Page 1 of Grind
1
Ava
“If your section’s clean, you can leave, Buchanan.”
It’s 2:00 a.m. My manager, Gus, emerges from his office now that the restaurant’s closed and the hard work is done. His shirt is covered in grease stains, and his tie is stiff from dipping into the soup.Gross.
Time to get out of here. My feet throb after hours serving tables.
I spin the numbers on my locker, relief flooding through me as it clicks open. Some servers leave theirs unlocked, only to find their phones or money stolen. But I need every dollar I can earn to pay for law school. I never take chances.
Even the thought sends an icy chill down my spine.
Slipping into my coat, I step out the back door into the chilly night. The coolness hits my skin, reviving me a little. But asthma makes it harder to breathe in this weather, and my chest is already tight with fear.
I scan the darkened streets, taking in every detail. Stay vigilant. Be alert. It’s the only way I’ll make it home safe.
Sketchy clubs and bars dot the streets of Boston’s former red-light district , and all the drunks will be pouring out of them soon. As I round the corner, exiting the alley onto a better-lit street. I clutch my coat tighter around me.
His voice cuts out of the darkness just ahead of me.
“About time. I’ve been waiting for over an hour. I don’t like being kept waiting, princess.”
That voice instantly fills me with a bone-chilling fear. My heart thunders as I back up against the brick building behind me. The facade scratches against the fabric of my coat, and there’s a sound of cloth tearing
“Brooks,” I won’t let my voice shake. “You’re not supposed to talk to me. That’s part of the deal.”
The deal we’d made after he’d almost killed me.
He smiles smugly, crowding closer and pushing me harder into the wall. His eyes have that strange, vacant look they get when he’s about to lose control. Sweat beads on my neck, and I turn my face to avoid the reek of his sour breath. It’s a look I know all too well.
“I’m Brooks Stacy, baby. I do what I want.”
His hand strokes the side of my face. Involuntarily, my body shivers, his soft fingers sliding down my cheek. Repulsion pushes up through the fear, and I fight not to remember those hands touching me during more intimate encounters.
Must get out of here. Now.
Last time he raised his hand to me, I’d been in the hospital for two weeks. Just the thought sets my nerves on fire.The pain. The fear.Counting every day of my recovery in missed dollars from my waitressing shifts and mounting workload from my classes. My throat tightens, raw and slick with panic.
Digging my fingers into the craggy, sharp brick, my eyes dart left and right as I frantically search for any opening to get away.
“Please,” I push against his solid chest. The edges of my own breathing close in, and the pressure on my chest constricts
Don’t hyperventilate. Not now.
“Aw, princess, you know I love it when you beg.”
It’s always worse when he’s drunk. The hairs on my arms lift, remembering the last time he caught me alone when he was drinking.
“Brooks, your father will be mad if you get in trouble again.” My voice drops to a whisper, struggling to stay steady as I try to reason with him.
The only reason he’s not in jail is because of his father. Mayor Stacy made a deal with the judge, to rehabilitate his wayward son and pay my medical bills. They didn’t even give me a restraining order. One wasn’t needed against a fine, upstanding member of the rich and powerful Stacy family, after all.
Nothing makes you feel safer than top-to-bottom corruption.
“Don’t worry, princess,” his words slur and his voice drops to a deeper pitch. “He’ll only get mad if they find the body.”
Images flash too fast to process: Brooks in a rage, his skin rage-red as his mouth contorts. Me, unable to get away, curling into a fetal position when it was clear I had no other option. The horrible aftermath taking weeks to recover from. Even now, I can feel the dark remembered ache of shattered bones.
