Thankfully for my own sanity, the week passed as another uneventful period of life spent in the confines of the coffee shop. I put on a smile, prepared drinks and treats for the politicians, lawyers, and regular people before they set out for the day in Boston. Saving lives, protecting the city, traveling; they all stopped in and told me their story whether they knew it or not.
I thought about the encounter with Julian Molloy multiple times, and about that horrible dream several more times. I was on my toes, apprehensive and anxiously alert in the anticipation he would drop in and threaten to kill me without using those precise words. His goal was intimidation and, although I didn’t understand why, it was working. However, I was relieved that in the following days I hadn’t even watched the news to hear about the Molloys, let alone have one surprise me in the dark with a gun and their fancy cologne. And their pretty coat and sparkling teeth. Elliott would hear it from me when he returned. I just needed to make it through a few more days.
Saturday finally arrived. I felt my feet scream at me, but I had a few more steps before officially closing for the night. I finished the register, completed inventory for opening tomorrow morning, and was wiping down the counters opposite of the cash register when the bell rang.
I recognized the feeling instantly, the small hairs on my neck rising into an adrenaline-infused state of alarm. Emma left for the evening, Elliott was gone, and there I was, alone with the dangerously unstable smell of Malcolm’s aftershave.
“Malcolm, you need to leave,” I stated without turning to face him, hoping he would listen and I wouldn’t need to call the cops. This prick.
“Aideen.” His voice hurt my ears. “I brought someone I want you to meet. We’re just going to get coffee.”
I shouldn’t have been intrigued, but I was. I turned around, towel in hand, to observe Malcolm and his date. She was shorter than me, rail thin, and smiling as though she won the lottery. The lottery of Hades.
“Jessica,” Malcolm motioned between us, “this is my friend, Aideen. She’s the one my cousin owns this place with.”
I smiled, albeit rudely, at his date. “Nice to meet you, Jessica. Goodbye, Malcolm.”
“Wait.” He ran to the counter, three feet from me, and I wanted to vomit. “She’s my girlfriend. Make her some coffee.”
“No,” I growled, stepping closer. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.” Malcolm moved back, laughing with his hands raised defensively.
“Whoa, whoa. No need to jump, Aideen.” His laugh spread a chill along my spine. “We’ll be on our way. I’ll see you soon.”
Malcolm’s eyes pierced through me with his parting smile. I balanced myself against the lip of the counter until I was certain he left the building. When my heart finally returned to a rate that would keep me out of the hospital, I ran to the back and grabbed my bag, taking out my cell phone and keys first.
I was more nervous than I thought, letting the brief unwelcome interaction with Malcolm saturate my mind. What if he is still out there? Who will I call—I have nobody. Emma? She won’t answer. Elliott? Ha. I have nobody. That’s a reality that sank in heavily, slowly like molasses attempting to be absorbed by asphalt.
With a shaking breath, I headed for the front door. There were sporadic pairings of people scattered around the sidewalks, enjoying the frigid Boston evening. I repeated my plans for the evening in my brain while I locked the door: order Chinese, take a bath, go to sleep, prepare to kill Elliott, order Chinese, take a bath, go to sleep, prepare to kill Elliott, order Chi—I turned the corner, my eyes straining against the frozen gusts of snowy air, and slammed against someone. Adrenaline kicked in immediately, pumping through my veins like acid, melting all reason and forcing my legs to kick in any possible direction.
“You don’t have to be rude.” Malcolm laughed, struggling against my movement to pull his arms around my neck and shoulders. “Calm down.”
“Get off me!” I screamed, I kicked, I bit. He hollered, but it only reinforced his hardening hold.
“I just want to talk, Aideen,” he continued, panting. I opened my mouth against his exposed wrist, clamping down as hard as my incisors would press, hoping to draw blood so I could run.
“You bitch!” Malcolm’s arm withdrew quickly and he inspected his wrist, giving me enough time to run. I turned the opposite corner, my shins burning with painful splints and adrenaline. It felt like my heart was about to fall out. I saw a couple holding hands walking toward their car, and I wanted to scream out for them, but I couldn’t. I was muzzled, pulled by the mouth against the corner of a building. I wiggled, tried to spin, but my body fell limp. These aren’t Malcolm’s arms. This isn’t Malcolm’s aftershave. Maybe if I play dead…
“Tsk tsk,” Malcolm taunted, waving his index finger in the air as he turned the corner. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you to be nice? Oh. Wait. She died when you were so little. That’s a bummer. I think I remember watching that on the news. Car bomb outside of Belfast, right? Shit. That sucked.”
