“Are they dating?” I ask Shioban before I can stop myself.
She shrugs. “Don’t know. I guess it depends on who you ask,” she replies, noncommittally.
My grip tightens around the coffee cup. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She begins to say something, but then stops herself. “Just be careful with that one. He’s not what he seems.” Shioban smiles like she’s said too much.
I nod, understanding, settling in, knowing this conversation is over. “Okay, let’s get back to work. Shortest fifteen-minute break ever,” I deflect, my voice laced with humor.
Agreeing, she starts to walk away, but then turns back. “Oh, hey. We are going out after work.” She lifts her coffee in salute. “The Holy Grail after our shift ends. You should come.” Her smile is warm and inviting. I realize I’d like that.
“Sure,” is all I say, and she disappears into the same trauma bay Vic was just in as I leave in the opposite direction.
My shift wraps up quickly,and before I know it, it’s seven. I find my replacement to report on my patients. I honestly didn't plan on going, but sometimes the loneliness is too much. The voices in my head are too loud, and I need something distracting to quiet them. I don’t plan on staying out late tonight, but since I have the day off tomorrow, anything could happen. My soft, velveteen black leggings hug my thick thighs as I throw on my sweater that hangs off one shoulder. I slip into my favorite pair of black combat boots, and a scarf is thrown haphazardly around my neck.
Grabbing my work bag, I decide to leave it in my locker, walking out with only my small crossbody around my shoulder. As I step out in the crisp September air, I walk a couple of blocks to the tavern to meet up with everyone. My combat boots strike the cobblestone walkways with straightforward strides as I quickly pace through the night. The cold air bites at my cheek, causing my eyes to water. I wish I had brought some gloves, butit’s only September, and we aren’t even into the cold weather yet. The temperature is vastly different from Texas, and I’ve updated my wardrobe to accommodate the lower temperatures. I hear laughter coming from the green illuminated sign. A couple of women are outside smoking, and I deride their commitment to a vice that forces them to inhale toxins in the cold air.
The bell jingles above the door as I step inside. The hostess stands at a podium that looks more suited for a Sunday sermon than seating patrons, but I wave her off, already spotting my coworkers sequestered at a high-top table along the side wall of the tavern. The tavern itself is a blasphemous contradiction, having once been a church converted into a pub. The stained glass windows cast colors across the room, clashing with the foul language and clinking pint glasses. The bar is centered, like an altar, in the middle of the tavern, set in high-polished wood trimmed with ornate gold scrollwork. Even the floor seems to mock the sanctity it once held, copper pennies set in epoxy speckled into its surface like an unholy offering.
Searching for a certain familiar face, the details of the bar fade into the background once I spot Shioban. She lifts her pint in greeting, calling me over with that mischievous grin of hers. I bump her shoulder with mine as I slide past, and she carries on her animated conversation with one of the nurses from our shift like I hadn’t interrupted. Turning to the woman beside her, I lift a hand. “Hey, Jill,” I say, and she flashes me a warm smile.
“Hey, hon. Glad you made it out.” Her smile is friendly, but the corners of her mouth pull down as she turns her attention away toward the door. Bethany walks in. Shioban groans audibly, lifting her beer for a long pull, knowing she’ll likely need it to endure the night. The waitperson approaches, pen ready to take our drink orders. I order a bloodytini. Bethany sits across the table, crinkling her nose upward with a subtle hint of disapproval, as if I just ordered tap water instead of a bottledsparkling one. She surveys the table, her eyes lingering on each drink, finally settling on the one she deems the safest choice.
Shioban looks at me over the rim of her glass, her green eyes alight with mischief. “So Beth,” Shioban begins, then pauses just enough to tip back the last of her beer. She sets the glass aside with a heavythunkand leans forward onto the table with a calculating grin. “You just getting out of work?” She patiently awaits whatever story Bethany is going to spin. I’ve been around her enough in my short time here that Bethany loves to inflate her ego any way she can. Bethany straightens in her seat. She glances over at Shioban, then at Jill, gathering her audience, and I catch the way her tongue presses against her front teeth. She drags it slowly across them, giving her a moment to contemplate the story she’ll weave to gain admiration.
The waiter reappears with our drinks, and Shioban wiggles her empty beer bottle at him. “I’ll take another when you get a chance,” she says easily as he sets my bloodytini in front of me. The glass is chilled, the rim is salted. The cocktail itself resembles a bloodier, stronger relative of the traditional Bloody Mary. A skewer of olives, pickle, and onion is set neatly across the top. Bethany’s sparkling white wine arrives next. She lifts it delicately, taking a prim and proper sip, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim. I noticed this about her. Her lipstick is nearly the same shade as mine, but where mine is a matte stain that doesn’t smear as easily, hers is a glossy lacquer. I’ve worn this shade since high school, and it’s so much a part of me that I rarely wear anything else.
