CHAPTER 2
RUBY P.O.V.
I leaned heavily against the stainless-steel counter, my breath hitching as I shifted my weight from my left leg to my right.
My arches felt like they were literally collapsing under the pressure of a sixteen-hour double shift, the bones grinding together with every micro-movement.
I stared dead at the empty floor, eyes tracing the worn linoleum down to the gray subfloor in the exact spots where I spent most of my pathetic life standing.
The whole cafe was a sensory assault of cheap bullshit—the sharp, acidic sting of stale espresso grounds, the low dying-animal hum of the refrigeration unit, and the eye-watering stench of industrial-strength lemon bleach.
"Just ten more minutes," I muttered to the empty room, my voice raspy. "God, my feet are screaming."
I started picking at a stubborn, dried ring of syrup on the counter with a broken fingernail.
I dug at the edge until it chipped off into a fine white powder, brushing it away into the sink.
My brain was running frantic, chaotic math, calculating exactly how many hours of sleep I could get if I skipped a shower when I got back to my apartment.
Four hours and twelve minutes. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"Don't look at the clock, just wipe the counter."
I forced my eyes upward anyway. The circular clock above the door mocked me, the second hand ticking with an agonizing, stuttering rhythm.
Every single tick felt like a physical hammer to my lower back.
I realized I’d been standing in the exact same spot for three minutes straight, paralyzed by my own bone-deep fatigue.
I tried to crack my knuckles to relieve the stiff tension, but my hands were too swollen from hours submerged in scalding dishwater. The joints barely popped.
"Move, Ruby. Just move," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. "Close the register, prep the drops."
The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting a sickly green hue over everything and making my stomach roll.
The AC unit kicked in, blasting a sudden, sharp chill against the sweat pooling on my neck.
I grabbed a damp, graying rag and started scrubbing the pastry case.
My movements were entirely robotic, practiced, completely devoid of anything resembling a human soul.
I caught my reflection in the glass and looked away.
The dark circles under my hazel eyes looked like literal bruises, my dark brown hair hacked off unevenly and pulled back so tight it was giving me a migraine.
I noticed a small, jagged crack in the glass of the case and traced it with my pinky, wondering how long it would take before the whole structural integrity failed and shattered everywhere.
"Stupid glass," I muttered, tasting copper in the back of my throat. The metallic tang of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. "Clean enough for the morning crowd."
Down beneath the register, my phone erupted into a violent, aggressive vibration.
It skittered across the metal shelf, the sound echoing through the hollow, empty cafe like a gunshot.
The noise made my heart skip a jagged, painful beat.
I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the sharp edge of the espresso machine with a dull thud.
"Not now. Please, not now."
I glared down at the shelf, a cold knot of dread twisting in my gut.
I stayed completely still, counting the long, drawn-out buzzes, silently willing whoever was calling to just give up and leave me in the quiet I had broken my back for today.
I wrapped my arms around myself, physically bracing for the incoming bullshit.
The silence between the phone's vibrations felt ten times heavier than the noise itself.
The smell of burnt milk crusted on the steam wand wafted up, making me slightly nauseous.
"Go away," I told the floor. "I'm not here."
With a guttural sigh, I snatched the phone off the shelf.
The screen glowed bright and clinical in the dim lighting, the name DESMOND blinking like a fucking warning siren.
It was his fourth call in two hours. My stomach dropped to the floor.
I swiped a smudge of baking flour off the cracked screen, my thumb trembling just a fraction.
"What did you do this time, Des?"
My thumb hovered over the red decline button.
I thought about my banking app, sitting comfortably at forty-two dollars.
Rent was due in three days. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted fresh blood, letting the sharp sting ground me in reality.
I pulled the ratty hair tie off my wrist and snapped it hard against my skin, the bite clearing the fog of exhaustion in my brain.
"I can't. I literally can't."
I swiped the green icon and brought the phone up to my ear. I didn't say hello. I didn't breathe heavy. I just leaned my hip against the sharp corner of the counter, letting the metal dig into my hip bone, and waited for the absolute trainwreck of my brother's life to pour through the speaker.
The static hissed for a second. My own heart thumped a heavy, irritated rhythm against my ribs.
Desmond didn't start with a greeting. He led with a pathetic, ragged sob—a spineless sound that made my skin immediately crawl. He was hyperventilating, the wet, gasping panic filling the quiet space of my workplace and making the walls feel like they were closing in.
"Fal? Fal, are you there?" he choked out, his voice high-pitched and completely unhinged. "Oh god, Ruby, please help me."
I closed my eyes tight, my knuckles turning white as I death-gripped the phone. He was doing the wet cry. The same pathetic tactic he used when we were teenagers to get me to take the fall for his fuck-ups.
The words finally tumbled out of him in a frantic, sloppy rush.
He needed money. Five thousand dollars. He said the number like it was a casual favor, like he was asking me to spot him for a goddamn coffee, completely ignoring the fact that I hadn't seen five thousand dollars in a single pile in my entire life.