“What do you want?” I barely recognized my own voice as it snarled through my teeth.
“Just to talk.”
“No.”
“Just a few words, Aid.”
“Screw your few damn words, Malcolm. I’m going to start screaming if you don’t get your goon off me.” Malcolm looked behind me and nodded before I felt my barricade release as his partner stepped away. I wanted to turn around and see that person, but I knew it would only make me more susceptible to something from Malcolm, so I kept my eyes trained on him.
“I think we should talk about what happened. You’re not returning my calls, and Emma won’t send my messages to you. I miss you.” He reached out for my arm, but it recoiled as though the most fundamental instinct was to avoid him at any cost.
“Absolutely not. Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Babe,” Malcolm cooed, shaking his head at me.
I blinked, hoping in the split second of darkness I could form a plan, but it wasn’t enough time. His hand latched around my wrist despite my attempts to pull away. There was an enormous amount of pressure against my body as Malcolm was shoved, pushed, thrown to the ground, and I followed suit. We were separated and I struggled to lift myself, not even sure how my heart still pumped.
“The lady said no,” someone shouted. Malcolm was on the sidewalk, face down in yellow slush. I got to my knees, my head throbbing, and watched the stranger pummel Malcolm—the goon seemed to have disappeared. I still held my phone, my fingers so tightly clenched around the device that my white knuckles began to ache. I glanced at the men once more then back at my phone. I couldn’t see their faces, only the shadowy figures struggling against the sidewalk. I inched backward, three steps, my trembling fingers dialing the final digit for the police, when I walked into something. Something hard. Something that smelled too familiar. Nutmeg.
“Don’t call the police.”
I shivered at the crackle of his words above my ear. My throat was parched. I knew the gun would be on his hip. I imagined he actively thought of ways to intimidate me and, after almost losing myself to Malcolm three times in twenty minutes, I bit my tongue and stuffed my phone into the pocket of my coat. I stepped to the side, keeping my back toward him while I inched away, not risking a glance of his face. He didn’t try to stop me. Chinese food, bath, sleep, kill Elliott, leave Boston…I just needed to get home.
The splints in my shins were excruciating, stabbing deeper into my leg with each pounding step as I ran to my building. I feared stopping, but I had to catch my breath at the bottom of the stairs. I felt my lungs and frantic heart struggle with each gasp.
Once inside my apartment, consumed by adrenaline, I bolted the two deadbolts before burying myself under the covers of my bed. I tried counting invisible sheep, thinking of my happy place, and reciting the alphabet backwards, but my heart refused to settle. It was too quiet. I couldn’t even hear my elderly neighbor’s television, which was always at a deafening volume. I reluctantly pulled the covers from my face, boiling beneath the layers, remaining in a ball on my mattress. I jumped at the faint tapping against my door. My heart tightened, physically constricting within my aching chest. I couldn’t move.
“Miss Leary.” The familiar rasp bound my nerves with fear. He followed me home. He knows where I live. He wears a gun. I’m dead and I didn’t even do anything wrong. I refused to move. If he was going to kill me for something, or further intimidate me for his amusement, he could do so from the other side of my apartment door.
“Miss Leary,” he continued, this time his voice more pressing. “Please.”
I imagined that if I allowed Julian Molloy into my apartment, he might tie me up and torture me for something I didn’t do. Or maybe he would shoot me and end it all. To be on the safe side, I pulled a pillow over my head, because if he was going to shoot me, I didn’t want to watch it happen.
Why isn’t he coming in? Sure, I had two deadbolts, but this guy clearly knew how to pick some locks and probably murder people without neighbors knowing. Why else would he carry a gun around and know where I was tonight?
I couldn’t hear him anymore, but I was terrified to leave my bed. I held the pillow over my head for at least two hours. I measured time by the program change blasting from my neighbor’s television, as sound returned to my ears. The eleven o’clock news began with its cheery jingle, informing me my neighbors would be going to bed in the next half hour. It was beyond pathetic that I knew the routine of my elderly neighbors, but when one is confined to their own predictable routine, life gets…predictable.
When the television clicked off, I wiggled from beneath my pillow and listened to the soundtrack of my building; snoring seniors on one side, crying toddler on the other, obnoxious sex fiends above me. Things seemed as they should be. I hesitantly glanced around my apartment, having seen too many movies and half expecting Julian to be leaning against a doorway, cutting an apple with a knife or sitting in my chair and pointing his gun, just waiting for my guard to drop. This guy scares the hell out of me. And thanks to my dearest Elliott, we were doing business with the Molloy family.
