Jhene
SIX
When we leave the Banshee, I expect Killian to drag me back to his cramped studio apartment. Instead he steers me down the block in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” I quicken my pace, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
“You’ll see.”
As helpful as always.
A few minutes later, we stop at a corner street diner that has specks of dried grease on the windows and a poster advertising a French toast special.
The name of the place according to the sign out front? Simply and aptly named DINER.
Killian holds the door open and jerks his chin for me to go inside.
I hesitate on the threshold, still confused. “I thought we were going to your place.”
“We are. After.”
“After what?”
“After you stop asking so many goddamn questions and sit your ass down.”
I’m tempted to argue, but I settle on a scowl speaking for me. Just so he knows he’s not the only one who knows how to make moody faces.
The diner is basically empty this time of night. Only a man in a trucker’s hat sits at the counter, hunched over a plate of steak and eggs like it’s the best meal of his life. An exhausted-looking waitress is behind the counter refilling his coffee.
Otherwise, it’s just me, Killian, and the awkward air that exists between us.
We settle into one of the vinyl booths by the window, the cheap seats squeaking under us we plop down.
Killian once again manages to make something sized for a normal adult human look comically small.
He’s obviously familiar with this place, snatching one of the laminated menus from the napkin holder on the table. We’re silent as he studies the menu, and I sit across from him still unsure what the hell’s going on.
I have no money to pay for this meal. The little money I do have is going toward my plans for Eva. I can’t spare anything for this diner, even the $8.99 French toast special advertised in the window.
The waitress from behind the counter makes her way over to us. She’s young, with a septum piercing and her hair in a loose ponytail, probably a college student working the late shift to pay for textbooks and ramen. She pulls a notepad from her apron and offers us a weary smile.
“What can I get you?”
Killian glances at me. “What do you want?”
The question catches me off guard. I blink at him as if he’s asked a question in another language. My mind’s gone blank as I try to make sense of what he means.
What do I want?
I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that. When I was with Fedorov, I ate what he told me to eat. There was no menu or room for preferences. Just whatever plate was put in front of me, consumed in silence while he leered.
I wasn’t allowed an opinion on the food. I wasn’t allowed an opinion on anything.
The last time I ordered for myself off a restaurant menu, I was fourteen and Mom had taken me out for my birthday...
“I’ll… um, have whatever you’re having,” I finally croak. I’m vaguely aware how small and pitiful I sound.
Killian’s heavy brow furrows as if he’s once again thinking about how difficult I make everything. He heaves a ragged breath, though doesn’t push the issue any further.
“Two bacon and eggs specials scrambled easy. Orange juice for me,” he grunts. Then he juts his chin at me. “You want orange juice?”
Still unsure, I manage a nod.
“Two orange juices.”
The waitress scribbles it down and shuffles off toward the kitchen, leaving us alone again.
That’s when it hits me, and I finally get why we’re here.
He knows I’m hungry.
It’s been almost three days since my last real meal.
Three days of surviving on vending machine chips, stale pretzels from the pub, and half a brownie Bridget decided she was done with.
I’d watched her set it down on the bar, stomach aching from hunger, and then shoved the whole thing in my mouth before she could toss it in the trash.
I’ve grown so used to being hungry in recent months it’s become my normal. It’s almost stranger to feel full, as disturbing as that sounds.
Killian must’ve somehow noticed. Maybe my stomach’s been growling louder than I realized.
But it doesn’t even matter how he’s figured it out—it makes me uncomfortable just the same. I shift in my seat and divert my gaze to the grease-speckled window.
It’s obviously a sign of kindness for him to take me out to grab a bite. He’s a gruff and foul-mouthed boxer who also works for the Irish mob. Yet he’s given me a roof over my head (even if I didn’t ask for it), and now he’s feeding me.
It’s just that… in my experience, when men do nice things for you, they expect something in return. Usually things you’d never want to give them. A lesson I learned very early in life.
Still, I should be grateful for the food. I should cool it with the attitude, at least for now.
“How’d things go with Tom today?” Killian asks, breaking the silence.
I shrug, tracing a crack in the table with my fingernail. “I’m on thin ice. If I keep fucking up, Tom’ll fire me.”
