Chapter 21
Alani
“So about tonight?”
I glance at Mark over my shoulder. I know I should feel something with the way he’s smiling at me. He’s a nice guy, and maybe that’s the problem. Even before Donavan, I wasn’t exactly interested in nice guys.
“I’m not dating.”
“You’re too young to not be dating,” he says, but all I do is shake my head and continue wiping down the table.
“I just got out of something serious.”
“You’ve been working here and single for two months.”
I stand, twisting the cleaning cloth in my hands as I turn around to face him.
I know he thinks he’s being charming, and the flirting he’s prone to do is good for my self-esteem, but at some point, he’s going to have to understand I’m not the type of girl that can be chipped away at until I agree.
If anything, he’s going to really start to annoy me, and I’m going to jump in his shit.
Then he’ll think I’m an asshole because he can’t seem to take no for an answer.
“Look, I said from the beginning I’m not looking for anything but friends.”
“With benefits?” he asks, his smile growing as his eyebrows wave up and down comically.
“No.” My answer is flat, and the playful look in his eyes fades away quickly.
“Oh, you’re serious.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve been serious this entire time.”
“Well, shit,” he says, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I thought you were playing hard to get. You’re not interested?”
I clamp my lips together and shake my head.
“Fuck, sorry. Now I feel like an asshole.”
I don’t tell him it’s okay and that it’s no big deal, but I know most people would. It’s almost ingrained to apologize or minimize when someone reacts the way he just did, but I’ve been working on not making excuses any longer and that includes doing it for others.
He watches me as if he’s waiting for me to tell him I’m just kidding and agree to go to dinner with him.
“Was there anything else?”
“Table eight needs tartar sauce.”
I nod before walking away. The man has been bugging me for ten minutes while one of my customers has just been sitting there watching us chat. It frustrates the hell out of me because now he’s messing with my tips.
After grabbing the sauce, I drop it off at table eight with an apology. The man is already halfway through his catfish dinner, and the curt nod he gives me translates into no tip.
I step into the back of the diner and press my back to the wall.
I hate this constant feeling that nothing is right. I’ve fought it for more than a year.
School wasn’t right, so after my grades dropped to the point I couldn’t get them back up for the fall semester no matter how hard I tried, I dropped out. Ayla was livid, but she still offered me a place to stay. I wanted to turn her down, but the idea of being homeless sucked even more.
This job has allowed me to save some money, but thinking I’ll be able to work here and afford a place on my own is impossible without having to live in a dangerous neighborhood. The thought of that still sends a thrill up my spine, so I know it’s a bad idea and one I need to avoid.
I know I’ll have to go back to school. Working at a diner for the rest of my life isn’t going to cut it, and it’s immature to throw away the chance to make more money.
A college degree will increase the chances of me doing that, but I’m not even remotely thrilled that I’ll be returning to Lindell in just over a week for the beginning of the spring semester.
“Think you can work the morning shift tomorrow?” Mark asks, unwilling to give me just a couple of minutes alone.
“I can,” I quickly agree.
“You’re sure? You worked doubles the last three days.”
“Yet you’re asking me to work another one,” I remind him. “But I don’t mind. I need the money.”
Sunday morning is great for tips. It’s a combination of folks heading to church and a crowd of those trying to remedy their hangovers with greasy food.
He nods before walking away. As much as I’d like to hang out in the back until my shift ends in twenty minutes, I have tables to clear.
The man at table eight hands me a twenty when I go to drop off his ticket and tells me to keep the change. I feel lucky for the three dollars left over, especially after the issue with the tartar sauce.
As I clean away his dishes, I think, not for the first time, about getting a second job.
I’m exhausted after being on my feet all day, but avoiding Nash and Ayla’s house is appealing.
I’ve tried putting myself in my sister’s shoes.
I’ve tried imagining Donavan in his place because I know he could probably do exactly what Nash did.
I get what happened was something neither of them could control, but I don’t know that I’d want to stick around and make a life with a man who was forced to hurt me.
I shake my head, trying to rid it of those thoughts. Their relationship doesn’t matter to me. I have no right to judge. I’m not in the habit of picking the most stable guys either, and it’s this reasoning that has helped me at least school my face better when I’m at home.
I know Nash is doing my sister a favor, and he isn’t exactly impressed with me nor my presence in his space. Then again, maybe I’m jealous that he’s so territorial and protective over her. Maybe I want that. I know Ayla deserves it. He gives her what she needs, and I don’t get an opinion about it.
I count out and leave before Mark can ask me to stick around to help close. I wouldn’t mind the work, but having to listen to him beg to take me out again would probably push me over the edge.
I feel it the second I step outside, and the way the hairs on my arms stand up scares me.
