“Don’t you worry about that now,” she cuts me off. “Come on, let’s get you in the back. Kitchen’s quiet this time of night.”
Before I can protest, she’s ushering me through a swinging door into a cramped, steamy kitchen. The smell of grease is even stronger back here, mixed with the sharp scent of industrial cleaner.
“Sit,” she orders, pointing to a rickety stool in the corner. “I’ll whip you up something quick.”
I perch on the stool, my legs bouncing with nervous energy as she busies herself at the grill. Every sound from the dining room makes me flinch.
A plate appears in front of me, piled high with scrambled eggs and toast. My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead.
“Eat,” the waitress—her nametag says “Dottie”—commands. “You look about ready to fall over.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I shovel food into my mouth like I haven’t eaten in days. For all I know, maybe I haven’t.
The bell over the front door dings, and I freeze mid-chew.
“I’ll check it out,” Dottie says, patting my shoulder. “You just keep eating.”
She disappears through the swinging door. I strain to hear, fork clutched in my hand like a weapon.
“…looking for someone,” a deep voice rumbles, the Russian accent thick as cement. “Young woman, dark hair. Might have come in here.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, looking for another way out. There’s a back door half-hidden behind a rack of pots and pans.
I creep toward it, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure they can hear it in the next county.
I sneak out the back door, the rusty hinges squealing like a dying cat. The alley’s dark and narrow, reeking of piss and rotting garbage. A rat scurries across my path, beady eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“Story of my fucking life,” I mutter. “From one rat’s nest to another.”
I’m about to make a break for it when the door behind me slams open. The two goons burst out, their heavy breathing echoing off the brick walls.
“There she is!” Scarface shouts.
Fuck. No way out but through.
I grab the nearest thing—a broken bottle—and swing it at Punching Bag as he lunges for me. Glass shatters against his face, and he howls in pain.
Scarface is on me in a second, meaty hands reaching for my throat. I duck, ramming my shoulder into his gut. He grunts, stumbling back.
I snatch up a trash can lid, wielding it like the world’s shittiest shield. “Come on, dickheads. I’ve dealt with worse than you in the fucking McDonald’s playground.”
Punching Bag recovers, blood streaming down his face. He charges, but I sidestep, bringing the lid down on his head with a satisfying clang.
For a second, I think I might actually win this. Then Scarface gets his arms around me from behind, squeezing the air from my lungs.
“Fuck off, asshole,” I snarl, trying to slam my head back into his face. But he jerks away, tightening his grip.
“Such a nasty mouth on you,” Scarface growls. “Maybe we should find a better use for it.”
I grit my teeth, fingers digging into his arms. “What the hell do you want from me?”
Scarface chuckles, his breath hot on my neck. “Oh, we just need a little favor. You’re gonna help us send a message to your boyfriend.”
Boyfriend? What the fuck?
He’s talking about D?
