“Brave too,” she adds.
“What do you want?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
She laughs soft. “Nothing. Just looking out.”
“Sure,” I say.
Her smile widens, blade-bright. “Careful, honey. Men like that don’t keep souvenirs.”
My skin goes cold. “What men?”
She tilts her head like she’s amused by my innocence. “The kind that wear rings and still touch what ain’t theirs.”
My hands shake around my tea glass. The ice clinks loud. I guess she’s Bethany’s friend.
She stands up slow grabs her cut and shrugs it on like she’s got all the time in the world. I still can’t read what it says on the back but it ain’t a property of, not one man in particular. It’s a cut that means she belongs to all of them. She’s one of their bunnies.
I stand up too. It just feels better than sitting in the booth, being lower than her. If she’s going to punch me, might as well get it over with.
Haddie, the shift leader, appears out of nowhere with my order and sits it down so carefully it doesn’t even clink. But she stays put, crosses her arms and glares at the woman. It’s enough to stop whatever was about to happen.
The woman looks me up and down, her face bunching like I stink. “You keep playing dress-up in our world and you’re gonna learn the rules the hard way.”
Then she brushes past my shoulder on purpose, a soft bump that somehow feels like a threat.
As she walks away, someone at the counter mutters, “Home wrecker,” under their breath.
It’s meant for me.
It’s meant for the whole room.
I don’t look back.
I put cash on the table and leave my food untouched. I walk out like my legs ain’t trembling.
In the parking lot the air is thick and damp. My Kia looks like an island I’m not sure I can reach. I hit the unlock button anyway, and climb in before I know it, and lock the doors so fast the sound echoes inside the cabin.
That’s when I see it.
A folded napkin tucked under my windshield wiper. Not sloppy like trash, not half-flying. Set. Deliberate.
My breath catches. I stare for three full seconds before my hand moves. Then I move to roll the window down and snatch it off the glass like it might bite me.
The napkin is white.
The writing ain’t.
Dark red. Not marker. Not lipstick. Too thin for paint. Too wet at the edges.
Two words, scrawled in angry block letters.
WATCH OUT
The metallic smell hits me after, faint but real.
My stomach drops so hard I taste bile.
I fling the napkin into the passenger seat like it’s contaminated. It fucking is. It’s blood. For a second I look for a napkin, but the only napkin is the one with someone’s blood. I wipe my fingers on my dress, knowing I can launder it right away when I’m home, and start the car with hands that can barely push the ignition.
