3. Eleanor
3
Eleanor
You know, in some ways, I’m kind of like an exterminator.
For two days, I’ve been clumsy and distracted, thinking about that exterminator. Mac.
There must be some biological imperative women have that makes us weak-kneed around tall men. Tall, muscly, gorgeous men who have great smiles and seem confident but not arrogant. And I’m such a sucker for a guy in glasses…
He’d been so nice about how late I was getting out of his way, hadn’t acted annoyed that I kept him from starting on time. And he’d stuck around almost like… like he wanted to talk to me. He’d laughed at my cheesy joke about the Ritz. Even the way he’d said “get dressed,” like it was an order, like he was so used to people doing what he said, that it didn’t even occur to him that he was telling me what to do. And the way he’d stared at my legs…
What the hell is a man with a face like that doing killing bugs for a living? He should be somewhere more people get to see him—plastered across billboards in his underwear or acting opposite some equally gorgeous woman in a Romcom.
With a face like that, I could get over the gross job.
God, I’m getting so far ahead of myself, I’m ten years down the road, married and watching our kids run around in mini gray jumpsuits that match his.
For the hundredth time, I replay what I remember of our interaction. He’d told me not to rush, asked if I had somewhere to stay, asked for a restaurant recommendation because he’s new to the area…
Yeah, Eleanor. He’s way into you.
I thunk my head against my cubby .
Who am I kidding? He was just being polite. Professional. Friendly, at most. He called my name beautiful, not me; and maybe it gave me butterflies because I’ve never really liked my nicknames, but he didn’t know that. He’d stared because I was half naked, in my pajamas. I’d probably shocked him, answering the door like that—and if he’d been interested, he would have asked for my number.
Besides, guys who look like him never show genuine interest in me. Someone with a face and body like that has options. Why would a man settle for ground beef when he had the option of a steak? Not that there’s anything wrong with ground beef—who doesn’t love a good burger?
Now I’m hungry. And my metaphor is falling apart.
I reach for the gauze wraps and band aids from the kit on the shelf. Once the cut on my finger is dealt with, I grab a pair of black disposable gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and tug them on as I head back into the fray. The dull roar of pots clanging on the stove, knives hitting cutting boards, flames spewing from the salamander oven, and people shouting at one another comes into sharp focus as I reenter the kitchen from the breakroom. Wednesday nights aren’t normally such a shitshow, but we had a walk-in table of 12.
“You’re cut, Ellie,” Chef Robert barks.
I whip my head around, knowing he’s talking about the schedule and not my finger. I can tell from intensity in his deep-set, bloodshot blue eyes that he’s in a mood. His chef hat is askew and there’s visible sweat on his face running down into the crease of his neck.
“What? But I still need to finish the risotto—”
He levels a finger at me. “That’s the second day in a row you bled on my floor and table five just sent back their scallops, hold the tomato compote. Does this look like you held the tomato fuckin’ compote?” he shouts angrily, tossing the perfectly plated dish into the trash. The whole thing.
I jump as the plate breaks at the bottom of the trashcan. The kitchen chatter dies down and the sound of sizzling food becomes the loudest thing in the room. My face heats in shame, especially now that we have an audience, and I mumble, “No, chef.”
“I checked the ticket. Hannah rang it in right, so this is your fuck up. You’re being careless. Get the hell out of my kitchen.” He gives me his back .
I want to argue, but I know from experience that it would make things worse. I can’t have him sending me home without pay for a week again, not when I have a surprise 3-day motel stay to cover 80% of. I sigh angrily and spin on my heel, tearing the gloves back off.
The door to the breakroom swings behind me and I hear him yell, “Get back to work!” at the gawkers. The kitchen symphony begins again in earnest as I rip off my apron, wad it up and toss it into my cubby. I sit heavily in the closest chair and drop my head into my hands.
This day sucks. And to top it all off, I feel the awful, familiar, burning tingle on my left knee. Idly, I reach down and rub the area through my pants, trying to relieve the itch without scratching the skin. I knew a flare up was coming—the stress of vacating my apartment and a few bad days at work, and bam. That’s really all it takes, especially in winter. And in my haste to leave yesterday morning, I left my psoriasis cream in the bathroom cabinet.
Screw this. Chef Robert just added two hours to my day off. I’m not spending any more of it here, feeling sorry for myself in this room that smells like sweaty shoes and grease from the fryer.
