Chapter 9
Lindsey
I’m alone.
Raquel and Hamish were busily moving their lives to Seattle. Rune was officially an Alaskan. Even and Mom and Pop Rigby were gone—house sold, closed, and turned over to new owners, belongings stored in a locker, the pair off on an extended trip throughout Europe.
Leaving poor lonely Lindsey languishing all alone in the impersonal plastic hell of Los Angeles.
Fuck this.
But I'm too damn stubborn to let myself cave—to call Rune and beg her to find me a couch to sleep on and maybe a job. Mainly because Dane was in Ketchikan, and I still couldn't handle thinking about or seeing him.
I've been having nightmares about Danny.
Flashbacks—visceral, physical memories that leave me nauseous, shaking, and weeping.
They come at random times—this morning, I was having a cup of coffee on my little Romeo and Juliet balcony when one hit, and I dropped my mug on the sidewalk below, nearly crowning some poor dude.
Yesterday, one hit while I was in the shower, and I couldn't get off the floor for almost half an hour.
I see his curly black hair, his pale skin, his flat, cold, greedy gray eyes the color of a dreary, sullen day.
I feel his hands on my skin. His foul-smelling breath in my face, whispering about it being a secret and how if I tell anyone, the police will come and take me to jail.
I remember being confused about that—I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, but the fear was irrational and the gut-wrenching, soul-destroying nausea of what he was doing to me overrode any sense I may have had that he was wrong, not me.
It felt wrong, and he put it on me, and I was scared and ashamed and sick, and he got me all twisted up inside.
Fuck.
"Linz?" I heard my name being called, but the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings paralyzed me. "Lindsey?" A hand shook me, firmly. "Lindsey!"
I jolted, sniffled, and wiped at my eyes. "Sorry, sorry. Yeah, what's up?" I turned to my boss, Saleh, who was looking at me with concern.
"You are okay?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Sure, sure. Fine. Just…stuff going on."
"Table twelve, please."
I glanced at the table in question—a pair of abutted four-top high tables in the bar area, which was my usual section. A group of studio exec types was seated at the table, laughing and elbowing each other and looking all chummy and bro-y…and handsy.
Trust me, I'm familiar with the type. They're experts at "accidentally" brushing my butt or boobs and then acting like innocent little lambs.
I've never spat in anyone's drink or food, but I have been tempted, and it's always tables like this. I once made a guy's drink with well vodka instead of Goose, just out of spite. Not that he noticed.
Saleh must have noticed and correctly interpreted my expression. "I can have Alicia wait on them, if you prefer."
"No, no. I got it. I need the money."
"If they are trouble, you let me know, yes? I will put into them the fear of God…and Saleh."
That was no idle threat—Saleh was a lovely, kind, soft-spoken man who was my favorite boss ever. He also happened to be six-foot-five, weighed three hundred pounds, and had fought alongside Americans against Saddam Hussein in the Gulf War.
"I know." I patted his arm as I breezed past him toward twelve. "Just keep an eye out. I'll let you know if they're a problem."
He caught my arm and spun me around. "You do not need to tell me what is wrong, but I hope you talk to someone. You are changed, in recent days. More sadder. Lost in your thoughts very often."
I winced. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I am only worried for you," he said.
"I'll be okay."
He sighed. "Okay. Go, now. Go."
I went. They addressed 99% of their comments and requests to my cleavage, but I'm a cocktail waitress in an industry bar.
I wear low-cut tops on purpose, so that's nothing new or surprising; big cleavage equals big tips, and since I’ve got ‘em, may as well benefit from ‘em.
They kept their hands to themselves, thankfully—the presence of Saleh glowering watchfully from the hostess desk may have helped.
They did tip well, though, so that's nice.
The evening progressed normally. A few tables shorted me, a few tipped generously. By the time the bar was getting ready to shut down, I was wiped out and ready to go home, rinse off the bar-stank, and go to sleep.
The feeling started fifteen minutes before the doors were set to close. Saleh was counting cash in the office with Sharon, the assistant manager, and the rest of us servers were doing our closing work—rolling silverware, filling condiments, counting tips, wiping tables, sweeping floors.
It was a feeling of disquiet, at first. A subtle gnawing in the pit of my stomach.
Women, you're familiar. It's the feeling you get walking to your car at night, a knowledge that someone is watching or following, even if you can't see anyone.
You can just feel it, so you walk faster, grip your keys between your fingers, or have your taser or pepper spray in your hand inside your purse.