I let out a short, dry laugh that sounded more like a cough.
"I need it tonight, Fal. They’re outside," he rambled, sniffing loudly. "Just five thousand. I'll pay you back, I swear on Mom's grave."
I dragged my finger along a deep scratch in the metal counter, tracing the jagged line back and forth.
"Say something! Ruby, please!" he yelled, voice cracking. "They’re going to hurt me."
Desmond gasped, his breath hitching as his voice dropped to a terrified, desperate whisper.
"The Velvet Ring, Fal. Do you know who they are?
" He didn't wait for an answer. "They don't take 'later' for an answer.
Suits, Fal. Guys in suits that cost more than our old house.
They have these eyes... like glass. Dead. They're going to kill me."
The name dropped out of his mouth and hung there.
The Velvet Ring. It sounded like a luxury hotel, but the sheer terror radiating through the phone made it sound like a death sentence.
It was just another syndicate. Another debt.
It was always a different name, a different bookie, a different group of violent men, but the story never changed.
I shifted my weight to my other foot, a sharp, stabbing pain lancing straight up my right calf.
I stared out the front window at the neon 'Closed' sign, the blue and red tubing flickering with a faint, buzzing hum.
The threat of violence against my own flesh and blood should have sent me into a panic.
It should have had me emptying my nonexistent savings.
But I was just too profoundly fucking empty to care anymore.
"No, Desmond," I said. My voice was low, flat, and hard as the tiled floor. "Not this time. The answer is no."
I stood up straight, pulling my shoulders back despite the immediate burn in my lat muscles.
The panic in his voice vanished, instantly replaced by sheer venom. The victim act dropped, and the manipulator clawed his way to the surface. "You’re just going to let them kill me? Mom would be ashamed of you, Ruby! You promised her! You always were the cold one, you selfish bitch."
I gripped the edge of the counter so hard my fingernails left tiny, crescent-shaped indentations in the soft aluminum.
"I gave you my last hundred dollars a month ago, Des," I cut him off, my voice surgically precise.
I reached down and started untying the tight knot of my apron, the rough fabric finally loosening around my ribs.
"You said it was for rent. Was it? Was that rent, Des?
Or did you hand my electric bill to a bookie? Don't lie to me. Not anymore."
Desmond started stammering, a frantic flurry of bullshit excuses and half-truths bleeding into one another. He was backpedaling, trying to find a new angle to make me the villain of his miserable existence.
I tossed the damp rag into the plastic laundry bin with a satisfying thwack. The smell of stale bleach and sour milk hit my nose.
"I don't care what you said it was for," I talked right over his spiraling excuses, my voice rising just enough to drown him out. "It doesn't matter anymore. I'm empty, Desmond. There's nothing left for you to take. Don't call me again."
I looked down at my hands. They were red, raw, and shaking slightly from the adrenaline crash. I clenched them into tight fists.
"Ruby! RUBY—"
He screamed my name like an animal caught in a trap.
I didn't listen to the rest of it. I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at my own exhausted, dead-eyed reflection in the black screen as the call remained connected for a half-second longer.
His begging became a tiny, tinny noise buzzing against my palm.
I stabbed the red 'End Call' button.
The silence that followed was immediate, crushing, and absolute.
It rushed back into the cafe, filling my ears and making my head spin.
I stood completely frozen in the center of the room behind the register, the phone a dead weight hanging at my side.
A single drop of cold sweat rolled all the way down my spine, making me violently shiver.
I let out a long, shuddering breath. The last dregs of adrenaline evacuated my system in a rush, replaced by a fatigue so crippling I had to reach out and grab the counter edge just to keep my knees from buckling.
"Jesus."
I dropped the phone onto the metal counter with a hollow clatter.
I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands until I saw white-hot stars exploding in the darkness behind my eyelids.
The clicking of the cooling system and the distant hum of the streetlights outside were the only things keeping me grounded.
"I'm alone. Good," I muttered, turning off the main overhead light switch. The cafe plunged into a gray, streetlamp-lit dimness.
I turned and grabbed my worn-out canvas jacket from the hook on the wall.
My fingers fumbled with the cheap metal zipper, my coordination totally shot.
I shoved my hands into the pockets and felt a single nickel.
I rolled the tiny piece of metal between my thumb and index finger. My total liquid assets.
"See you tomorrow, hellhole."
I walked into the tiny, cramped back room where the employee lockers were shoved against the wall.
It smelled like damp winter coats and old, wet sneakers.
I didn't even have the energy to open the combination lock and grab my tote bag.
I just leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the cool, dented metal of locker number four.
I let my entire body weight hang against the handle, the cheap metal groaning under the pressure.
"Please," I whispered to the empty, dark room. "Just let me sleep."
I didn't cry. Crying was a waste of hydration and energy I absolutely didn't have.
I just stood there in the dark, staring at the vents on the locker door.
I had to walk five blocks back to my apartment.
I had to be back here in eight hours to open the registers.
That was the only reality that mattered right now.