“He’s not gonna fire you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says plainly. “Even if he tries, I’ll see to it you keep your job. You’re not going anywhere.”
I study him for a second, trying to figure out his angle.
Killian has sway with Tom, more than probably anyone else who walks through the Banshee’s doors. If he says I’m keeping my job, then I’m keeping my job.
…but why does he care?
Before I can ask, the waitress returns with two steaming plates of bacon and eggs, setting them down in front of us along with our glasses of OJ.
The smell hits me so powerfully, it’s almost enough to make me lightheaded from how good it is.
It’s another reminder how starved I am.
Killian picks up his fork and digs in without a word, shoveling eggs into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days either. But when he notices I haven’t touched my plate, he pauses.
“What’re you waiting for?” he asks around a mouthful of food.
“I… I… can’t pay for this.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me. Stuff your face.”
I hesitate a second longer, heart thudding faster as once again my cautious nature warns me about accepting things from men. Even men claiming to help me.
Then my stomach aches, and I remind myself I have no room to be choosy.
I need this meal, or I’ll probably be passing out from starvation soon.
I pick up a strip of bacon and take a bite.
The crispy, salted meat hits my taste buds like the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. After how little I’ve been eating, it honestly tracks.
It’s so good, I quickly go from hesitant and cautious to losing control.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stuffed the rest of the strip into my mouth and I’m reaching for the eggs, scooping them onto my fork and shoveling them in my mouth even faster than Killian.
I tear off a piece of the toast that’s come with the meal and cram that into my mouth too. I haven’t even swallowed the eggs yet, but it doesn’t matter. I’m eating like an animal with no table manners whatsoever, but I literally can’t stop myself.
Now that I’ve had a taste of real food, it’s as if my body has gone into survival mode, demanding I basically lick the plate clean.
“Damn girl,” Killian says, and I freeze mid-bite.
He’s eyeing me with a cocked brow, a torn piece of bacon between his fingers. He almost sounds… amused?
“People usually think I’m the barbarian,” he goes on. “Good to know I’ve got competition.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I force myself to slow down, setting my fork on the edge of my plate. “Oh… sorry. I didn’t realize I was so hungry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He goes back to his own food, his husky tone surprisingly gentle. “The food’s not going anywhere. If you’re ever hungry, just tell me. I’ll get you something to eat.”
I nod, but I can feel my walls going back up.
Fedorov told me anything I wanted I could have too; he made it seem as if he was so kind and compassionate in the beginning.
That me and Eva weren’t in danger at all. That we were just temporarily in his custody while Mom figured things out.
Back then, I was naive enough to believe him.
Almost ten years later, I’m left with heavy dread filling me up. I can’t ever let my guard down, no matter what.
“Why’d you pick the Banshee?” Killian asks suddenly. “Out of all the places you could’ve gone, why there?”
It’s a reasonable question. One I should’ve expected. But I’m not about to tell him the truth. He doesn’t need to know more about me than what’s absolutely necessary.
“It was the only place that would hire me,” I say.
It’s not entirely a lie. Only halfway. “I had no experience and no references. I didn’t even have a home address to give.
Most places aren’t willing to hire someone who’s never had a job as an adult and has no real resumé.
Tom was the only one willing to give me a shot. ”
Killian grunts, seeming to accept this.
“For what it’s worth,” I add , “I didn’t mean to become a problem you feel like you have to fix. That wasn’t my intention.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his bearded jaw. “I know that. It’s obvious you’ve been through hell. But it doesn’t make things any less complicated.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I just finish my eggs in silence.
He’s right. Things are complicated. More complicated than he even knows.
…and they’re only going to get worse.
The sound of the city bus rumbling past the studio window wakes me up the next morning. The brakes squeal as the bus makes its stop at the corner, and a few cars honk their horns as if in protest.
I jolt awake, blinking rapidly against morning sunlight. It’s bright enough I’m instantly able to recognize it must be late in the morning.
How long was I even asleep?
I’m so drowsy it takes me a few seconds to piece everything together.
Last night when we made it back to the studio, Killian insisted I take his bed. He grunted that it had been obvious I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a while, and that he was waking early for the gym anyway.
I would’ve normally been obnoxiously stubborn about it, but I was too exhausted to put up a fight. The second my head hit the pillow, I was out.