Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (8 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FINAL SALE, FINAL STRAW

I wish I could forget the rest of that night. I have to forget it for now—I have a sale I need to finish.

Terri and her friend are waiting, and probably starting to wonder why I’m still in the bathroom. Wiping the water from my face, I turn to leave. The cold, damp bar air makes the hair on my neck stand up straight. Something is off.

Terri and Erica are still swooning over the clothes.

Time freezes. There’s a ringing in my ears. The moment becomes a blur.

A couple sits at a table across the bar. The bartender walks up, drops off a pint of beer and a cocktail, and the woman’s head tilts up. She sees me. Her eyes narrow. It’s Carmine Pesconi’s wife. Eyes wide, she says something to her partner, but I’m well out of earshot. The man begins to turn and I look away. I don’t need to see him to know who he is.

He’s Carmine Pesconi.

Terri waves me over. “Olivia!” she calls out. “Come sit down. Let’s make a deal.” I can barely hear her over the deafening gong in my chest and the high-pitched squeal in my ears.

I start towards the door.

“Olivia? Where are you going? What about the clothes?” she asks, standing up.

“Keep them.” My voice is raspy, broken. I don’t look back—I can’t look back. I know he can see me. I know it’s too late, he’s already recognized me, and it’s just a matter of time before he realizes that his wife’s clothes are on that table.

“What? Seriously?” Terri says. I wish she would shut up and take the hint. I wish she would run, too. Should I warn her? It would take two second, but I can’t bare the though of turning back and facing Pesconi.

Instead, I say nothing as I leave the secret underground bar. Not until I’m three streets down from the Holiday Inn do I make sure I’m not being followed. I’m not—unless you count the crippling nausea that resonates in my gut.

The never-ending Ilium downpour has very few benefits—one of which is, no one can tell when you’re crying. On the Ilium streets, no one knows if you’re a perfectly happy person or a miserable wreck.

If there are perfectly happy people in Ilium, it’s news to me.

Within the span of five days, I’ve isolated myself from an entire city. Going to work is out of the question, unless I want to be murdered by the Pesconis. For too many reasons, I can’t visit the bar underneath the Holiday Inn. I can’t peruse the south side of town, where I’ve earned the reputation of
prostitute
with not only the residents, but also the police and the real prostitutes too.

The only safe place left in Ilium is my little apartment—which I’m now beginning to question truly is safe as I turn the key to my apartment door.

It’s unlocked. Did I accidentally leave it unlocked? Unlikely, given the compounding paranoia from the five days. I stare at my door handle, listening to my heart thudding against my chest. It’s just paranoia, nothing else.

The door hinges scream as I gently push the door open. My apartment is dark, the blinds are closed, and the air is silent. Everything is the way I left it. Nothing seems out of the ordinary—nothing except the unlocked door and my shattered nerves. Overreaction or not, it’s time to leave Ilium—time to move to a bigger a city, a city with no Freddie, no Carmine—a city where I can be invisible.

I pull my duffle bag out from under my bed and fill it with only the essentials: clothing, toothbrush, and my deodorant. The next tenant can have everything else—I don’t care. Ten thousand is enough money to rebuild, to start over, enough for a few months in a nice apartment. A few months is plenty of time to find new suppliers, new hangouts, and new clients. A few months is plenty of time to start a new life.

I go to my closet to retrieve the stash. It’s gone. The shelf is bare—nothing but a note. On the note is nothing but a smiley-face. I’ve been robbed.

And I know exactly who did it; I can smell his cheap cologne on the little piece of paper. Even his note has a shit-eating grin.

“Fucking prick,” I mutter.

“Want the cash?” a voice says.

I muffle my scream with my hand as I spin around. Freddie is at my kitchen table, laughing, too happy to get a rise out of me. In one hand, he’s holding the cash. In the other, he’s playing with a pocketknife, flicking it open, and collapsing it repeatedly.

My shock quickly settles into anger. The sight of his face brings back one too many repulsive memories. “Give that back to me,” I say, pointing at my money.

“Why? It’s mine.” He smiles as if he told a joke that I would get at any second. The only joke I can see is sitting at my kitchen table.

“It’s not yours. You stole it from me.”

He rolls his eyes and says, “You wanna get into this again?”

“I just want my money so I can leave.” I say it slowly, so his small brain has time to process each word.

