can lunge for me again, I throw my leg back and kick him as hard as I can in the crowned jewels. Well, now the crushed jewels.
He immediately cups himself, a low growl emitting from his chest, and drops to his knees. I don’t give him the chance to get back up; instead, I knee him as hard as I can in the face, smirking in satisfaction when his nose cracks. At least, I’m assuming it's his nose. I wouldn’t complain if it happened to be his eyeball exploding or whatever.
“Fuck you!” I hiss, stomping on his leg. “Fuck you all!”
Not wanting to prolong this moment, I race down the alley, my heart juddering in my chest.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.
Maybe it’s finally time to get the cops involved.
Someone’s after me. And I don’t think they’ll stop until I’m dead.
CHAPTER 7
My feet pound against the