I grab my stuff, clock out, and am swinging on my coat before I even make it to the back entrance. The door is propped open with a brick that I ensure stays in place as I walk through.
The small figure leaning against the wall between the opening and the dumpster startles me, but only for an instant. She’s much smaller than me, but every line of Rachel is no-nonsense—from the blunt, short cut of her straight dark hair that’s held back in a plain black bandanna, to the frameless glasses that make her small eyes appear smaller, to the block lettering of her name on the button-free chef coat she chose. Her warm complexion shines in the pale light of the alley, managing to look creamy instead of washed out like mine. Those good genes.
“Hey, Rach,” I greet.
She holds out the crumpled pack of cigarettes to me, a cursory gesture. I wave my hand, declining. Her eyes catch on the bandage. “How’s the finger?”
I glance down. The size of the bloodstain visible through the Band-Aid hasn’t changed much in the past minute, so I know it’s stopped bleeding. “I’ll live.”
“He was way out of line—you can’t send someone home for a knife slip.”
“Well, I’m sure you heard about the tomato compote fiasco,” I mutter and she huffs a laugh at my sarcasm. “I’d be surprised if the whole restaurant doesn’t know.”
She shakes her head. “He acts like he’s got a Michelin star or some shit. Yes, chef,” she mimics in an exaggerated, high pitch. “And that hat? Give me a fucking break.”
I sniff as the cold makes my nose run. “He’s just trying to elevate the environment. Prove he’s got standards or something.”
“He’s a misogynistic asshole on an ego trip who gets off making his staff jump through hoops. I keep telling Jack that he’s going to lose the few good people we have if he doesn’t put a leash on him.” She takes a huge drag and switches her hold on the butt so she’s gripping it with her thumb and index finger.
I lean against the building next to her, wrapping my coat around myself tighter as the wind whips through the alley. “Or he could just make you head chef,” I venture.
Rachel is level headed and wouldn’t create nearly such a toxic work environment. She doesn’t have quite the same creative eye, but she’s got a great palate and a knack for knowing when the fish guy is trying to sell us old sea bass.
She glances sideways at me. As the only women in the kitchen, we share a bond. As the only other woman in the kitchen, we both feel a little threatened by the other—probably me more than her, since she outranks me. But still, it’s a male-dominated industry and this restaurant is more of a boy’s club than others. We have a tenuous truce, and it feels stronger whenever we’re commiserating about the glass ceiling over our heads.
“You think Rob would share the kitchen with me?” she shakes her head. “They’d have to fire him and Jack’s not gonna do that. They go down the shore together every other weekend in the summer.”
I sigh. Sounds like sous chef isn’t going on my resume any time soon.
“What are you doing here, Ellie?” she asks, not unkindly, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. It swirls back around us in the wind, stinging my nose. I know she doesn’t mean the alley, even before she adds, “You’re too good to be on the line as long as you have. ”
The compliment warms me and brings a soft smile to my face. But self-doubt is icy, right on its heels, and I heave a sigh. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” I admit. “I’ve learned a lot here, but I don’t think I really want to be head chef. And not just here, I mean anywhere—I don’t think I can deal with that much stress.”
She looks at the butt in her fingers and flicks the ash off the end. I wish I smoked. This would be the perfect conversation to have while sharing a pack. I haven’t tried it, mostly because I’m worried about liking it. It seems like a slippery slope. Plus, it’s an expensive habit.
“So, what’re you gonna do, then? There’s only so many places to go in this industry, you know?”
“I just want… I want to cook on my terms, on my time, and see people enjoy what I make them. Somewhere without all the noise and drama.”
Rach coughs out a laugh. “Sounds too calm for me. I live for the rush; it’s like pure adrenaline.”
“I wish I felt that way,” I admit. “I thought something was wrong with me at first because I didn’t. I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal to feel like I’ve run a marathon when I get home most nights. Not that I’d know what that actually feels like…”
She laughs, and it’s a commiserative noise because neither does she with her pack-a-day lungs. After one more long drag, her break is over, so she stamps out the cherry until it becomes indistinguishable from the other, older cigarette litter at our feet.
“Well don’t wait too long to make a move. You’ll either burn out or get stuck,” she says, then regards me with a little nudge of her elbow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Tomorrow’s my day off, so I’ll see you Friday.” I’m a little pissed that I can’t veg on my couch in my underwear—and I’m certainly not touching anything in our motel room with my bare skin if I can help it—but a day off is a day off. Maybe I’ll go to the small local movie theater. They only play indie film festival contenders, usually with subtitles, which I find distracting. But it’s something to do.
