Page 42 of Dark Ugly Places

Bambi darts outside, her heels clicking heavily against the floor, then the pavement of the street as she reaches the valet. She hands him her ticket. “We need the car immediately,” she tells him. “It’s an emergency.”

The valet grabs her keys and takes off running while Bambi waits and watches the sun drift past the horizon, a small vapor of smog tinting the sky a dark, hazy orange. Overhead, the moon and stars have started to peek through. Cars honk loudly, and faces stare at her on the street corner.

In moments, the white Wraith appears and breaks her reverie. Bambi throws herself inside toward the central compartment and grabs Jason’s EpiPen, prepping it as she runs back inside and shoves through the crowd that’s formed around Jason, who’s now clinging to Bruce, his lips swollen. Bruce turns to the two security guards rushing toward them and points to the cameras filming everything. “Get them out of here! Now!”

Bambi runs to Jason and shoves the EpiPen in his hands. Jason shuts his eyes, stabs himself in his thigh, and then crumples out of Bruce’s arms and falls to the ground. He breathes heavily, and Bambi takes his hand.

“Can someone get him a wet towel?” she shouts.

“Yes!” Bruce answers. “A little help over here!” he calls to one of the nearby servers, who rushes over with a damp cloth for Jason’s head.

The whole restaurant turns quiet. Someone lowers the music. Hushed whispers and stares encircle them. Bambi can practically see the headlines already. Her skin crawls as she thinks back to the moments before, as she prodded Jason about his film. Playfully, but still. She knows now what’s done is done. And he won’t see it that way.

“Should we call an ambulance?” someone in the crowd says.

“No,” Jason replies. “I’m fine. I’m going to be fine now.”

He sits up and meets her eyes with a slow-burning rage. Bambi feels herself backing away. “I think I’ll go find the ladies’ room,” she says and makes her way through the crowd of ogle-eyed wannabes and hangers-on. Her stomach turns as she passes them, avoiding eye contact.

In the back, she finds the women’s restroom and heads inside. Double sinks. Low lighting. The scent of floral air freshener. She leans against the counter for a moment, bracing herself, steadying her breath.

She flicks open her purse and fishes for the little gold compact and checks for the tiny blue pill waiting for her inside.

19

Nicola

The staff entrance is in the back, where there are a few parking spaces and a couple of closed dumpsters. I hesitate for a moment, then head inside the back of the restaurant. As my eyes adjust, I can just make out the storeroom area, the noise and bright lights of the kitchen ahead of me on the left, with the scent of fried food and booze in the air. Ahead of me, voices and commotion are coming from the main restaurant area. At the very corner of the bar, a server sets down her tray and strides toward me, removing her apron. She eyes me and shakes her head. “It’s a shit show in there,” she whispers.

“What is?”

“The whole scene.” She lowers her voice and comes nearer to me. “Jason Redfern just freaked out in front of everyone. The manager fired me and two kitchen staff.”

“What happened?”

She shrugs, not focusing. “I don’t know. It’s not my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know Jason Redfern had a shellfish allergy?”

She throws her apron into a box of canned tomatoes next to me, then pulls off the tie of her uniform. She starts unbuttoning her black shirt, revealing a white tee shirt beneath it, and tosses that in, too. She straightens herself, sighs, and checks her phone. “Are you working?”

“Yes,” I answer without thinking.

She laughs. “Well, good luck.”

She pushes open the back door and leaves. The pile of her uniform clothes in the box next to me seems to be calling me. My ears prickle. Martha is still close enough to pay attention.

Yes. Do it.

My hands take up the clothes, thick and starchy, and I make my way into the ladies’ room, trying not to be seen.

In the oversized corner stall, I whip off my sweaty clothes and sniff my armpits. Quickly, I dart over to the sink in my underwear and scrub myself down. The door swings open, and high heels clip toward me, so I dart back into the stall and close the door behind me.

Sitting on the toilet seat, I pull my feet up and peek through the gap of the stall’s door at the woman standing near the sink. A deep, long sigh emanates from her. She opens her purse and takes something out. She examines her face in the mirror and steps back. She puckers her lips, checks out her rear end, and then turns, pruning her hair with her fingers, each hand glittering with a perfect manicure and several large diamonds.

Another long sigh escapes her, then a mumble. “Geez, Bruce.”

I freeze, realizing she thinks she’s alone. I still my breathing and listen as the door swings open and more footsteps approach. She straightens further and runs the tap. She washes her hands, even though she didn’t use the restroom.

A new voice, light and colorful like a TV personality, echoes. “Oh my God, is he okay?”