Unfiltered & Unlawful (The Unfiltered Series) (2 page)

An hour later, I was so ready to leave work. My boss, Jason, had called to say he would be late coming in to pick up the bank drop for the day, so we could just lock the doors, and he’d let himself in after we closed. It was strange for Jason to leave the bank bag full of cash in the store, but he was a prick, so I wasn’t going to wait around for him. In fact, with Jason absent, I might even close a few minutes early if we were dead. He’d never know. I’d have to see if Cass, the other barista, would go along with my plan.

Unfortunately, the Coffee Cave wasn’t as dead as I wanted it to be. Bars had been spilling into the street, so we had a few of the usual drunk girls, loud and shrill. They were enough to make me remember why I worked at a coffee shop instead of a bar. We stayed open for the drunks, late night students, and random walk-in customer who obviously didn’t fit here.

It was more bearable some nights when we had music to cover the laughs and voices. Tonight, Dillon was playing. Right now, it was a cover of “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. He was a decent guitar player, but it was his voice that made people stop and listen. He wasn’t supposed to work tonight, so we didn’t have the usual crowd of devotees that swarmed The Coffee Cave when he was here. If I were the sort to go for rock stars, I’d consider taking a run at him. We weren’t friends, so a one-nighter with him wouldn’t have the same complications it would with Adam. If he ever got out of Rio Verde, that boy would be a national name. Cass swore angels tripped over themselves falling from heaven in the hopes of getting some of the high quality naked time that could be had with the boy behind that sinfully addictive voice—and it was worth the fall. She would know. Cass had had more than a few nights with Dillon—which is probably why he still worked here on his random “I’m bored” evenings.

Right now, Cass was making herself busy flitting around the room, cleaning tables that didn’t need to be cleaned. She swiped a rag over the empty tables, ignoring the ones with dishes and watching Dillon intently. She hadn’t admitted it, but I figured they’d either hooked up again or one of them suggested it. My fellow barista was the sort of girl who drew a lot of second looks. Dillon had done more than look.

The two drunk girls who were making far too much of a scene of themselves suddenly bolted for the back of the coffee shop where the bathroom was. Cass stopped swiping her bar-rag over the table long enough to yell, “It’s occupied.”

She looked my way and rolled her eyes, then she went back to what she was doing while I pasted on my fake smile and said, “What can I get for you?”

The man at the counter made me want to take a step backward. He was dead-eyed and muscled, but not in the tempting way Adam was. In fact, he made me wish Adam was still here. I’d been in enough shady places the past few years to know that there were people who did mean like it was an entire lifestyle commitment. This guy was one of them.

“Double espresso with orgeat.”

I paused, startled. No one had
ever
ordered orgeat in the entire time I’d worked here. I shrugged. Orgeat sounded exotic, but it was really just a sweetened almond flavoring, so he was asking for espresso with sugary almond syrup. It was a basic drink to prep, but it sounded fancy if people heard you order it. The man wasn’t the biggest jerk I’d served today, but I did want to roll my eyes and scoff at his smarmy pretentiousness.

As I prepared his drink, I looked around the cafe. There was a familiar-looking jock staring out the front window, a girl tucked in the corner with a Bible of all things, and Jess, a quiet student who was in here regularly, hunched over a textbook. Joe, the young Republican whose dad was some Senator, wasn’t at his usual table. I figured that he was the one having sex in the bathroom. Again. Tonight’s pick for his bang list was some hippie chick with white-girl dreds. He’d tried a few times with another one of our other regulars, Lauren, but she’d shot him down without a moment’s pause every time he’d tried. I think he’d finally given up. I felt bad for the hippie girl, but better her than Lauren, who was busily typing away on her laptop like usual.

My gaze went back to Jess. Instead of her business chic standard, she was in short skirt, heeled boots and a white button down shirt undone an extra button. I made a mental note to keep an eye on Joe. Jess was a sweetheart, and the last thing she needed was some jerk hassling her. Unlike some of the regulars, I simply couldn’t stand Joe. Luckily, I wasn’t his type, and the guys who were working at the cafe were protective of Cass and me. I’d relied on them in the past when there was trouble.

If the dead-eyed man on the other side of the counter started shit, I hoped that either Dillon or the jock would step up. There was something off about this guy. He looked like I felt when I had been strung out after one of my week long coke benders.

“That’ll be $3.89,” I said.

The man took a sip of his coffee, glared at me as if I’d done something wrong that he just didn’t know yet, and took another sip. Then he slid his drink farther down the counter and pulled out his wallet. He paused, his gaze darting around the shop in visible paranoia. Either he was hiding from someone or he was jacked up pretty good. I was betting on the second one. We get all sorts of crazies in The Coffee Cave late night on weekends.

Cass had finally stopped wiping already-clean tables and was now clearing used mugs and plates from the empty tables; she carried a bin of dirty dishes to the counter and nodded toward the two drunk girls. “I swear, if I have to clean up puke tonight, I’m going to spit in their next cup of coffee.”

I grinned at her, but I didn’t say anything. The drunk co-eds banging on the bathroom door were as much a staple as the over-caffeinated students and the weirdos that wandered in from the bars.

The man at the counter looked between us like we were more interesting than we were.

Cass glanced over at Dillon who sat on a small raised platform at the front of the shop, absently playing his guitar. “Could you play something that will drown out the sounds of spew?” she called.

He nodded, giving her a devilishly wicked smile and started playing Kendrick Lamar’s “Drank.”

The sudden sounds of shouting drew everyone’s attention to the back of the coffee shop. “What in the fuck?” Cass grumbled.

When Cass went to investigate, the man at the counter lunged forward, stretching his arm over the counter, and grabbed my wrist.