Rach heads back inside and I hike my purse up on my shoulder. Without her presence, even though I’m six inches taller than her, the alley is just a long, dark, narrow space with way too many shadows. I feel exposed, like someone is watching. I reach inside my purse and grip the pepper spray as I make my way to the street.
It’s only 8:30, so though it’s pitch black, the street is bustling with activity in a way it isn’t at 11 PM. I release my death grip on the small canister and grab my phone instead. After this day, I need a caloric coma.
I text Harrison.
Got off early. Did you eat yet? I’m thinking Chinese. My treat.
If you can bring it here. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow that I forgot about.
I make a sympathetic face. He’ll probably have to pull an all-nighter.
I can do that.
You’re the best. Chicken with steamed broccoli, brown rice.
Man, I wish my Chinese food itch could be scratched by something that full of fiber.
It’s like thinking the word itch causes the reaction. My knee starts burning again and I stop, stepping off to the side so I’m not in anyone’s way, to reach down and rub it again. God, I want to scratch it. It’s becoming more persistent and I know I won’t be able to sleep without some relief.
Cortisone creams only do so much. What I really need is the expensive, prescription tube in my cabinet.
I pull my phone back out to dial my favorite—aka, the closest—Chinese restaurant, but pull up the browser instead. I type my question into the search bar and scroll through the top few suggested websites.
The internet is in general agreement that the chemicals used by exterminators can take anywhere from 24 to 72 hours to do their thing, and they tent the building to trap the vapors. Apparently, the fumigant evaporates six hours after the tent is removed and it’s safe to go back inside after that .
Hmm. I know we’re not supposed to come back until Friday morning, but maybe it’s just overkill so no one gets sued? And I’m going to pass right by it to get the food… If the building is tented, that would be obvious, right? If the tent is still up, I’ll just stop at the pharmacy that’s on the way and make do with the over-the-counter stuff.
With renewed purpose, I head in the direction of my apartment. It’s only a few blocks, and I’m nervous yet optimistic as my building comes into view. I could really use a win.
And luck is on my side! There’s no tent that I can see.
I scan the building. It looks so odd, completely dark like this—empty and kind of spooky. Usually at least one or two people have their lights on all night. I stop when my eyes reach the top floor, picking out my middle unit.
That’s weird. I could have sworn that I remembered to open my curtains. I always do before I leave for the day, otherwise my apartment gets musty. Well, I had been a tad rushed on my way out… exhibit A: forgot my meds.
The front door is blocked off with caution tape, and there’s a sign posted that I can see from where I am that says “Notice” in big block lettering. But I wasn’t going to use the front door anyway—since I’m technically not allowed in the building yet, I’m going to be sneaky. I go around to the back, where I know the security cameras are just for show, and check the door. It’s not even blocked off, which feels like a good sign that it’s safe to enter.
The hallway is so echo-y and creepy in the dark, it feels wrong to go traipsing around at full volume. I close the door quietly. When I’m not met with any strange smells, or weird feelings from inhaling the wrong fumes, I decide that 72 hours was definitely overkill. And, frankly, that pisses me off.
Of course not being sued takes priority over getting everyone back in the building. It’s just our homes and livelihood…
I get to the top floor, pleased that it doesn’t put me out of breath. I guess that’s what happens when you come home before the point of complete exhaustion at a physically taxing job.
My key ring isn’t fussy since I don’t have a car and I haven’t been anywhere cool enough in the world to justify the purchase of keychains to mark the memory. I find the only key easily, shove it into the lock, throw open the door and flip on the light, just as a loud bang permeates the stillness inside.
I freeze.
There’s a man.
There’s a man in my apartment.
My heart stutters and fear like I’ve never known grips me, locking me in place. My muscles seize and the blood drains from my face.
He turns, wide eyed, and my memory sparks. I know that face. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for two days. He’s not in his gray onesie, but the face poking out over his black long-sleeved shirt is unmistakable, if incomprehensible. Even without his thick-rimmed glasses, I know.
It’s Mac.