The big smile returns—still waiting for me to clue into the hilarious punch line he never told. “I’ll tell you what—I’m a nice guy. I don’t want to make this into some big thing. To be honest, I’d love it if I never had to see ya again. The cash is yours if you just give me the rest of it.” He places the cash down and nods his head.

The rest of it? The rest of what? There was nothing worth anything in that bag, aside from those gold coins and the pack of condoms I threw in the trash. “The rest of what?” I ask.

“The rest of the stuff you stole from me—the territs that were in my bag.”

“The what?” I ask.

“The big crowns. Give ‘em back to me and I’ll leave ya alone. I’ll leave ya with your precious cash.”

The big crowns? Is that some sort of slang? He must be talking about the little gold coins, but I don’t have his little gold coins. They’re sitting in a box at the No Hold Gold. They’re as good as gone. Anyone who’s ever driven past the No Hold Gold has seen the signs: No refunds.

He nudges the cash forward again, still waiting for my reply. I have nothing to say to him. He can keep the cash. I’ll make due with the five hundred bucks from the No Hold Gold in my purse. That’s more than enough for a bus ticket. I’ll panhandle the rest. I don’t care anymore.

“Well?” Freddie says. He flicks his knife out again. Is he trying to scare me with that thing? I was in a gang for five years, I’m not afraid of some dinky little switchblade.

I tell him to keep the cash and I turn to the door.

He doesn’t stand up from his seat but his smile grows bigger. He must think I’m bluffing—that this is part of some bargain, and he’s so damn clever because he can tell I’m bluffing. Well, I’m not bluffing, I’m heading for the bus depot.

“It’s Olivia, right?” he asks.

I don’t stop; he can live out his James Bond villain fantasy with someone who gives a shit. The ten grand the prick is withholding would be nice, but it’s not worth giving the slime ball another second of satisfaction.

As I reach for the door handle, a hand grabs my arm. I jump.

It’s not Freddie, but his tall, red-haired accomplice. I could tell he was tall in the parking lot, standing next to Freddie. But he’s not just tall—he’s a giant, easily six and a half feet tall. Unlike Freddie, he doesn’t seem so amused.

“Check your purse,” Freddie calls out from the kitchen. I do. It’s empty; the five hundred is gone, along with my credit cards and ID.

The sleight bastards must have taken the cash out while I was packing. The man holding my arm lets a short-lived grin slip. I bet these bastards don’t even give a shit about their little coins. They’re just getting a kick out of my irritation, a couple of buddies who thought it would be fun to play gangster for the day.

“Where’s my money?” I say slowly, making sure they understand the question, and that they understand I know people who could show them what it really means to be a thug.

“You can have it back when I get my coins.”

The red-haired giant scoffs.

“What are you laughing at, matchstick?” I say. His grin quickly leaves his face and his grip tightens around my arm. These idiots aren’t going to hurt me. They’re both barehanded, leaving fingerprints everywhere.

“I want those coins, darlin’,” Freddie calls out.

“Let me go.”

“You can go as soon as you give me what’s mine.” He speaks playfully, confirming that this is just a big game to him. He’s just some punk who’s played one too many video games and watched one too many gangster films.

I try to nudge my arm loose, but the man’s grip is too tight. “Just keep the cash. That gold wasn’t worth anything anyway.”

Freddie laughs. “The cash isn’t worth anything to me. Let’s make this painless, darlin’. Where’re the coins?” Freddie now stands behind me, blocking me from the rest of my apartment, containing me to the small front entryway.

“I don’t have them.” I smile and shrug my shoulders.

Freddie flicks his knife out again. This time, it stays extended. “What do ya mean, ya don’t have ‘em?” His voice is low now as he takes a step towards me. His smile begins to fade.

His blade is sharp and shiny—it’s clearly never been used. No one with half a brain would break into an apartment, put their fingerprints on everything, commit murder, bloody up their clothes, and think the cops won’t find them in five minutes. Though, Freddie and his friend don’t even have half a brain between the two of them.

“Where’re the coins, Olivia?” Freddie’s waning smirk is pinched as he bites the edge of his tongue.

“I don’t have them.” I stare blankly into his eyes.

“Then who does?” Freddie asks through his teeth.

I don’t respond. Instead, I shrug.

“I suggest ya think as hard as you can, darlin’.” With his knife in hand, Freddie reaches up and pushes a piece of wet hair off of my face. His blade teases my skin. “While you’re at it, remember hittin’ me over the head with that lamp—and try imaginin’ how angry I was when I came to.” He keeps his blade near my throat.