The Hurricane (2 page)

Danny was a small, wiry man, who couldn’t have been much younger than seventy-five. The deep grooves in his face and leathery skin spoke of hard living, but he was no frail pensioner. Mike was twice the size of Danny, but even he was a little bit scared of him. From my very first shift at Daisy’s, he’d strolled through the door a few minutes past opening, plonked himself in an empty booth in my section, and beckoned me over – which soon became our morning ritual. But that first day was different; I’d been absolutely petrified of everything and everyone. Most regulars had gravitated toward the other girls’ sections, wary of the new girl messing up their order. Danny had no such compunctions, though. He’d sat straight down and called out, “Hey, sunshine, come and get me a cuppa coffee. I don’t bite.”

Shaking like a leaf, I filled his cup, and by sheer force of will, avoided spilling the scalding liquid all over his lap. If he noticed my nerves, he’d never said anything. He rattled off his order then unfolded a crisp, clean newspaper, and read silently until I brought out his breakfast. When he was finished, I removed his plate and refilled his coffee.

“Thank you, sunshine,” he said, without smiling and without looking up from his paper.

Things went on that way for a few weeks, and when I finally stopped shaking, he spoke to me. It was never anything too personal, just remarks about the weather, questions about school, and what I thought of my professors. In the beginning, I did my best to find one-word answers, but just over a year later, Danny was the closest thing I had to a friend. I wanted to run and hide in the kitchen. But hiding wouldn’t do me any good, it never did. Ten horrific years of my stepfather, Frank, knocking me around had taught me not to speak unless spoken to and not to make eye contact. Whenever I felt threatened, those were the rules I fell back on.

Moving quickly through the tables, I wiped down a couple, gathered up a few dirty dishes, and after dropping them off at the kitchen, I could procrastinate no further and headed to Danny’s table.

“Two full fried breakfasts please, sunshine,” Danny croaked, with his usual scowl. If he ever did smile at me, I was a little worried that his weather-beaten face might crack. Lowering my eyes, I gave him a small nod but didn’t reply. It was our usual routine, and he was familiar with it. Without asking him, I filled up his coffee cup, and my hands trembled. It had been months since that happened, and I knew if I had to ask Danny’s companion if he’d like coffee, my voice would crack. I turned toward him with the coffeepot in my hand, and my eye caught on the sleeve of his white t-shirt. The biggest bicep that I’d ever seen strained the seams, and beneath, the edge of a tattoo was visible. It looked like a series of intricately woven Celtic designs. From what I could see, the artwork was beautiful.

“O’Connell, do you want coffee or not?” Danny snapped at him. I flinched at the sharpness of his tone, but he did, at least, save me from speaking.

“Yeah, sure,” the guy replied lazily, almost bored. I shook badly again, and I was sure that I’d spill it, but I didn’t. Gathering up their menus, I all but whispered, “I’ll be back with your order soon,” and fled to the kitchen to hide. The guy’s eyes were boring a hole in my back as I walked away. Ten minutes later, their order was done. Taking their warm plates through to the cafe, I placed the identical breakfasts down in front of them and escaped.

“You keep your eyes off that, boyo. That one’s not for you,” I heard Danny warn quietly.

Danny was born and raised in Killarney, Ireland, and I very much doubted that the forty years he’d spent here in London had softened his accent much.

“Why was she shaking so badly?” The man Danny had called O’Connell asked in a deep, husky voice with a slight Irish lilt that was just about the sexiest thing that I had ever heard.

Danny sighed deeply before answering. “You probably scare the shite out of her. That one’s special, but she ain’t for you, so you’d best mind yourself and leave her to her business. Now, stop looking after something you can’t have and think about what I said,‘cause if we have one more conversation about you drinkin’ and fightin’, you eejit, then you and me are gonna have words!”

The rest of the conversation was lost on me. The idea of Danny threatening this mountain of a man with anything would be enough to make me to smile, if he hadn’t mentioned the fighting. Truth be told, you only had to look at O’Connell to know that he was dangerous. It was hard to tell how tall he was, but by the way he was crammed into that booth, I’d guess he was big. Broad shouldered and ripped, he looked every inch a fighter, but with that relaxed, almost bored, indifference about him that sold the package. He could take care of himself, and he knew it.

