Page 15 of Emerald Malice

“I am too damn old for this shit.”

Turns out dumpsters aren’t as good of a hiding place as I first thought. I don’t think a thousand showers will get rid of the stench oozing into me right now. My soul will smell like rotten vegetables long after I make it through the pearly gates.

I’ve been in this dumpster for a minute, two tops, but it feels like an hour. Maybe a century.

But I make myself stay put until the sirens pass and the normal buzz of the city returns.

Then, unable to take this hellhole for another second, I shove open the lid and fumble my way out.

My foot catches on the edge and I land face-first in a puddle of something repulsive, because offuckingcourse I do. After another minute of groaning in pain and misery that this is what my day has become, I peel myself out of the mystery liquid and get back to my wobbly feet.

Pedestrians glance over at me as they pass the alleyway. But only in New York does the sight of a gaunt, shaky, unkempt woman emerging from a dumpster inspire next to no reaction.

I reach instinctively for my purse. That’s when I remember that I didn’t have time to grab my purse before Katya and I kicked our bodyguards in the balls and ran through the door of the temporary jail cell where we were taken after being booted from the ceremony (a.k.a., a small, unadorned staff room next to the utility closet).

I want to yell and scream and vent. I’m so beyond out of fucks to give that I wouldn’t care if the whole damn city watched me lose my shit.

But I don’t have the stamina for that. I can only hang my head in abject misery.

My freaking ID was in that purse. My keys. My wallet. My Metro card. My phone. My life.

Now, I’m stranded in the asshole of Midtown Manhattan, reeking of sour cabbage, and I don’t have two cents to rub together.

Not only have I lost my purse and my dignity, but I’ve lost my friend, too. Somewhere in the rush of the chase, I realized that Katya wasn’t right behind me anymore.

I’m not even sure I care right now. “Friend” is a bit of a stretch after the stunt she pulled tonight, though. Kat is on probation. Tackling the back portion of this night on my own might be for the best.

How, though?

My best plan is to jump the turnstile and ride the subway home. It’ll take forever and a half, but I’m not exactly swimming in options here.

First things first—I need to pee.

I end up in the dive bar around the bend because it looks like the kind of establishment that will accept me in my current state and smell. As predicted, no one stops me when I breeze in, whistling merrily, pretending as though my night is going exactly how I intended.

I head to the bathroom first, which is just as stank as the rest of the place. Honestly, I might be improving the aroma. Once I’ve peed, I stop in front of the mirror. It’s scratched and graffitied to shit, clearly working overtime just to give me back a murky reflection. That’s just as well. I mean, do I really wanna see myself clearly right now?

What little I can see looks bleak enough. One thing’s for sure, I’m not renting this dress anymore—I’ve bought it. A hundred and fifty bucks for a gown I’m never gonna be able to wear again.

This night is the gift that keeps on giving.

At least I got a kiss out of it.

I walk back through the bowels of the dive bar, planning on walking right out the door, but my legs suddenly feel like Bambi on muscle relaxants. Those stools at the bar are looking mighty nice.

Five minutes of R&R couldn’t hurt, right? I mean, the coast is clear. No scary goons in suits coming after me.

I plant my ass on one and rest all my weight on the lacquered bar top in front of me. If I didn’t have deeply-rooted trust issues, I’d fall asleep right here in five seconds flat. I’m that strung out.

“You okay, honey?”

The man sitting two stools down from me is wearing a plaid jacket and a smile that’s missing at least two teeth. He could be twenty-seven or seventy-seven and I’d never know the difference. But he’s friendly-looking, at least. After the night I’ve had, friendly faces are more than welcome.

“Rough night,” I admit.

“I can see that. Boy troubles?”

I snort, wondering where Katya is right now. Knowing her, she’s probably back home, soaking in a warm bath and plotting the next day’s hijinks. “More like girl troubles.”

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