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He clears his throat, the background noise on the other side of the line suddenly quiet. “Have you fed?”
I stop mid-stride. A man grumbles as he weaves around me, his brows pinched in anger.
I inhale deeply, burying my emotions deeper. “Yes.”
Both Francis and Matthew exclaim. “Shit.”
“Rune had a girl ready for me when I got to his office. I don’t think I killed her, though.”
“You’d know if you drank more often. You can’t get fucked up if you have a tolerance.” Francis chides.
“Seriously, Sam. A taste every few days. That’s all you need.”
My nostrils flare as I exhale. “Yeah, yeah. I know. It was easier to space feedings out at home. Here, there are people everywhere. This whole fucking city smells like food.” I kick a discarded cardboard cup out of my path, stomping down the sidewalk again.
“Then it should be easier. One alleyway feeding every few days. You’ll be sharp and the Order won’t be able to control you by blood temptation. Simple.”
My throat constricts. “Fucking alleyway feedings? How low do you think I am?”
Francis’ carefree voice cuts back into the conversation. “Beats getting fucked up in front of the enemy. There aren’t any free roaming deer in New York, Sam. You’ll have to deal with it.”
Deal with it. Right.
My voice hardens. “Find someone to deliver my furniture.”
“Already on it,” Matthew calls out in the background.
I press the red button on my phone screen, ending the call.
4
Jane
UnknownNumber:Urgonnapay, bitch
I stare at the pixelated screen of my old government-issued smartphone, repeating the words in my head.Ur gonna pay, bitch.
Wrong number? Distant enemy from high school? Or the stupid patron who publicly harassed me last night?
I’m leaning towards Joey, the self-righteous pig of a customer.
If I could go back in time and burn his ten-dollar tips, I would. Well, maybe. I used those tips to buy wine some nights, and I’d probably not burn those.
But still, how fucking bonkers do you have to be?
The world warns women of men like him. Guys who give only when they think they’ll get something in return. As if my tips weren’tearned. I’m a damn good barista. My exceptional service alone brought in every single penny he gave.
Yet, when he grabs my ass from over the counter,I’mthe bitch.
The door dings with Stacy’s late arrival. I pocket my phone, smiling at her gratefully. Her resting bitch face remains until after she’s clocked in and guzzled half her mocha latte, as usual.
“Slow night?” She finally asks.
We both scan the empty, but spotless, lobby. I’ve scrubbed the corner tables to near perfection, a telltale sign of the stress I’ve endured. “Yeah. Regulars, mostly.”
She clucks her tongue. “Maybe the morning rush won’t be so bad then.”
I smile. “Maybe not.”
