Page 131 of Thief of Night
“Honey,” her mother said, when she was about to leave. “We need to talk.”
“We absolutely don’t,” Charlie said. Standing in the doorway, she realized that she no longer wanted her mother’s forgiveness. That beneath all her fear was a burning flame of fury. That maybe she’d been afraid, not of what her mother was going to say, but of what Charlie herself might. “The best thing about not being a child is that no one can make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
At work, Charlie moved as mechanically and methodically through her shifts as Don could have ever desired. But he still brought up the shifts she’d missed and badgered her about various things he had persnickety ideas about—garnishes, which drinks ought to be shaken, whether amaro was even good. And he still argued with Erin during his breaks, whisper-shouting into his phone.
One evening, Odette sat at the bar while Charlie mixed orange bitters with simple syrup for an old-fashioned. Balthazar drank an amaretto sour on the other side.
Don frowned. “You’re supposed to use a sugar cube.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m not a purist and no one likes grit in their glass.”
“It’s not gritty if you muddle it correctly,” he said.
“Not only am I not going to use a sugar cube,” she told him. “I am going to use a cherry as garnish. And if you keep at me, I am going to add an orange slice too.”
“If you want to ruin—”
“I can’t bear watching this anymore,” Odette said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Someone has to give that boy what he wants.”
“A smack in the face?” Charlie guessed, raising her eyebrows.
Odette matched her raised eyebrows.
“Very funny,” said Don.
Charlie set the finished drink—with cherry, without orange slice—in front of Odette.
After taking a large sip, the elderly woman slipped off her stool. Tonight, she wore a leopard-print coat dress with a wide belt. Walking behind the bar to where Don stood, she rested her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Well? Ready to tell us?”
He appeared nervous.
Odette gave a long, frustrated sigh. “Charity work isn’t really my thing, darling, but needs must. Now, pay attention. If you’d like me to stop, all you have to do is tell me so. No risk to your job. No risk to your sensibilities.” Then she reached up and closed her fingers around his throat.
Don froze, which made sense, since his semiretired dominatrix boss had her hand on his neck. But the expression on his face had something oddly yearning in it. “I—don’t—”
“Really, darling?” Odette smiled up at him. “Then tell me to stop.”
Don said absolutely nothing.
“Good,” she told him. “So, would you like Charlie to give you a little slap?”
Don still didn’t speak.
“Oh my.” Balthazar leaned forward on his barstool, appearing riveted. “You should have put this on the main stage.”
Odette shook her head as though very disappointed in both Balthazar and Don. “If you can’t say it, you won’t get it.”
“Okay, fine,” Don spat out the words.
Charlie sucked in an incredulous breath. Could Odette be right? Was Don provoking people around him, hoping for a very specific kind of bad attention?
“Yes,what?” Odette’s voice was stern.
“I’d like her to slap me.” Don looked down.
“You want her to slap you…” Odette tightened her grip, although it was clear he could pull away from her any time he wanted. She was small, her fingers thin.
“Please,” he said.
