Beautifully Cruel

8

I smile at him. “So you’re a shark now.”

He grins. “Great white, baby. You in love with me yet?”

“Any minute.”

“Okay, you let me know.” He turns back to the grill, calling out over his shoulder. “By the way, could you take out the trash in the lounge bathroom? There’s a bunch of Carla’s girl stuff in there. I don’t wanna touch it.”

I know by “girl stuff” he means tampons. If Buddy would ever buy a trashcan with a lid on it for the employee restroom, Diego wouldn’t have to be traumatized by these kinds of things, but here we are.

“Will do.”

“Thanks.”

I head to the tiny break room in back, which we ironically call “the VIP lounge.” Four hideous plastic lawn chairs surround a folding card table. An ancient microwave sits atop a rickety TV stand. There’s a college-dorm-sized refrigerator in one corner, a cracked mirror on the wall, and a water cooler that constantly leaks standing next to the row of battered lockers.

The walls are painted the ugliest shade of yellow you can imagine. It’s like being inside the apartment of a three-pack-a-day smoker who hasn’t left the place in forty years.

I use the restroom, wash my hands, and take the plastic bag out of the trashcan. I tie the ends into a knot and replace it with a new bag, then head to the larger aluminum garbage bins stacked along the wall in the corridor leading to the alley behind Buddy’s where the big Dumpsters are kept.

When I get to the corridor, it’s a mess.

Reeking bags full of trash and food scraps are stacked all around the aluminum bins, which themselves are full to overflowing. Keeping this area clean is the job of the dishwasher, but he quit a few days ago and hasn’t yet been replaced.

“Great,” I mutter.

Diego has been taking care of the dish situation while Buddy tries to find a new dishwasher, but he obviously thinks trash duty is beneath him.

It’s not beneath me. Growing up, I was responsible for mucking out the horse stalls and pig pens on the homestead. I’m no stranger to smelly, gross chores.

I go back into the lounge, put on my heavy coat and galoshes, then head to the corridor again. Propping open the door to the alley, I grab two of the bags on the floor and go outside.

The heavy rain has tapered off to a lighter, but steady, drizzle. The Dumpster is only a few feet away from the door, so I only have to walk several short steps to get to it. Unfortunately, the top is closed. It’s a heavy metal hinged flap that has to be lifted and held open long enough to shove a trash bag through.

I drop the bags on the ground next to the Dumpster and throw the lid up and back, toward the building. My push is hard enough that the lid flies all the way up. It comes to rest against the wall with a clatter.

I toss the two bags in, then trudge back inside to get two more. Then I do it again, determined to at least make a dent in the mess before I get too cold and wet to continue.

On my fourth trip, someone grabs me from behind.

I’m yanked so violently away from the Dumpster that I lose my balance. I stagger back and crash into a solid form—a chest. When I scream, an arm clamps around my throat. The tip of something ice cold and sharp jabs into the soft hollow beneath my jaw. “Scream again and I’ll cut out your fuckin’ tongue.” The voice is low, male, and deadly serious.

I stiffen in terror. Instinctively, I grab the arm clamped around my throat. It’s covered by a jacket made of a thin layer of nylon, through which I feel sinews and muscle, hard as stone.

My pulse crashes so loud in my ears it drowns out the patter of rain and the distant sounds of traffic. Gasping in fear, I start to shake.

Don’t panic don’t panic oh god he’s going to kill me I’m going to die.

Two more men emerge from the shadows on the far side of the Dumpster. Their heads are covered by hoodies, so I can’t see their faces in the dark, but they’re both broad and hulking, and both carry guns in their hands.

When I whimper in fear, the one behind me gives me a hard shake, so hard my teeth clatter.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he hisses into my ear. “We’re gonna go inside. You’re gonna show us where the safe is and give us the combo. Then we’re gonna take whatever’s in the register, and we’ll be on our way. Do as I say and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”

He has a heavy Boston accent. His breath is hot against my cheek, steaming white in the frigid night air. He sounds young and feels very strong, and I know in my bones that if I do anything he doesn’t like, he won’t hesitate to slit my throat.

There’s only one problem: Buddy’s doesn’t have a safe.

Buddy’s wife comes every day at four to take cash from the register, then goes straight to the bank. Our credit card machine deposits charges automatically to the account. These guys would be better off hitting a Laundromat if they want easy cash.

But he’s already pushing me toward the open door.

“There’s no safe!” My voice is high and panicked. My fingers claw at his arm. “Only the register has cash, and there’s not much in it!”

“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, b***h,” he snarls into my ear, shaking me again. “I know that old prick has a safe in his office. Heard him braggin’ about it myself.”

My mind flies at a million miles per hour. I can’t think straight, can’t scream, can’t run. Something warm and wet trickles in a wavering path down my throat.

Blood.

I’m bleeding.

This asshole cut me.