She follows me into the bathroom, and once she’s safely inside I lock the door behind us. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly pallor over both of us—yet somehow, this girl still looks amazing, and I still look like I’ve been chewed up and spat out. Lovely.
“Fire escape,” I say, pointing past three toilet stalls to a large steel door. These buildings in New York have the weirdest shit. Like, why anyone would have a fire escape in a women’s bathroom beats me. Still, when I used to smoke, it became a well-loved refuge of mine in between taking orders and dodging Serge and Sylvia.
The chick pushes on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She looks at me, and the panic on her face is almost comical.
“The key,” I say dryly, reaching up to a windowsill and sliding a dust-covered key from its hiding spot. I unlock the door and push it open, gesturing for her to go inside.
“Oh, God, I thought you were one of them,” she babbles as she steps slowly through the door. Faster, I think, pushing her gently through the doorway. I’m suddenly less worried and more irritated again. I need her to get the fuck out before Sylvia fires me for disappearing in the middle of breakfast service.
“What’s your name?” I ask her, as she shrinks into the fire escape.
“Kaitlin,” she says. “Kaitlin McLaughlin.”
And then I know she’s telling the truth.
I hear shouting in the diner, heavy footsteps. Kaitlin’s eyes grow wide and glassy again. On impulse, I take my apartment key from my apron and press it into her palm. Reciting the address to her, I give rough directions and make her repeat them to me.
“Keep your head down,” I instruct her, having no fucking idea what I’m about to get into. I don’t want to get involved with the Irish. But I also don’t want this girl to get shot while I watch. I’ve already got enough blood on my hands. “Go there and wait. I’ll come help you.”
The footsteps are getting closer. Shit! Someone’s kicking the bathroom door. It splinters easily, flimsy piece of shit.
Kaitlin nods gratefully. I give her one last look before closing the fire escape door, locking it with the key. She didn’t even say thank you, I think, as adrenaline spikes in my gut. I hurry over to the closest toilet stall as the bathroom door explodes off its hinges. I don’t have time to look, though. I drop the key into the toilet bowl with a plink and reach for the flusher. At the same time, footsteps rain down on the tiles like bullets as a blur passes by the open toilet stall I’m crammed into. Someone throws themselves at the locked fire escape door, using their body weight to try and open it and failing miserably. The door is made of steel. Even Ironman isn’t breaking that shit down.
I shrink deeper into the stall as the person stumbles back from the door and into my line of sight. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know.
“Hey!” a deep voice yells. Instinctively, I look toward the source of the noise, both terrified and unreasonably calm, my fingers closing around the flush handle. The guy in front of me is scarily impressive, at least six four and pointing a gun in my face. Right in my face. I’m crammed in this stall, tucked on one side of the toilet, my hands itching. It feels like this is a dream. But it’s not a dream. This is really happening.
“Don’t do it,” the guy warns.
I start to push the flusher down when he steps closer, glancing down at the lone silver-colored key in the toilet bowl. “I said don’t do it. I need that key.”
“Maybe you should ask nicely,” I say, stalling. I hope the girl is far, far away by now, hauling ass to my apartment. I really don’t want to watch her head explode if this guy catches up to her and plants a bullet in her head.
Then again, I also don’t want to experience my own head exploding if he shoots me.
The guy, who looks more than slightly unhinged, cocks his head to the side and gives me a lopsided grin. “You look like a girl who does what she’s told,” he says, shaggy brown hair slipping over one hazel-colored eye.
“And you look like you should be driving a limo,” I reply, looking pointedly at the ridiculous hat he’s wearing. “So I guess we’re both a lousy judge of character.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “Okay, for you, I’ll ask. Pretty fucking please, get your fucking hand off that fucking toilet so I can get that fucking key!”
He scowls at me, his mouth twitching as if he’s incredibly angry.
I wonder if he’ll shoot me. I wonder why I’m so calm.
I flush the key.
And then, all I see is his fist flying at my face. I suck in a breath, expecting to fall like a sack of potatoes, hoping I won’t land face first in the toilet bowl and drown in three inches of rusty water. It’d be just my luck to die that stupidly. But his fist never reaches my face. Instead, it smashes into the veneer beside me that separates the stalls, the force so great that the wood splinters.