I looked around the bar, but saw no one unusual: Geoff, Tommy, Cal, and Carl, our "Cheers crew" regulars, were sitting at the far end of the bar as always, four in a row, sipping the last of their beers.
The kitchen crew was banging around the kitchen as they closed up.
The other girls were at table 1 rolling silverware while I stood at the bar, topping off ketchup, mustard, salt, and pepper.
"Connor?" I called out, addressing our busser, who was flipping up chairs onto the tables.
In the act of flipping a chair, he popped his head up. "Yeah, Linz?"
Connor was a cute kid—seventeen, gangly and long-limbed, eager to please, with all the signs pointing to an eventual glow-up into a hottie, one day. I knew he harbored an innocent little crush on me, and I was very careful to not encourage it.
"Have you checked the bathrooms?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. Should I?"
"Would you mind? Please?"
"Sure!" He finished putting up the chairs at the table and then scurried to the bathrooms, popping into the men's room, and then poking his head into the women's and calling out before entering.
He returned a few minutes later, stripping off rubber gloves. "Clean and empty."
"Thanks. I just…" I scanned the bar again, uneasiness making me queasy. "Make sure the cooks don't leave the back door open tonight. I have a funny feeling."
"Maybe you just have to fart," he suggested, grinning.
I snorted. "'If it was me, Donkey, you'd be dead."
"Shrek! I love that movie!" He trotted for the kitchen, quoting the scene where Donkey talks about everybody liking parfaits.
Still, the feeling persisted, and I was getting freaked out by it.
I'd experienced enough bullshit in my life to know better than to doubt this feeling.
I tried telling myself I was safe in the bar, but with the recent spate of nightmares, panic attacks, and flashbacks, it was a hard sell to my poor, battered psyche.
Iris, Ash, Lola, Bettina, and CallyAnne finished their side-work, tipped out Connor, and left. Sharon was gone, dropping off the night deposit on her way home; most of the cooks were gone, too, as was Al, the dishwasher, leaving Saleh, Connor, and me to finish closing up.
I checked my phone—1:55 am. Saleh was a stickler for the rules, and never shut the doors before two, and if someone were to come in right now and want a drink, we'd serve him. He'd just have to chug it before the clock hit two.
I just had to kill the last five minutes.
I did so at the bar, watching talking heads debate some sportsball thing or other.
"'Scuse me. I know you're about to close. Any chance I can get a quick shot?"
That voice.
My entire body clenched instantly. Bile hit my teeth. My lungs seized.
No.
No.
No.
It was him.
Danny Cohen.
There was no question—I didn't need see his face to know. I knew that voice; I heard it in my nightmares.
Alicia, the bartender, met my eyes, questioning me silently. I couldn't respond, couldn't blink, couldn't breathe.
"Hey, sweetheart—" Boston accent: 'ey, sweeth-AHHH-t. "I'm talkin' to you." T-AHHHH-kin' to ya.
Yeah, he hasn't changed.
I was frozen in terror, horror, and an incandescent rage so potent I was almost more scared of that and what I'd do because of it than I was of Danny.
“We're closed, sir," Alicia said, recognizing my paralysis and moving toward Danny. "Sorry. Come back tomorrow, and we'll give you a free draft on the house."
It's a strange feeling, being frozen in terror yet so full of rage that I could explode all at the same time. I felt him move, scented him: a douche-bro amount of Axe body spray layered over the stale, ashy stench of cigarettes and the skunky aroma of cannabis.
"What'sa matter, sweetheart. Cat got your tongue?" Whassa mattah.
He was too close. Way, way, way too close. My hands closed around a silverware roll from the stack in front of me and tightened.
"Hey, man," Alicia said loudly, knowing Saleh had excellent hearing and left the office door open so he could hear what was happening out here. "I said we're closed. Time to go, okay?"
He ignored her. Sidled closer to me. Did he recognize me? I can't imagine he could; it's been a long time, after all.
"Got a nice ass on ya, don't ya, sweetheart? How's about you let me get a little bit o' that cake, huh, baby?” His tone was wheedling, sickening.
I had zero control over my actions then.
It was like watching someone else. Like I was that little alien dude from Men In Black, the one who was sitting in a guy's skull, driving him like a mech.
Bile at my teeth as my fingers pried the fork from the roll.
Gripped it with white-knuckle intensity, tines pointing downward, away from my thumb.
Danny slid closer, one arm slithering alongside me. Alicia was saying something, but I couldn't understand it past the roaring in my ears.