Rat City

Chapter 2

“Quincy, I’m firing you today.”

In her office at the Wicked Cat Coffee & Brew, Becca Grant sat at her tiny desk overgrown with stacks of papers, clasping her hands together with a slight frown.

A muscular forty-something man sat on the other side of the desk in a folding chair. He wore a leather vest, a white apron, and an asymmetrical haircut with a comb-over, black hair buzzed to near bald on one side. Despite his tough-guy persona, he looked like he had just been slapped.

Becca’s office was the size of a janitor’s closet, barely big enough for a desk, and it was stuffy and hot in the summer. A pink fan blew cold air across the room, barely helping. The staff of the Wicked Cat clanged around in the kitchen outside.

“Here are your termination papers,” Becca said, handing him a yellow envelope. “And the pay I owe you. Would you like to discuss it? This shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Quincy regarded the papers, then looked up at Becca with sad eyes. “I tried my best.”

“Let’s talk about that,” Becca said. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. I explained to you that I have standards.”

She felt a twinge of guilt every time she fired someone. A pit in the bottom of her stomach opened up, and even though she knew her exterior was calm with no sign of weakness, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy as he regarded his final paycheck at the Wicked Cat.

“I appreciate the work you’ve done,” Becca said. “But let’s be honest: you’re a better bounty hunter than you are a barista. You’re a natural with my customers, but you constantly get orders wrong, you’ve broken at least three of my porcelain plates, and you’ve been late on too many occasions. I have rules, and if I don’t enforce them, is that fair to everyone else?”

Quincy didn’t expect the question. “Well, uh, no.”

“Do you think my customers like it when their orders are wrong?”

“No.”

“Then I hope you can understand where I’m coming from.”

She stood and extended a hand. “I wish you the best. Leave your apron on the chair. I’ll walk you out.”

How many times had she let underperformers go? Dozens, if not more, but never a paranormal. Ever since she met Desmond, he encouraged her to hire paranormals in exchange for protection since she and Cyrus were exposed to the magical world now. As a human with no powers, she was especially vulnerable.

But while regular humans were predictable, paranormals were anything but. Some were weird. Really weird. She thought she knew how to handle weird until she started working with them.

themA little voice told her to be careful and extra polite. So far, so good. She walked to the door and opened it with a courteous smile. That was her first mistake.

“f**k this,” Quincy said under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Becca asked.

“I said f**k this!” Quincy shouted. He threw the papers up and they fluttered in a dazzle around him. “You think you’re better than me? I spend my nights hunting vampires and s**t, then I come and work in your stupid coffee shop, and you think you can order me around like you own me?”

Becca sighed. So much for the ceremonial firing.

“This was just a transition job anyway,” Quincy said. “I’m trying to build a steady business of clients, and I thought I was doing you a favor. f**k you, f**k Desmond, and f**k your little gourmet drinks!”

Becca’s face hardened. If he attacked, she could have taken him, but this was a legal matter. Paranormal or not, he could still sue if she wrongfully terminated him. On a deeper, human level, she would have been mad too. Mad at herself for not performing.

“Quincy, our conversation is done. Please leave.”

“I’m too good for this job,” he said, laughing derisively.

“I’m not asking you again,” Becca said, more sternly this time.

“You’re just a human,” he said. “You ought to be working for me. If it weren’t for us paranormals, you wouldn’t be able to walk home at night without being ripped apart by something.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Becca said, not taking her eyes off him.

Quincy stewed in the chair, chewing his bottom lip, then he got up and charged past Becca and into the kitchen.

The kitchen staff stopped to watch the exchange.

“If I never work here again, I’ll be grateful!” Quincy cried. “Don’t ask me or any of my friends to bail you out when the supernatural world comes calling. I’ll laugh! You’re just arrogant and high and mighty. I’ll be SHOCKED if this place isn’t out of business in two years.”

He pushed the back door open and slammed it behind him. The impact knocked a few soup ladles onto the floor.

Becca let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank the Lord, Hallelujah,” a voice with a Spanish accent said.

Cristián, her assistant manager, leaned against the wall to her office. He wore a coffee-stained apron and his chestnut-brown hair was styled in a thick pompadour. He flashed her a tired, winsome grin. The ladies were probably going to be crazy about him tonight. When he was sarcastic, his accent was extra Spanish-y.

“Let me guess,” he said. “He didn’t take it well.”

“Telling him he was fired was the nicest thing anyone said to him all day,” Becca said as Cristián followed her into the office. She plopped down on her chair, threw her head back, and closed her eyes as the fan pointed cool air on her.

