BABY GIRL

10.

Maggie

I don’t even have time to breathe, let alone change.

By the time Ana and I kick off our shoes at the front door, I’m already taking the stairs two at a time.

“You literally just walk inside!” she yells after me.

“I have a shift!” I shout back, throwing open the closet doors.

“You work too much!”

“I also enjoy having food in the fridge!”

I hear her let out a loud, dramatic groan from the living room.

“Wow. Personally attacked in my own home.”

I grin to myself, pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail and scrambling into a pair of black jeans.

When I turn around, Ana is leaning against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, watching me with a judgmental squint.

“Are you seriously leaving right this second?”

“My shift starts at five, Ana. I’m already cutting it close.”

“You’re going to miss dinner.”

“I’ll grab a protein bar. Don’t worry about me.”

She doesn’t move.

Her squint deepens.

“I don’t like that place, Mags.”

“It’s a café.”

“At night, though. It changes.”

“It’s still just a café. They sell lattes, not contraband.”

She narrows her eyes, completely unconvinced.

“You’re hiding something.”

“Yeah, I’m hiding the fact that you’re turning into a nosy old lady.”

I grab a stray throw pillow from the bed and chuck it at her.

It misses by a mile, hitting the wall behind her.

“Bye, weirdo,” she laughs, dodging out of the way.

“Bye.”

I hurry downstairs, nearly flattening David as he’s walking through the front door.

He catches me by the elbow before either of us loses our balance.

“Heading out to work?” he asks, a warm smile on his face.

“Yep. Just on my way.”

“Don’t stay out too late, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Another lie to add to the collection.

My shift doesn’t actually end until well after midnight.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

No one in this house does.

***

By six o’clock, the place is pumping.

The music isn’t quite deafening yet, but it’s loud enough that customers have to lean halfway over the bar just to scream their drink orders at me.

Officially, the sign out front calls the place a lounge café.

Unofficially?

Everyone knows people only come here to get loaded.

“Table seven needs their round!” one of the floor staff yells.

“Got it!”

I slide two cocktails across the polished wood, and my manager, Vince, catches one of them without even looking.

“Look at you, getting faster,” he grunts as he wipes down the taps.

“Turns out desperation is a great motivator.”

He lets out a short laugh.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Working here is loud, sweaty, and stressful.

But the tips are insane.

And those tips are eventually going to pay my rent.

Or at least…

That’s the dream I keep telling myself.

The next two hours disappear in a blur of tearing receipts, scooping ice, cracking open bottles, and trying to ignore the bass vibrating through my sneakers.

A group of college kids waves me down.

Then another.

I’m running on pure muscle memory until a sharp whistle cuts through the noise right in front of me.

“Well, well. Look who it is.”

I wipe my hands on my apron and look up.

Great.

Just great.

It’s the blond basketball player from our school. What was him name again? Gary or Bruce?

The exact same guy Nate nearly chokes unconscious a few days ago.

He’s swaying slightly on his feet, his eyes bloodshot and heavy.

Definitely drunk.

A smug smirk creeps onto his face.

“I know you.”

I don’t answer.

Instead, I pick up a clean glass and start polishing it.

“You’re that girl,” he continues, leaning over the bar.

“Nate’s girlfriend, right?”

I let out a sharp snort.

“Not even close.”

“Then why’re you always hanging around his family?”

“Because I work here. And right now, I’m working. Do you want a drink or are you just window shopping?”

“I didn’t ask where you work, switchblade.”

I lean in a little closer, keeping my voice low and flat.

“You’re a junior in high school, remember.”

His smirk falters.

His shoulders stiffen.

“So?”

“So maybe stop announcing it in a crowded bar.”

He tries to recover, letting out a loud, fake laugh.

“What, you threatening me?”

“No.”

I hold his gaze.

“But if you keep making a scene and drawing attention to yourself, I’m going to ask security to check your ID.”

The color drains from his face instantly.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

For a second, I think his bruised ego is going to make him push it further.

Instead, he mutters a pathetic curse under his breath, shoves his hands into his pockets, and disappears back into the crowd.

Problem solved.

Or so I think.

Not even five minutes later, Vince practically drops a tray of clean glasses behind the bar.

He grabs my shoulder, his face completely white.

“Maggie.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“The cops.”

My stomach does a violent freefall.

“What do you mean, the cops?”

“They’re at the front checking IDs. Someone called in an anonymous tip about underage drinking.”

The entire room shifts in a heartbeat.

The DJ cuts the music.

The house lights slam on with a blinding flash.

The sudden silence is terrifying.

Then someone near the back screams,

“Fire exit!”

Instant bedlam.

Half the crowd surges toward the back alley, knocking over stools and smashing glasses.

The other half panics and tries to force their way through the front doors where the police are already standing.

Security is completely overwhelmed.

“Walk!”

“Don’t run!”

“Calm down!”

Nobody listens.

Vince grabs my arm, his grip tight.

“Go. Get out of here.”

“What? What about the bar?”

“Maggie, go!”

He pushes me toward the back hallway.

“I’m aware that you lied on your employment tax form. If they start running names and asking questions, we’re both completely screwed.”

That’s all the convincing I need.

I turn and run.

The narrow back hallway is a bottleneck of sweating, panicking teenagers.

I fight my way through the crush.

Someone’s elbow catches me in the ribs.

Someone else trips over a trash can right in front of me.

The second I burst through the heavy metal fire door, the freezing night air slaps me across the face.

Run.

Just run.

Footsteps pound on the asphalt behind me, echoing off the brick walls of the alley.

“Police! Stop right there!”

I don’t dare look back.

I lower my head and sprint past overflowing dumpsters, leap over a massive puddle, and throw myself around the corner into a dark side street.

If I can just make it to the main avenue, I can blend in.

Maybe I can—

“Miss!”

I ignore it.

“Miss! Stop running!”

Not a chance.

My lungs burn.

A sharp cramp stabs into my side.

I’m barely five feet from the next intersection when a hand clamps firmly around my wrist.

It isn’t violent enough to yank my arm out of its socket.

But it’s completely unyielding.

I spin around, trying to pull myself free, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Let go of me!”

“You done running yet?”

The cop holding me is breathing hard too, but he barely looks winded.

He’s young. But obviously older than I am.

Maybe twenty-five or twenty-six.

Dark curly hair. Caramel skin

Broad shoulders.

The second I stop thrashing, his grip loosens to a polite but firm hold on my jacket sleeve.

“You’re fast,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“You’re annoying,” I snap back, trying to hide how terrified I am.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a reluctant half-smile.

“I’ve been called worse.”

He glances toward the club.

“You work there, right? I saw you behind the bar.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then why do you bolt out the back door like a bank robber?”

I open my mouth to come up with a brilliant excuse.

My brain completely short-circuits.

Nothing comes out.

“Exactly,” he says, his smile fading into a tired sigh.

He studies my face in the dim light.

“You look about sixteen.”

“I’m eighteen,” I lie, pulling my shoulders back to look taller.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

He nods once.

“Let me see some ID.”

Everything inside me turns to ice.

The fake birthday I use only exists on a forged employment form sitting inside Vince’s office filing cabinet.

I freeze.

Unable to move.

The officer’s expression changes.

The amusement disappears completely.

Replaced by cold, professional curiosity.

“ID,” he repeats, his voice quieter this time.

I swallow the massive lump in my throat.

“I… I leave my wallet at home. I forget it.”

He holds my gaze for three agonizing seconds, letting the silence do all the talking.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he unclips the radio from his shoulder.

“Alright.”

His voice is calm.

“You’re coming with me.”