I woke the following morning to my buzzing phone alarm as it hummed from my coat pocket, tickling my thigh since I hadn’t found the courage to take off my coat before falling asleep sitting up against the side of my mattress. My neck is killing me. Hey, speaking of killing me…I’m alive!
Still worried about a likely murderer waiting inside my apartment, I was slow and cautious when getting up and searching every possible nook and hiding place before taking off my coat. My alarm rang three times, reminding me it was time for my buns to move. I crawled from the floor, depositing layers of clothing in my wake. I would have successfully made it into the bathroom for a much-needed shower had I not looked down and seen the envelope protruding beneath my apartment door.
I pulled it into my unit with my toes, not wanting to risk anyone grabbing my fingers. It was a heavy cardstock envelope, lined with bright gold inside, containing a single card with a phone number written on it. Right; a suicide call. Not happening, sir. Now that Julian Molloy knew where I lived, where I worked, and expected me to call him, I could not escape. All I wanted to do was disobey his command and call the police. Someone needed to know Malcolm had broken my restraining order. Someone did.
***
Sunday was always a storm of activity at the coffee shop, but I took my time getting there anyway. If Elliott knew the circumstances for my lethargic mood, he wouldn’t fire me. I was bundled for the weather, only my eyes threatened by the blustery winter wind as I walked to work. As I approached the intersection across from the coffee shop, all blood left my frigid core when I saw he was standing in the doorway. Waiting for me. Ridiculous. I couldn’t exactly run the other way because he would notice me flee, and then I would become an even more likely victim of his…charm? Intimidation? Stalkerness? Just be strong. You’re in public. He won’t kill you yet.
While I waited for the light to change, my heart stopped. I hesitated before leaving the curb, barely lifting my eyes to observe how Julian stood with his hands securely tucked into the deep pockets of his wool coat. His collar was flipped, preventing the wicked gusts from harming his ears. And his perfect hair. Shit. Aid. Stop. Seriously. I reminded myself that Julian followed me last night—twice—and was now waiting for me at work. Four times if you count the backroom incident.
“Good morning,” I grumbled, reaching for my key and swiftly unlocking the shop door.
“Miss Leary.” Julian’s throat cleared, confidence tumbling from his lips in greeting. I said nothing more to him as I walked behind the counter and set aside my coat and bag. I adjusted the length of my black cardigan over my hips before returning to the front, prepared to die of a heart attack from too much espresso…or Julian’s gun.
“You didn’t call me.” He was leaning against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. I clunked and clanked glasses, pieces of the espresso machine, anything to pretend I couldn’t hear him. His voice was deeper, gruffly gaining my attention. I looked up for a millisecond, taking note of his monochromatic blue ensemble. It made his eyes pop like vibrant magnets, forcing me to stare like a fool. I shook my head before steaming almond milk for my latte. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I reached for a glass and poured the scalding espresso.
“What are you making?”
“Latte,” I mumbled. Shit. Why am I talking to him? To buy time before he kills me, I guess.
“Oh? What’s in it?”
“Honey.” I nodded to the jar in front of him, but he only smiled while he leaned over the counter, his hips pressing into the edge. Julian’s teeth sparkled like he must have a live-in dentist. They were blindingly white, the perfect companion to his defined pout. Screw yourself, Aideen. You’re going insane. Stop thinking about this creep like that.
“Yes, dear?”
I stopped mid-pour and grimaced. “Honey goes in the latte, Mr. Molloy.”
“I see.” Julian bit his top lip in thought. “Miss Leary?”
“What?” I reached for the jar inches from Julian and poured more than required into my drink, as usual.
“You didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t receive a mandate, just a phone number,” I said through clenched teeth. Julian chuckled under his breath and looked down at his phone, scrolling along the screen.
“You have a smart mouth.” His laugh diminished, and his piercing eyes returned to mine. “I was only trying to help.”
A nervous giggle slipped from my throat as my lips met the glass while I sipped. “Stalkers don’t usually help me. I’m doing fine by myself. Thanks for the offer.”
“Good morning,” Emma sang as she bounced into the coffee shop. She was turning the corner around the counter when she looked at Julian and then at me, her sparkling eyes questioning.
“Goodbye, Mr. Molloy.” I smiled, waving my free hand and turning around to finish sipping my latte in peace.
“We’ll be in touch,” he promised, then noticed Emma’s paused steps, “about the order.”