I ran, my spine vibrating every time my high heels hit the pavement. The cold wind slapped my cheeks, the sting like a whip lash. I ran so fast it took me a few seconds to absorb the fact that someone had yanked me back by the courier bag slung over my shoulder. I fell flat on my ass. The ground was wet and cold, and I’d landed on my tailbone.
I didn’t care. I didn’t even have time to be shocked or get angry. I clutched my bag close to my chest and looked up at the offender. He was just a kid. A teenager, to be exact, with a face dotted with popped pimples. Tall and lanky and in all probability as hungry as I was. But it was my bag. My stuff. New York was a concrete jungle. I knew that sometimes, in order to survive, you had to be mean. Meaner than those who were mean to you.
I shoved my hand into my bag, hunting for the pepper spray. I just planned to threaten him—he had to learn a lesson. The kid yanked my bag again, and again I pulled it closer to my middle. I found the cool can of Mace and pulled it out, aiming at his eyes.
“Step back or go blind,” I warned in a quivering voice. “I say it’s not worth it, but it’s up to you,”
He flung his arm at me, and that’s when I pressed the nozzle. He twisted my wrist violently. The spray missed him by inches. He backhanded my forehead and shoved me away. I felt my head spinning from the blow. Everything turned black as I went under.
A part of me wasn’t too eager to come back.
Especially when my vision cleared and I realized my hands were empty. My phone, wallet, driver’s license, cash—two hundred bucks I owed my landlord, dang it—were all gone.
I pushed myself to my feet, dirty pavement digging into my palms. The heel of my cheap shoe had snapped when I fell. I grabbed it on my way up. Catching sight of the retreating silhouette of my mugger in the distance, my bag clutched between his fingers, I waved the wooden heel in his direction with my fist and did something that was completely out of character. For the first time in years, I cussed out loud.
“Well, you know what? Fuck you too!”
My throat was burning from screaming as I limped my way to McCoy’s. There was no point crying, though I did feel pretty sorry for myself. Getting robbed and fired on the same day? Yeah, I was definitely going to sneak a few shots when my boss, Greg, wasn’t looking.
I made it to McCoy’s twenty minutes late. The only sliver of solace was that the grouchy owner wasn’t here, which meant that my neck was safe from getting fired for the second time that day.
Rachelle, the manager, was a friend. She knew about my financial struggles. About Rosie. About everything.
The minute I walked in through the back door and met her in the hallway next to the kitchen, she winced and brushed my lavender hair away from my forehead.
“I’m ruling out kinky sex and placing my bet on clumsiness,” she said, shooting me a sympathetic frown.
I exhaled, squeezing my eyes shut. I opened them slowly, blinking away the mist of unshed tears. “Got mugged on the way here. He took my bag.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Rachelle pulled me into a tight hug.
My forehead fell to her shoulder, and I heaved a sigh. I was still upset, but the human touch felt nice. Comforting. I was also relieved that Greg wasn’t there. It meant I could lick my wounds quietly, without having him shouting at all the waitresses with foam bubbling from his mouth.
“It gets better, Rach. I got fired from R/BS Advertising too,” I whispered into her cherry-red hair.
Her body stiffened against mine. When we pulled away, her face wasn’t concerned anymore. She looked downright horrified. “Millie…” She bit her lip. “What are you gonna do?”
That was a very good question. “Take more shifts here until I get myself together and find another day job? Get some temp work? Sell a kidney?”
The last one was obviously a joke, but I made a mental note to look into it when I got back to my apartment. Just out of curiosity. Yeah, right.
Rachelle rubbed her forehead with her palm, scanning my body. Knowing what I must look like, I hugged my midriff and flashed her a weak smile. I was thin. Thinner than I’d been when I first started working here. And the roots of my lavender hair were starting to show, but they were so light brown, it didn’t look too bad. My physical state, especially with the broken heel and stained dress, underlined the mess I was in.
Rachelle’s eyes stopped at my fist. She untangled my fingers from the shoe heel I was holding and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I’ll glue this for you. Take the shoes in my locker and get to work. And smile big. God knows you need the tips.”
I nodded, slapping a wet kiss onto her cheek. She was a lifesaver. I didn’t even care that she was fun-sized, three inches shorter than me, and that her shoes were two sizes smaller. I bolted for our lockers and slipped into my uniform—a cropped, tight red shirt that showed off my stomach, black mini skirt, and a black-and-red apron with McCoy’s name plastered across it. It was tacky, but the bar was frequented by Wall Street-types, and the tips were great.
Pushing the wooden saloon doors open and marching to the dark stool-lined counter, I ignored the thirsty—and not for alcohol—looks men sent my way. I was twenty-seven. Seemingly, the perfect age for the meat-market New York had to offer. But I was too busy trying to survive to have a boyfriend. My policy was to be friendly with my customers without giving them false encouragement.
“Hey, Millie,” Kyle greeted from behind the bar. He had slicked-back blond hair, studied film-making at NYU, lived in Williamsburg, and dressed like Woody Allen. Anything to disguise the fact he was actually from South Carolina.
I smiled at him while the regular crowd at the tables, men and women in suits, scrolled through messages on their phones and traded stories about their days at work. “Busy night?”
“Okay so far. Don’t freak out,” he warned, “but Dee is pissed at you for being late again. You’d better go take care of your tables.” He nodded toward the right side of the restaurant.
Dee was one of the other waitresses who worked Fridays with me. I couldn’t blame her for being mad. It wasn’t her fault I was dealing with personal issues. I nodded and offered him a thumbs-up, but he was already engrossed in the book he was reading under the counter.
It wasn’t that bad, working at McCoy’s. Our clientele spoke quietly and drank expensively, always tipping fifteen percent or more. Swaying my hips to “Baby It’s You” by Smith, I ambled to a table in the corner of the room. It was dark and secluded from the rest—my favorite spot because it somehow always lured the best tippers.
I called it my lucky corner.
Two men were sitting there, hunched and engrossed in a hushed conversation. I plucked the menus from under my arm and smiled at their bent heads, trying to grab their attention.
“Hello, gentlemen. I’m Millie and I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you anything while you—”
Him. That’s where I stopped. Because the minute the man with the tousled black hair looked up, my heart flipped over and my mouth froze.
Vicious.