Bethany smirks, glancing around the table and looking over at the women, with a smirk playing at her lips. “Well,” she begins, flickering her long, blonde hair over her shoulders, “I wanted to make sure Dr. Flores had everything he needed for surgery.”
Shioban places her hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh, Bethany, how thoughtful of you,” she coos. “I’m sure he was positively lost and oh-so-grateful to have your help and expertise.”
Bethany straightens at her words, her posture lifting from Shioban’s praise. Under the table, Shioban’s hand jabs me in the leg. I glance at her and see the effort it takes for her to keep a straight face. I bite back my own laughter, hiding it behind the rim of my glass as I pull my drink off the coaster, letting the bloodytini burn warmly down my throat.
“Come to think of it,” Bethany says, her lip twitching as if savoring the memory, “he kept staring at my red lips. Entranced is the word I’d use. He just couldn’t look away. And then,” she pauses for effect, “he said something about stained kisses.”
The words hit me like a slap, dragging me awake to that moment. Vic and I are in the kitchen. How he kissed me, blood and secrets coating our lips. The thought makes my stomach knot, and the spicy bloodytini goes down the wrong way. I cough, attempting to set the drink back on the thick coaster. But I miss it. It tips in slow motion, and Shioban lunges to catch it but knocks it harder, sending a crimson wave splattering across Bethany’s cream-colored cashmere sweater. There’s an audible gasp around the table.
Bethany freezes, her mouth agape. Red streaks drip down her torso, staining the perfect knit sweater like something from a horror scene. Sending Stephen King’sCarrievibes, as the horror show flashes through my mind, and I have to bite my lip from laughing. Shioban fumbles with some napkins, only managing to smear the stain deeper into the expensive fabric. Bethany’s eyes snap to mine, burning with contemplative murder. And honestly? Seeing her dripping in fake blood is a sweet form of poetic justice. Her coated in my bloodytini is the most fun I’vehad all night. “Excuse me,” she hisses, stomping off and away from the crowd and our table of coworkers.
I fish out thirty dollars from my bag and drop it on the table like it's hot. “And that’s my cue,” I announce, giving the group a little wave as I stand. A couple of my coworkers wave back, and one bites her lip to stop from laughing. Behind me, Shioban cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Coward!” I pause mid-step to glance over my shoulder and flip her the bird. Her cackle follows me all the way to the door as I push it open and step out into the night.
TWENTY-FOUR
VIC
It’s Friday, and my day off is a single reprieve from the relentless week’s burden of operating with minimal rest. With no obligations holding me down, I intend to lose myself in small indulgences. The kind of solitary activities that pieced me back together after calling it quits on dating and parties, things other people were doing at my age. The streets, still damp from the morning mist, brought a chill to the air, but my sanctuary awaits. My favorite, dimly-lit corner of the café, where I can people-watch out the window, and remain hidden from the world, here in the shadows of this recessed nook. Determined to finish my new novel, I set my things down. A scarf that I didn’t forget this time and my freshly brewed café Americano, along with my psychological thriller that promises blood at the hand of a complex serial killer, litter the table as I sit enjoying the peace this morning brings.
Just as I turn the page on the chapter that is sure to unmask the identity of the killer, a flicker at the edge of my vision causes me to look up. A child’s stuffed rabbit swings off the arm of a little girl. Its long, brown ears droop downward, skittering the surface of the cobbled stone walkway. Lifting my hand ingreeting, she stills until recognition hits, and she tugs at her mother’s sleeve to get her attention.
The woman’s eyes follow her daughter's pleading ones. Yet, it wasn’t I who caught her longing gaze, but the food that was just brought over to my table. The untouched scone and the steaming cup of coffee sit before me as she clutches her daughter tighter. I rise from my seat, beckoning them to come in, but the mom looks apprehensive, mistrust emanating from her stiffened, protective stance.
The little girl couldn’t be more than five years old. Her smile is bright despite her situation, but she is nervous, her body swaying with restless energy. At her side, her mother stays silent, her eyes track my movements, watching for any sign of danger. She’s skittish, and I’m afraid to scare them off, so I approach her with caution, hoping to gain her trust.
I offer a faint smile, steadying my voice as I formally introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Victor.” I give a little wave. “We met at the kitchen where I volunteer.” Her gaze flicks up to me, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and deep purple shadows beneath them. I wonder if it’s from not sleeping at the shelter or from something far worse. Sometimes it’s the haunting memories you can’t escape instead of the live monsters nearby. I’d know.
She looks ready to flee, clutching her daughter as though I am one more obstacle the world has placed in her path. I don’t extend my hand in greeting, so I decide to extend them a little offering of food and a warm place to rest instead.
Before she can turn away, I temper my words into something gentler, almost pleading, because I don’t want them to go. “Will you sit with me? Just for a little while?” I lift my hand toward the table I just left, attempting to coax them toward the warmth of the café. “That way, I can get you guys a little something to eat. Maybe a warm beverage until the shelter opens up.”