“What did you do to trigger him?” Cristián asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” Becca said. “That was the problem.”

“Maybe it was your hair.”

Becca snapped her eyes open and gave Cristián a look of annoyance. Of course he was smirking.

Becca became self-conscious of her hair. She’d tried to dye her hair purple, but the color came out several shades darker than she wanted, and uneven. Cyrus said she looked like the unicorn mascot for the cereal they used to eat as a kid. She could have killed her little brother…except he was right. She adjusted her bandanna and checked herself in a small mirror on her desk. Her bandanna should have been extra tight today, with NO strands showing.

“Maybe purple is the trigger color for paranormals,” Cristián said.

“Will you drop it already?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“My hair is the same shade as Barney. That qualifies as bad.”

Becca looked at her reflection in the window again and pursed her lips. She tucked in a rogue strand and surveyed her tiny office.

“Anyhoo,” Cristián said, shrugging, “the wait staff is going to want a group hug when they learn of your valiant deed today. They’ve been waiting for you to do it for the past two weeks.”

“If you don’t want me to get sued like it’s 1993, then you’ll have to put up with my...protocols,” Becca said.

Becca adjusted her bandanna a final time and picked up the remnants of Quincy’s papers. She’d have to mail them.

“Desmond owes me big time for hiring Quincy,” Becca said, scooping papers off the floor.

“You’ll be able to tell him tonight,” Cristián said. “A bunch of shifters are having a conference later.”

Becca groaned. “As long as the wolf pack doesn’t come. They’re obnoxious. If the alpha hits on me one more time, I’ll punch him.”

Someone knocked on the door. It was one of the baristas. She hesitated at first.

“Becca, there’s a man here to see you. He says it’s important.”

“It’s not one of Quincy’s friends, is it?” Becca asked.

“I don’t think so. He said you’d be expecting him.”

Becca glanced at the calendar on the wall. No appointments or reminders today. The only thing she had was an appointment with a coffee roaster later in the week. It was evening now—the waiters on the swing shift were cleaning up and getting ready for the dinner rush of patrons wanting beer, pretzels, and spirits. She never booked meetings this late.

Becca shrugged and handed Cristián the papers. “You’re on mail duty,” she said.

“I will execute the final affairs of that pompous asshole dutifully,” he said, placing his hand on his heart.

Becca rolled her eyes momentarily as she walked onto the dining floor.

A few customers were trickling in. In the corner, underneath a constellation of mason jar lights, a man sat with his back to her. He looked out the window nervously, and his black windbreaker was still on. His jet black hair was slightly balding with a small bald spot in the center of his head. This had to be the guy that was waiting for her.

“Can I help you?” Becca asked.

The man turned, relieved upon seeing her. He was a Latino man with a clean-cut goatee and a small paunch.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said.

Becca recognized him and froze. He was Gilberto, the healer who had saved Cyrus’s life by concocting an antidote to rat poison. She saved her brother, but it ended with Becca getting squeezed by an evil nymph, breaking several ribs, and being freaked out of her mind. Her ribs had just now barely healed. She had dyed her hair purple to celebrate the recovery. Boy, was her botched dye-job a metaphor for her life at the moment.

“You got a nice place,” Gilberto said. “I knew we’d be working together sooner or later.”

“Excuse me?” Becca asked, growing more skeptical about the unannounced visit.

“The promise, remember?” Gilberto asked.

When Gilberto saved Cyrus, Becca had promised him a favor to be disclosed by him at a later date. She never gave him her address.

“You have terrible timing,” Becca asked. “Unless you’re asking for a job. I have an opening.”

“No,” he said. “I need your brother. Where is he?”

“He’s not here,” Becca said.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Becca lied, trying not to think of her brother and the super awkward date he was sure to be having right now.

“Damn it,” Gilberto said, glancing out the window.

“I’m in the middle of my evening rush,” Becca said. “I’m happy to hear you out, but can you come back a little later?”

“If I wait any longer, I’ll be dead,” Gilberto said.

Becca’s heart thumped. “Then you should call the police.”

“Great idea,” Gilberto said.

“My brother and I aren’t looking for trouble,” Becca said. “We appreciate what you did for us, but we may not be the right ones to help you right now.”

“When they come hunting for your brother, you’ll rethink your decision,” Gilberto said. “I need my favor now, and I can’t wait.”

your“Look, Gilberto, I—”

He grabbed her with a pleading look. “If your brother doesn’t help me, then I’m screwed, and it’ll be on your conscience.”