A few more of my regulars made their way over to my section, and after doing my rounds with the coffee and rushing back and forth with orders, I realised that the seat across from Danny was empty. I let out a deep breath and began clearing the table.

“Give my compliments to Mike,” Danny told me, as I stacked up the plates.

“Sure, Danny,” I replied. “Can I get you another coffee?”

“No, thank you, sunshine. My bladder control is not what it used to be, and I’m gonna find it hard enough to get back to work as it is.”

This was more information than I needed to know. I was sure that he threw it out there just to get a rise out of me, and I humoured him by rolling my eyes.

“Make sure you wrap up warm, then,” I gestured toward his coat and scarf on the bench. “It’s bitter out.”

I dealt with ringing up his check, and before he’d even closed the door behind him, Katrina Bray was up in my face. With her shirt pulled tight against her impressive cleavage, and a skirt rolled higher than her apron, she stomped her way toward me.

“What the hell was Cormac O’Connell doing in your section?”

I gave her the one-shouldered shrug. “I have no friggin’ clue, and you’re welcome to serve him next time,” would be my response of choice, but I kept my mouth shut. Katrina was the last person that I needed to start an argument with.

“You have absolutely no idea who he is, do you?”

She obviously deduced this for herself, given the vacant look on my face. Without waiting for an answer, she flounced off in a cloud of cheap perfume. Rhona, having heard the whole exchange, shoulder bumped me on her way back to the kitchen.

“Go on, girl. ‘Bout time that madam had a bit of competition, and once upon a time, I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that boy, myself. I wouldn’t be turning a blind eye if I was twenty years younger.”

“Need some help?” I motioned to the dishes in her hand, trying to change the subject. It had completely escaped her notice that I was neither flirting, nor being flirted with. I was no expert, but I was sure that you actually needed to talk to someone to start a relationship.

“No thanks, love, I’ve got it. Your section is getting pretty full.”

She nodded back toward the cafe. Seeing she was right, I hurried back to take orders. People were pretty slow about coming into my section to begin with, but once they saw me waiting on Danny every day, they slowly started drifting over. The breakfast and lunch shifts flew by, punctuated by evil looks from Katrina. I guessed from her attitude, that O’Connell was on her hit list and she hadn’t scored with him yet. Which would put him in the minority, from what I hear. When Katrina wanted a guy, he usually didn’t offer much resistance. She had nothing to worry about from me, though. If O’Connell came in here again, she was welcome to him. However good looking the package, I didn’t need that kind of trouble in my life. It wasn’t as if he’d ever give me a second look, anyway.

By the time my shift ended, I was glad to be heading to class. Waitressing was okay, and it was nice to have some company, but school was where I really lost myself. Getting a place at UCL had been the scariest and most exhilarating thing that had ever happened to me. None of it would have been possible without my former teacher, Mrs. Wallis. I had been wriggling around in my seat, trying not to let the chair touch any of the fresh bruises hidden under my sweater when she had approached me. With tears in her eyes, she had told me she knew I had a difficult home life, and as I was nearly eighteen, there was a way of escaping. If I wanted her help, I would have it. That was the nearest that I ever came to breaking down. Part of me wanted to scream at her that if she knew, then why didn’t she tell social services so they could get me? I think we both knew that would only have made things worse, though. I didn’t scream at her or cry, but actually setting out the bare bones of a plan was terrifying. The fear of being caught, and of my stepfather, Frank, discovering what I was doing, had me feeling sick every minute of every day. Using Mrs. Wallis’ address, I had applied for university places and identification. When I turned eighteen, I changed my surname legally. I accepted a place studying applied mathematics at University College London and now, eighteen months later, the only person who could ever connect Emily Thomas from Cardiff, South Wales with me was Mrs. Wallis, an elderly home economics teacher who was the only person I’d ever trusted.