My instant reaction is a knee jerk apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just…” I trail off as my brain fully catches up. I’m no expert, but that’s some kind of long-barreled gun standing on a tripod, pointed out my window. That popping sound must have been… Oh God. “You’re not an exterminator.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
It’s like the sound of his voice is what breaks me from the spell my fear casts on me. Everything happens at once. Mac curses and launches himself away from the window. I turn on my heel and reach for the doorway, but I only get two steps past the threshold before something huge and heavy hits me from behind and we go crashing into the opposite wall. But my head doesn’t smack the plaster, because Mac’s beefy palm is wrapping around my mouth, cutting off my scream, and then I’m being dragged backwards.
The light is off again, so when the door closes, we’re in complete darkness.
I fight, pumping my legs and jerking my torso against the iron grip wrapped around me. I scream again hoarsely, the sound muffled by his hand.
“Shh! Shh—shut up!”
It happens so fast that I can’t keep up. One second, I’m flailing around like a madwoman and the next, I’m on the ground. A heavy weight comes down on top of me, and my arms are pulled behind my back. I hear the sharp, plastic zzzzzip of a zip-tie, and suddenly I can’t get my wrists apart. Once more, and my legs are immobile .
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Mac growls.
I clamp my lips together, though a pathetic whimpering noise still escapes my throat. He stands fluidly and crosses back over to the window. “I’m here,” I hear him say, like he’s reentering a room.
Uh, yeah, I know that… we’re the only ones in here…
“No, it’s—fuck. Fuck! Okay, on it.”
I officially know he’s not talking to me.
There’s a loud pop that makes me jump, then fear freezes my throat back up and the noises I’m making stop. Another pop, and the tears start falling silently from my cheeks to puddle on the laminate as I let my forehead rest on the floor. I’m going to die. He really is going to shoot me, right after he’s done shooting those poor other people.
“One in the stairwell,” he says. “I’ve got the guy on the roof. Come on, fucker… Just stick your head out, come on…” a few seconds later there’s another pop and Mac releases a heavy breath. Then another curse. “The car turned around. Get out of there. I know. I know! I’ll stay here and keep an eye. I know. Over and out.”
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is my wet, musical, shaky breaths. I don’t dare lift my head or move in any way—I don’t want to remind him I’m here. Not that he’d forget… But maybe if I don’t put up a fight, if I don’t do anything stupid, he won’t shoot me next.
I hear the floorboards creak as he gets up, then I feel Mac standing over me and I shrink into myself. It’s maybe not as much bravado as I’d like to believe I’d have, facing death, but at least I don’t pee myself? It doesn’t feel like much of a win when I’m just going to end up dead anyway.
But the bullet doesn’t come. Instead, I feel his arm work its way between me and the ground and I’m jerked back. I grunt as the pressure on my stomach forces the air out of my lungs, then shriek as I’m airborne.
He lifts me from the waist, tucking me against his side, and carries me over to the couch with a grunt of his own. I have enough deeply-held body stigma that, instead of just being afraid, I also distantly wonder how strong he must be to lift my dead weight off the floor… He drops me on the couch and I bounce on the cushion before falling back against my zip-tied hands.
“Sit. Stay,” he orders .
What’s next? Roll over? Speak? This motherfucker.
I keep my chin tucked, and after a few more shaky breaths that actually manage to level out my heart rate, I start stealing glances at him. There’s not much I can do, all trussed up like a damn turkey, but cooperating does seem like my best bet for survival. And if I do live, I want to make sure I remember enough to give an accurate description to the police.
He’s too much—he’s too big, his voice is too deep, his presence is too immense for my poor little apartment. This tiny room feels immeasurably smaller, like his head almost touches the ceiling and he could span the room if he stretched out both arms.
His utter masculinity feels completely out of place in such a jarring way, it’s uncomfortable. Not that I’ve never had a man here, though it has been a while…
I give up on subtlety and turn and face him fully, craning my head back to get another good look at his features. There’s a glow coming from whatever screen he’s got, so I can see in spite of the darkness. My eyes must have adjusted.
God, why did a man so fine have to end up being a killer?
He’s got stubble covering his jaw, but it’s obvious that the line of it is strong and prominent. Full lips with a deep Cupid’s bow are stretched tight in an anxious frown. His cheeks are hollow, carving up to the curve of cheekbones set under warm, chocolate brown eyes. I couldn’t see his hair earlier under the hat, but I can see it now, cut in one of those short-in-the-back-longer-on-top styles men get and a warm, light brown color.
He knows I’m looking at him, but he doesn’t look up from the scope to say, “You know, in some ways, I’m kind of like an exterminator.”
I look back down at my lap and squeeze my eyes shut.
Fuck. This is so bad.