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I mix him a dirty martini, wishing his usual was a beer or something so I could just pour it and get him out of my face. He takes advantage of every second it takes me to make his drink, chatting me up as if he thinks one day all this banter will pay off and I’ll drop my panties for him right here behind the bar.
“We landed a big contract at work today,” he tells me as he takes the drink, raising it in a silent cheer. “The one I was telling you about. You must be my lucky charm.”
Honestly, I don’t remember him telling me about any contract. I can’t even remember what he does for a living. Something middle-management, I think. Not the kind of thing you should be bragging about to a girl you’re trying to pick up in a bar.
I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of a glass shattering nearby makes me jump.
My heart lurches in my chest, slamming hard and fast against my ribs like a panicked animal. I stumble back a step and nearly trip on a box left on the floor behind the bar.
One of the drunk frat boys glances around with a sheepish expression, and Duke curses as he goes to clean it up.
Shit, Ayla. It’s okay. It’s just glass.
Greg is staring at me with furrowed brows, and I feel like my entire body has been dumped in a vat of ice water. I crouch down behind the bar, pretending to be
dealing with the fucking box. But instead, I close my eyes for a brief second, trying to slow my breath as it falls in hurried waves of anxiety.
Even now, sudden loud noises still send me over the edge. I’m much better than I was when I first left the hospital, much better than when I started working at Duke’s, but I’m not sure it’s something I’ll ever get over entirely.
When my heart returns to a more normal rhythm, I break down the box and take it into the alley out back, thankful for the small reprieve from Greg.
* * *
The city is an abandoned wasteland by the time I get off work. It’s well past two in the morning by the time Duke and I close shop. I didn’t anticipate it taking so long to clean up, but I should’ve known the bar would close late with several patrons too drunk to make it home.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” the gruff man says, slipping me my extra tips for the week.
“No problem.” I nod.
We part ways as I head down a shortcut toward my apartment, which is a few miles away. I’m tempted to take a cab home, but I know tomorrow I’ll regret spending the money if I do. Right now, my tips are my lifeline. I haven’t worked a temp job in weeks, so my supplemental income has been low. Between an empty fridge and a heater that never works, I can’t afford to be throwing money around unless I want to dip into my meager savings.
The walk home is eerily quiet as I take a familiar turn through another dark alley. This part of Halston isn’t as densely populated as other areas of the city, and it feels even more deserted this late at night.
I pull my jacket tighter around myself and pick up my pace, the sleeve on the right side dangling off my truncated arm.
Maybe I should’ve fucking taken a cab. I usually take the bus home, but the route was suspended this week because of construction. It’s too fucking far to be walking this late at night though.
As if called up by my paranoia, a faint sound reaches my ears. My footsteps stutter slightly as I glance around, goose bumps prickling over my skin.
Shit.
A man is walking up behind me at a fast clip, a loose hoodie pulled up over his head, obscuring his face. He’s not tall, but he’s got a solid frame, and his steps are purposeful as he approaches me.
My stomach clenches with fear, and I pick up my own pace, stepping off the curb to cross the street as I dig into my pocket for my keys. But before I can grab them, a heavy hand falls on my arm, yanking me back.
The man spins me to face him, shoving his hood off his head as he brandishes a knife at me. He’s bald, with patchy tufts of hair on either side of his head and the cracked teeth of a meth addict.
“Gimme your fuckin’ wallet, bitch.”
He waves the knife at me, taking a step closer as I step back. My feet trip over each other a little, and he slashes toward me in warning, the tip of the knife almost grazing my cheek.
I jerk back, then hold myself perfectly still, my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. If I make another sudden movement, I’ll pay for it with my blood.
“Okay. Okay, hold on.”
I’ve heard that in situations like these, you’re supposed to throw your wallet away instead of handing it over. The mugger will choose the money over you, giving you a few precious seconds to flee as he scrambles after it.
My stomach clenches as I think of the one irreplaceable item in my wallet, the thing that means more to me than any of my cards or cash combined.