I’d breezed an access course in accounting over the summer, but my heart was in the maths. It was clean and pure, and in my world of grey, it was black and white. If I had any chance at building a future then I needed qualifications. The dread of being caught was always ever present, though. I guessed that Frank was looking for me but getting my degree was worth the risk. His need for power and control wouldn’t allow me to walk away from him. If I committed to staying in one place long enough to finish university, I had to keep a low profile. It was my best chance of evading him. So, I did what I’d always done. I made no eye contact and never initiated conversation. It worked in high school, but university was a completely different kettle of fish. The guys here were relentless. Politely turning down unwanted advances, without causing offense, had become an art form that I’d perfected. It was the safest way to live, but I was lonely. There were days that I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to call a friend. In lecture room three, on that frosty Tuesday afternoon, I got just that.

“This seat taken?”

I looked down at cherry red leather boots with a killer heel and looked up to see that the voice belonging to them liked to coordinate her cherry red hair with her outfit. Clearly, I was more than backwards when it came to accessorising. My hair didn’t go with anything.

“Um…” I looked around, desperate to say yes, hoping to remain as anonymous as possible. The lecture theatre was only a third full, at best, and there was no reason why this girl would want to sit next to me. She wore a short denim miniskirt, a fitted black top, and a leather jacket that I would have given my left arm for. With the killer boots and her glossy hair layered artfully around her face, she looked edgy and hot. No wonder half the man geeks were drooling. My first thought was that she was in the wrong place.

“No,” I replied. Could I have been more socially inept? If she was in the right place, it looked like she’d be beating off the guys with a stick, so what better place to take cover than beside the only other girl in the room.

“Nikki Martin,” she said, sliding into the adjoining seat.

“Sorry?” I mumbled.

“I’m Nikki Martin,” she stated, expectantly awaiting a response.

“Oh, hi,” I replied, as I went back to copying down the equation from the projector.

“Oh, my God, you really are one of them,” she laughed, teasingly.

“One of them?” I answered, glancing up in confusion.

“The freaks who only speak in numbers and have no social skills whatsoever.”

“Wow, rude much?” Oh, my God! I’ve never been confrontational, EVER, but with this girl, it just slipped out. She laughed again, probably at the look of sheer horror on my face.

“So, the kitten has claws. You know, you and me are going to get on just fine.”

I had no idea what to say to that. This girl was like a beautiful steamroller.

“Okay, a name would be good about now, unless you want me to call you Mathlexy all term.”

“Mathlexy?” Yep, I was getting good at repeating everything she said back to her as a question.

“I can tell you’re a math fiend by the stack of handwritten notes you’ve got there, and you’re the sexiest thing this lot has probably ever seen.” She gestured around the lecture hall, and I wasn’t convinced that the guys would actually wait until the end of class to pounce on her. The wide-eyed looks of disbelief, appreciation, and finally hunger reminded me of starving hyenas, eyeing up their appetiser. I giggled at the image and snorted through my nose at the absurdity of the name. Snorting was neither sexy nor attractive.

“Emily McCarthy,” I offered up in return, hopeful of rejecting that ridiculous nickname before anyone heard it. The last name was new. I’d only had it for a year, and I was still getting used to it. But I figured that keeping my first name wouldn’t hurt. Emily was a pretty common name and people got suspicious if you didn’t answer to your name when called because you didn’t know it.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Emily McCarthy,” she answered.

By the end of the lecture, I had three sides of crisp clean notes, and Nikki had half a page and some lovely heart and floral murals.

“What’s your next class?” she asked, as we were stuffing things into our bags.

“I don’t have another one for a couple of hours,” I replied. “I was just going to the library to study.”

“Perfect, I have a couple of hours free. Let’s go and grab a coffee. My treat.”

She looped her arm through mine and all but dragged me out, clearly not caring about my plans.

Latte, espresso, tall, fat, mocha, grande
. The board in front of me laid out the endless possible taste sensations, and I agonised over my decision. I loved coffee, but on my budget, regular coffee at Daisy’s was about as good as it got. So, if this was my treat for the month then I was going to make the most of it.

“Come on, Em,” Nikki moaned, “I’m growing old here!”

“A cappuccino, please,” I ordered quickly. The barista handed me my drink, and I pulled out the chair next to Nikki. She took a long sip of her coffee, sighed deeply, and turned to me.