She rises and starts to pace, hands flying as she rambles while illustrating each point with dramatic gestures. Fear lingers in the tightness around her eyes, but the stories propel her forward, past the fright.
“And I can totally get you a discount if you come in when I’m working, as long as Nick isn’t looking. He’s my sleazeball boss who forced me to wear this stupid outfit. He’s always trying to get the waitresses to show more skin, which I hate, but the tips are good, and I need the money.”
I find her nervous energy, the way her words tumble over each other, and the little crease between her eyebrows when she’s emphasizing a point oddly compelling. I’m drawn to her mouth as she talks. To how her lips shape each syllable.
“That is, if I still have a job. Despite my complaining, I’m thankful for Red Bird’s. Working there may not be my first choice, but the pay is better than a lot of my previous gigs. Also,the customers are nice. And if I get a group of guys together, I can often set it up so they each try to out-tip the other. Those are some of the best nights.”
“Enough!” I clap, the impact of flesh-on-flesh echoing throughout the space. “Are you trying to piss me off? I thought you’d want to survive the night. Instead, it seems you’re asking for me to silence you.”
She jumps like a startled rabbit. “But you said?—”
“I know what I said.” I grit my teeth, ignoring how my stomach continues to twist. “What about Benny? Tell me about him.”
She fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Um, what exactly do you want to know?”
“Everything. Why he was at Red’s tonight. Who you’ve seen him with. What he talks about.”
She nibbles her lower lip, drawing my attention to the small indent her teeth leave in the soft flesh. Fuck if I don’t want to drag her onto my lap and kiss her again.
Aurora resumes pacing, more contained this time. “Okay. He comes in…well, came in…maybe a couple times a week. He drank Miller Lites with shots of rail whiskey on the side.” She wrinkles her nose. “He tipped terribly. Like, a few percent if he even tipped at all. One time, he pulled a sweaty quarter out of his pocket that had something sticky all over it. Gum, I think.”
For all that’s holy, I don’t need any of this information. Is she messing with me on purpose?
I grip the table and count to ten. “His contacts. His business. I don’t care about his fucking tips.”
She has the nerve to frown. “I don’t know about his business. He always walked in like some big shot and went straight to the bar for his first round. Then he surveyed the place as if it was his domain before he did a lap or two. He’d talk to random people before heading back to the bar or a table to have a few moredrinks.” She shrugs again. “I don’t know. It always seemed really performative. But I’m just the person who brought him drinks.”
I resist the urge to groan in frustration. “You must have seen or heard something. Think.”
Her pacing accelerates. “He…he has two different-sized feet.”
I press my hand to the tattoo near my heart. Not the cross that shows my devotion to the Bratva, but the tulip next to it that honors my late mother. “What?”
“His feet. One’s a size twelve, and one’s a size ten. I know because he passed out under a table one night and for some reason had taken off his shoes and left them in the bathroom. Since he was the only barefoot guy in the joint, we knew exactly who they belonged to. Which seems like a big difference, right? Must get expensive to buy shoes…”
On and on she rambles, her nervous energy propelling her words forward. She paces around my living room, maid costume shifting with each step, light brown hair swinging just past her shoulders. She’s quick-witted, gorgeous, a witness…and quite possibly insane.
I have no clue what to do with her.
I only know what I’d like to dotoher.
She perches on the couch again. “Well, Benny turns up everywhere, like a roach. Let’s see, I’ve seen him in the subway, at the grocery store, at a big house up on the hill…oh…and pissing against the wall of the library. And like I said, under a table at Red Bird’s, barefoot and drooling.”
I need her to focus. This isn’t a social call. It’s an interrogation. Information extraction. Life and death. Hers, potentially.
I rise from my chair and round the coffee table. She’s chattering about another man who came in once and caused ascene. I sit beside her on the couch, extending two fingers to catch her chin.
She goes absolutely still, the words dying in her throat. Her eyes fix straight ahead, then slide to meet mine.
They’re even more beautiful up close. Bright green with flecks of gold near the pupil, wide with renewed fear. She trembles beneath my fingertips in the slightest vibration of terror.
Clutching her jaw, I bring her face closer to mine. Her breath hitches.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Concentrate.” Surrendering to some wild impulse, I nip her earlobe to emphasize my point.
She squeaks and then nods.
I hold the position longer than necessary to absorb her warm skin and savor the softness of her hair against my cheek. She sucks in a sharp breath, sneaks a peek at my mouth, and then glances away.
