Hungry for More

CHAPTER 6



Amy inhaled the first cigarette she’d had in five years as she leaned against the brick wall of the alley behind the kit-chen. She had bummed it off the bartender, who nodded sympathetically and said, “Today one cig. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you your very own vial of crack. Welcome to Les Fleurs.”

Seventy-three dollars in tips was tucked into the waistband of her skirt. If she hadn’t been bounced to runner, she would have made way more.

Not so shabby. She was kind of proud of herself for sticking it out.

She checked herself. No, I’m not getting off on being a good runner.

Well, a semi-passable runner.

Okay, so I was a lousy runner, too .

Whatever. I’m getting Maddie back . . . somehow. Once I find Roni, I’ll know what to do. The plan she had outlined to Oprah wasn’t tight enough and she knew it.

She looked up at the stars. The biting cold felt good against her skin. One more puff and she’d go and get her coat and see if she could find a cheap place to sleep tonight. God, she was bone tired.

An alley cat rubbed against her legs. She patted its sleek black fur. “You and me both, kitty. Who needs homes, right? We do just fine on our own.”

Just then, the kid pushed through the kitchen door into the alley. The cute little busboy with the supermodel lips and the intense eyes. He had seemed to be trying to talk to her all night. But things were so crazy in there, it was impossible to say anything other than, “Out of my way, a*shole!”

He threw himself against the wall next to her and patted down his pockets for a cigarette while casting her shy glances from under his floppy black bangs. He found his pack and began another pat-down for matches. “Don’t pet the cats. James hates them. They drive him nuts.”

Amy offered him what was left of her lit stub before she remembered he was a minor. “Someone’s feeding them.” Amy nodded to three small dishes lined up neatly along the wall, the same dishes they used to serve dessert.

He shrugged, took her stub, and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Thanks.”

“You’re too young to smoke.”

He shrugged. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Can’t lie to a liar.” She studied him carefully. “Twelve.”

“Fifteen!” he cried, indignant.

Amy raised her eyebrows and grinned.

He stared, confused for a half second until he realized she’d tricked him into admitting his real age. He huffed and took a long drag.

“No sweat,” Amy reassured him. “Fifteen is a great age to destroy your lungs and drop dead. Forget I said a thing.” The cigarette in her hand suddenly seemed terribly wrong. Good thing she wasn’t on to the crack just yet. She threw the butt on the ground and stubbed it out with her heel.

He kept looking up at her from under his fringe, as if he had something to say.

“So did my mom send you or what?” he blurted finally. He kicked at the old butts littering the alley.

His mom? Black eyes, black hair, olive skin. Lips like a supermodel. No, lips like a Gypsy . This was Roni’s son? Amy brightened. If Roni had a son, then she’d be back. That was what James had meant when he said he had something of hers. Was he James’s son, too? She studied the boy’s round face. He and James had the same olive coloring, although the boy was darker, but that was the only similarity. She filed the possibility away for later, though. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all night,” she hedged.

His eyes lit up. Wide and wet and exposed. That was the problem with kids; they were too out there. Nothing held back. “You’re Rom, right?” he asked, using the traditional term for Gypsy.

“Of course.”

“We’re Kalderash. Mom and me.” He named his tribe.

Her mind clicked through the possibilities. If Roni was anything like her kid, she was sweet and kind and vulnerable as hell. Just the kind of medium Maddie would choose to hang with. Someone who would be good and decent and spread True Love like daisies. Until, of course, poor sweet Roni found out that True Love was the last thing people really wanted. Amy licked her lips. This was going to be too easy. “I’m Kalderash, too. That’s how I know your mom.”

The boy turned his face to hers. She recoiled at the intensity in his eyes. Kid should wear sunglasses. I could teach him a few things about being a Gypsy.

“I knew she sent you.”

The trust in his eyes pierced through her. She had to remember his name. The servers and kitchen staff had been messing around with him all night. Tony? Tom? Hell, she was getting old. She didn’t need Maddie to tell her people’s soul mates’ names anymore; she needed Maddie to tell her everyone’s name. “Well of course she sent me. What, did you think I’m here to waitress?”


“No. You sucked at that.”

Amy’s stomach tightened. Honesty was another thing she hated about kids. She pushed the truth to the back of her mind. She didn’t need to be a good server, because she was getting Maddie back. She studied the boy. Tim? Thomas? When in doubt, go on the offense. “How do I know you’re Roni’s son?”

“Look.” The boy pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. He handed her a Pennsylvania driver’s license. Troy Valentine. 243 23rd Street, Philadelphia. Black eyes. Black hair.

She handed it back to him. “Says here you’re twenty-two, Troy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell my mom, okay?”

“No problem. Us Rom have to stick together.” Especially Rom with a place to crash and possibly even a car.

He nodded, serious and intent.

“Your mom said that I should look out for you. You know, like, babysit. Just till she gets back.” Amy felt only a mild tug of guilt at the lie. After all, the kid obviously needed looking after, and it wasn’t like any of those strutting, cursing men in there were going to notice him. Her back straightened a notch in female indignation. It was required that she look after a Gypsy in need.

“You can sleep on the couch. Or in Mom’s room, I guess.” The boy looked relieved.

Amy wished she had her cigarette back for one last drag as she tried to sort out her feelings—her motherly feelings—toward this boy. Not that she’d ever been a mother. But she’d had a gerbil once. The tenderness felt cobwebbed and rusty, and airing it felt kind of good, like stretching after a too-long séance. “The couch is fine.”

“So let’s get out of this freezing alley and you can tell me where my mom is.”

“You got it, buddy.” A flash of inspiration, sparked by a distant memory of her youngest sister, Jasmine, surprised her. Maybe the tenderness wasn’t motherly; it was sisterly. Jasmine had come to live with Amy for a few months after a lifetime apart when the girl was just sixteen, about Troy’s age. Amy had secretly enjoyed looking after Jasmine. But she had messed it up by bringing Jasmine into her scams. Poor kid couldn’t handle it.

This time, Amy had the urge to get it right. Just because she was lying to the kid about knowing his mom didn’t mean she couldn’t really help him out. “Your mom said I had to report to her when she gets back.”

“Yeah? Whatever.”

“So no smoking. And no cutting school. Or lifting from the customers’ purses.” He looked surprised but softened when she shook off his worried look. “I’m not a cop. Don’t sweat it. But I notice things. So don’t make a liar out of me.”

Again, Troy looked relieved. “Okay. Whatever. I’m beat and freezing, and I still have a book report on Silas Marner to finish for tomorrow.” He dropped his butt on the ground and snuffed it out with his boot.

“Lead on, brave Troy.”

The kid smiled at her, and her stomach jumped with a kind of joy she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Everyone in this loopy restaurant was so . . . trusting. She felt almost—what was the word for what was tingling her nerve endings? For the feelings this kid was dragging out of the dark recesses of her emotional closet?

I feel like I might belong. Like they might like me .

Either that or it was food poisoning from the ox butt she had finally deigned to taste.

She looked at the boy.

Definitely ox butt fever. She wasn’t going to let her defenses down and let this boy under her skin any more than she was going to let herself fall for James. She was here on a mission—to get Maddie back from Roni. That was it.

She really had to watch herself. Trust no one. Find Roni. Fast.

Then get the hell out.





Great chefs cook to please only themselves.

—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime