The Wrong Mouth
Miriam / Emma
“I think the bar’s already clean,” John said from the doorway to the kitchen. He had a ‘70’s porn star mustache and an apron that always had stains that didn’t look like food. He kind of gave me a creepy vibe, but he never came onto me or said anything off.
“It’s clean when I decide it’s clean,” I growled, and continued scrubbing away at the Formica.
“Suit yourself.” He didn’t say anything else, but a moment later I heard dishes clattering in the kitchen.
Alone again, I rubbed even harder at the bar, then went to work on the tables in the booths. Maybe they were clean enough, but—
Well, damn that Ryan Calder anyway! It isn’t fair. It shouldn’t have to be so hard to stay out of sight. Why did that damn sexy redneck have to show up in my life and make things so difficult?
Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard my father say, “Life ain’t fair, Sunshine. You do your best with what you’ve got.” Dad, making sense as always.
And damn him too. He was the whole reason I was in this mess in the first place. I felt the anger start to build in me, directed now at my father, then at my situation, then again at Ryan. Mad as I got, I knew that I was completely helpless to fix anything. All I could do was let time pass and hope it all worked out. I hated that, and I got even madder.
The bell over the door rang.
Without even looking I knew it was Ryan, come back to say something smartass. The guy didn’t know when to quit. I looked up, ready to give him a real piece of my mind. If he thought I was mean before, he had no idea what he was in for.
Ryan Calder was about to find out what a real Italian girl from the Bronx was like when she was pissed.
The man standing just inside the door was not Ryan Calder.
He wore a suit, and his shoulders looked as if they took up the entire doorway and then some. His hair was cropped close to his scalp. He was just taking off his Ray Bans.
I dropped my angry face, or at least tried to. “Morning. If you take a seat I’ll get you a menu.”
He smiled and nodded, took one of the stools at the bar.
I finished wiping up the last booth and walked over to him. “Coffee?”
“No.” His voice was deep, smooth. There was a scar under one eye and his nose was a bit flattened. He had the face of an old, beat-up truck, but the veins on the backs of his hands and his bull neck suggested he wasn’t so decrepit. “Just came by to ask if you’ve seen this girl.” He reached into his coat pocket. His accent wasn’t local. He sounded East Coast. I started to think maybe I should back away from him, but he held my eyes with his own flat, gray ones, and besides my feet seemed suddenly glued to the floor. He pulled a picture out and held it up to me. His lips curled into a smirk.
My eyes focused on the picture and my blood turned to ice in my veins.
Now I did take a step back, but I was pretty sure it was too late. “What do you want?” I asked, my eyes still riveted to the photograph.
It was me. Taken two years ago. I was on the steps of the library at NYU, smiling and oblivious to the fact that my life would soon be turned completely upside down.
“What I want,” he said in that smooth, back-home voice, “is for you to come along with me easy. It’s just better for everybody if you don’t make me chase you down.”
I took another step back.
He shook his massive head. “That’s not coming along easy. Look,” he waved his hand around at the diner, out the window at Fort Worth, “you can’t tell me you like this backwater. Just come get in the car and I’ll take you home.” I shook my head, terror taking my speech away. “You’re scared,” he said. “I understand, but you don’t need to be.” He held out his hands. “Look. No gun. No danger. Just a friendly car ride and nice conversation. And then you can have your life back.”
Almost the right words. Almost the right tone. But from the wrong mouth.
Through the kitchen, along the back wall, there was a door that opened onto an alley behind the building. If I could make it through, I could get to the police station two blocks down.
I bolted for the kitchen. Unfortunately, Thick Neck was between me and the door to the kitchen. As it turned out, he had long arms and good reflexes. I attempted to dart past him, but one huge hand wrapped around my upper arm and brought me up short.
Time slowed down. In my panic all my senses were acute. I could see dust motes dancing in the light through the window. Feel the grit on the floor as my sneaker skidded a half inch. Smell Thick Neck’s cologne.
I found my voice. “Let me go!” I said. My voice was shrilled and ululated in a terrified warble.
“Fuck,” muttered Thick Neck, and he began to propel me toward the door. I tried to fight back, but it was like wrestling a mule. His fingers tightened around my arm painfully.
As I struggled in vain to get free, I heard the bell over the door ring again.