Page 16 of Emerald Malice

“Ah, right. Didn’t mean to presume. Twenty-first century and all; I suppose I ought to be more careful by now, eh?” He grins pleasantly.

“Oh. Heh. What I mean is, I’ve had friend troubles.” I shake my head. “Today was supposed to be a fun, relaxing birthday celebration?—”

“Ah! It’s your birthday?” The man pounds his fist against the counter. “Max, get this lovely girl a drink. It’s her birthday!”

I keep my mouth shut. If this is the universe’s way of apologizing to me for this shitty night, I accept.

The bartender slides a shot of something amber over to me. “Thanks.” We clink our glasses together.

“The name’s Rory,” he says. “What’s yours, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Natalia.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He takes a long drink. “Don’t stress, Natalia. Nights like this are the nights that end up making us.”

I’ll admit, I’m only half-listening. I didn’t realize just how badly I needed a drink. It’s just the kick I need to power through the rest of this night. Or, better yet, to rinse away the memory of it.

Rory is a talker, and I’m glad for that, too. He babbles uninterrupted for fifteen minutes and gives me the full rundown of the last fifty years of his life. He really does seem to be exactly what he looks like: a kindly older man offering a drink and a chat to a girl who’s down on her luck. He makes it surprisingly easy to let down my walls and pretend everyone isn’t out to get me.

Easy enough that I muster up the courage to do the one thing I hate doing more than anything else: asking for help.

“Rory, can I ask you for a favor?”

Rory recoils like he’d be offended if I didn’t. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Ask away.”

“I lost track of my purse after my friend and I got into that fight, and I have no money to get back home. I’m not asking for a handout. Just three bucks for a subway ticket. I swear to God I’ll come back tomorrow to return the money.”

He looks amused at my little speech. Then he pulls out his wallet and hands me a twenty-dollar bill. “Tell ya what? Take this, buy yourself a t-shirt from Max here, and use the change to get your ticket. There’s no need to return the money. We’ll call it a birthday gift.”

You really can find anything in the boroughs of New York: even kindness.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist,” Rory says, pointing at the t-shirts hung up behind the bar. “Take your pick of the litter. My favorite is the one that says, SUCIO. Means ‘dirty’ in Spanish.”

The bartender, Max, hands me an XL tee and I go to the bathroom to change. It's a sweet relief to peel out of my filthy dress and pull the black t-shirt on instead. It’s big enough that it covers my ass, albeit just barely. I walk back out and do a little catwalk for Rory’s benefit, then give him a kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t know how grateful I am.”

“Pay it forward, darling. And think of me when you wear that shirt.”

“How could I not?” Feeling better than I have in hours, I wave goodbye to Rory and step out of the bar much lighter than when I walked in.

I’m not even five steps from the door when a shadow falls over me.

“What the—” I twist around and find myself faced with two hulking men.

The man with long blond hair gives me a calculated smile. “You left your purse back at the ceremony, miss. Why don’t we escort you there now so you can retrieve it?”

“You know what? Keep it. It’d look better on you, anyway.”

I try to turn my back on them, but the shaved head goon grabs my arm. “I don’t think so, ma’am. You’re coming with us.”

He steers me towards a gleaming black SUV idling on the curb. It sounds like a purring beast, with two violently white headlights like predator’s eyes locked right on me.

I can’t see much beyond the glare of the headlights and the blacked-out windows. God only knows what’s inside. Once again, I have the feeling He’s laughing at me.

The second man opens the back door. “In you go.”

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