The men around here are creepy as hell, and that’s just part of working in a diner that is frequented by people who just want to eat and go about their business. The place isn’t exactly making the news for delicious food and exciting ambiance.
Those men usually stare or make comments.
They’re quick to flirt and say suggestive things.
I’ve learned in the months working here that the majority of them are more likely to say something and then leave to go to the bar in town or pass out in their trucks in the parking lot than attempting to hurt someone who worked there.
We deal a lot in regulars, and they aren’t going to ruin their chance for an $8.
99 chicken dinner with two sides and a biscuit just to cop a feel of one of the waitresses.
Tonight feels different. The air is charged, the shadows in the parking lot stretching longer than I remember them ever doing.
I haven’t looked for trouble in a very long time. That night in Austin was too close of a call, and the look in Donavan’s eyes when he took me back to my dorm told me he was done. As much as I wanted him to chase me, I wasn’t exactly interested in ending up in someone else’s crosshairs.
He swore he wouldn’t follow me again, warned me against putting myself in danger, but I feel his eyes on me as I walk to the car Nash has let me borrow for work.
I slow my steps, that part of me I’ve worked so hard to shove down beginning to bubble up again.
Darkness engulfs me as a shadow covers my back, and I can see my reflection in the driver’s side window. My eyes are wide, a certain kind of thrill in them. God, I’ve missed this feeling.
The man steps closer, his face visible beside mine. It’s not him. It’s not Donavan.
I open my mouth to scream, but his hand roughly clasps over my face, and I feel the prick at the side of my neck before I can fight him off. My heart is pounding, knowing what’s coming, but it’s already too late.
I changed. I did what he told me to do, and yet I still end up exactly how he predicted.
***
Fear and tangible terror wake me up. There’s a tremble that feels bone-deep in my hands, arms, and legs. It’s reminiscent of standing in the freezing snow with no jacket. The cold feels as if it will never dissipate.
Surprisingly, my arms aren’t tied down, but they feel heavy as if weighed down by bricks.
I try to hold in the whimpers threatening to bubble out of me, but I’m not completely successful as I try to take in my surroundings and finding it impossible in the nearly pitch-black room.
The only light penetrating the room is coming from under the door.
I have no way of knowing if it’s nighttime still or if I’ve been out for more than a day.
My clothes still carry the stench of the diner, and they’re fully intact.
The clench of my thighs and the absence of pain there make me believe I wasn’t raped by the man who took me.
I sit up on the edge of the bed, wondering what kind of kidnapper takes me to a house with fresh smelling sheets. My stomach twists, the threat of getting sick in the back of my throat, but I force it down.
I know I need to leave the room, to get away, but I have no idea what I’m going to find on the other side of the door.
I sit on the bed for a long time, seeing a shadow pass through the light coming from the other side of the door, fearful of whoever it is coming in the room and finding me awake, but I can’t lie back down and pretend to be asleep still. It makes me even more vulnerable.
Eventually, I stand, taking more deep breaths as dizziness makes my head spin.
I don’t know where I find the bravery to cross the room and reach for the doorknob, but somehow I manage it. I send up a quick prayer that whoever has me doesn’t shoot me on the spot as I twist the knob.
The door opens into a small, tidy living room.
There aren’t a group of gangbangers sitting around drinking and playing cards as cigar smoke swirls overhead.
There aren’t lines of cocaine on the coffee table.
The room isn’t strewn with debris, and there isn’t a half-naked woman passed out on the couch.
It seems normal.
And that, in this situation, isn’t normal.
I know not to fall into the trap of allowing movies and television series to dictate my expectations but I can’t seem to help it.
A noise down the narrow hallway draws my attention. I don’t know if it’s the drugs I was injected with or what, but instead of heading out of the unguarded front door, I turn in that direction. Maybe there’s a false sense of security in the clean little house, but the fear I woke up with is fading.
I may be making the biggest mistake of my life, a decision that will end it faster, but there isn’t a voice in my head telling me to bolt when I push open the other door in the hallway.
I’m struck with several things at the same time, my senses overwhelmed and leaving me speechless.
First, is the sight of a shirtless Donavan standing in the middle of the room, the scent of clean sweat on his skin washing over me.
Next, I see a man tied to a chair with blood coating his skin. His eyes are swollen nearly shut, but I can tell it’s the same man who I saw in the reflection before I was injected.
“You need to go back to the bedroom,” Donavan growls at me as he lowers a very large knife back down to the man’s chest. “I’ll deal with your ass after I deal with his.”
The man barely flinches when the knife cuts into his skin.
I’m stuck in place, unable to move.
“You’re not going to want to stick around for this,” he says, sneering over his shoulder at me.
“Probably not,” I tell him, but my feet don’t move. “But I’m not leaving.”