I yelped, but not loudly. I’d dealt with strung out people enough that I knew that staying calm was the better tactic.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he snarled.

“No?” Fear flashed over me at his tone, but I still didn’t struggle. I wasn’t sure if that would make things worse or not. My theory that he was strung out or something still held, but I silently added “possible mental disorder” to my list of threats. Unfortunately, that didn’t help me figure out how to
fix
things.

“I’m not going to get played by some two-bit clown.” He squeezed my arm and jerked me closer. My feet left the floor as he practically dragged me across the counter.

“Okaaay.” Mugs toppled to the floor with a crash as I tried to yank my arm out of his grip. Not struggling hadn’t helped, so I was going with Plan B: ‘get out of the asshole’s grasp.’ Instead of getting free though, I came hurtling over the counter as he dragged me to him.

I stumbled to my feet as soon as he released me, but I was backed against the counter.

“Where is he?” the man asked.

“Who?” I croaked.

He punched me. No warning. Just a fist coming at me. I twisted and my movement meant his knuckles only grazed my cheek. It still hurt like a bitch.

“Need my purse,” I yelled, hoping someone would hear and get it for me. Inside it was the gun I carried for emergencies. This was quickly becoming an emergency.

The man asked, “What?”

I tried to dart past him, but he grabbed and shook me. I started to fall to the ground. Only his hand on my arm kept me from falling.

“I don’t know what you want,” I told him.

“Bullshit.”

His jacket was caught back at some point when he was yanking me over the counter or maybe when he punched me. I don’t know when. All I know is that I could now see a black semiautomatic gun in a holster that his jacket had concealed.

He shoved me toward the counter. I hit it and fell to the ground. I knew there were people in the room moving and yelling. I couldn’t tell what they were saying though. All I could do was stare at the crazy man with the gun who was furious with me for some reason I didn’t understand. In all the times I’d done shit that could’ve gotten me seriously hurt, I’d never felt the terror that filled me now.

Then I heard a voice say, “Stop it!”

When I looked past the man, I saw the owner of the voice. Jess—one of our regulars—had my purse at her feet. I knew then what she had in her hands: My unmarked, unregistered revolver. She stood, aiming at the man.

“Mind your business,” the man snarled, reaching for his gun.

His hand closed around the grip. He drew it out of the holster.

And then there was a shot.

I screamed, expecting to feel pain. I didn’t. I wasn’t the one who’d been hit.

He fell. It wasn’t like in the movies where the bullet was in slow motion. In real life, shootings happen in a single heartbeat. One minute the crazy man was standing over me, and then he was on the floor bleeding.

“Shit!” someone said.

“What the fuck!”

“Oh my God!”

“Is he… is he
dead
?”

“Holy fuck. She
killed
him!”

Everything was suddenly happening all at once. Cass, Dillon, and several of the customers were all racing toward me. A few others were motionless.

Then Joe, the Senator’s kid who couldn’t keep it in his pants, was in the room. He walked over to the door, threw the lock, and announced, “Whoever is in this room, is in the room. And we’re not leaving until we sort this shit out.”

The responses came all at once.

“I can’t get caught with a dead body.”

“I killed him.”

“I’m innocent. I’m not staying here.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Jess had slumped into a chair. There were a few flecks of blood on her nice white shirt. Her shaking hands were clutching my gun, which still had more rounds in it.

I walked over and took my gun from her. I shoved it inside my purse. The casing was still in the chamber, and Jess’s prints would be all over it. What wasn’t anywhere on it, however, was a serial number. This was an unmarked piece Tommy had gotten for me for Valentine’s Day our first year together. I wasn’t sentimental about guns, so I could probably toss it or sell it. Right now, though, I was so shattered by what had just happened that I really didn’t want to be without a gun.

“It’s okay,” I whispered to her. Then, louder, I said, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

And then Cass said, “It
will
be. We just need to get rid of the body before someone comes.”

We all stopped whatever we were doing and looked at her. I expected arguments or objections, but none came.

One of the drunk girls, the brunette who was still having trouble standing in her god-awful shoes, said, “Violet can do it! Her family burns bodies.”

The other drunk girl, the one wearing a cheap tiara saying ‘Birthday Girl,’ said, “We run a funeral home! There’s a difference. We
cremate
them.”

“You have the keys,” said Helpful Drunk Girl.

“Damn it, Allie,” Miss Tiara groaned.

The jock said, “What the fuck are you all thinking?”

“We should call the police,” the girl with the Bible said.

There it was: the objection I’d thought would be instantaneous. Everyone was staring at her or the dead guy or the drunk girls who suggested burning the dead guy. I wasn’t sure who was the most outrageous of the bunch. All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to get caught with an unregistered gun that was undoubtedly tied to something illegal before it was in my possession and which had just been used to kill a guy. I wasn’t sure where things would fall out if anyone called the police either. Would Jess be arrested? Would I, for the gun possession? Would the drunk girls for pretty obvious public intoxication? At least four of us would be taken downtown. I looked around, wondering who else had a secret.

Then the Oxford asshole, Joe, said, “I can’t be found here. If you’re calling the cops, I’m out, and no one better mention me being here.”

“Me, either,” said the drunk who had volunteered her friend for getting rid of the body. “I’m on probation.”

“I can’t risk my scholarship,” the jock said.

“Getting arrested would be a… I
can’t
get arrested,” Lauren said.

“Don’t look at me,” said a quiet guy who’d been hanging back the whole time.

“No one’s going to get arrested,” the Bible girl said, reasonably.

“Jess would,” I said, just as calmly. The police had always made me nervous, and having an unregistered gun that had been used in a shooting would lead to questions I couldn’t answer. I looked around at them. “I would get arrested. That’s not exactly a
legal
gun. What’s to say someone wouldn’t point the finger at one of you, too?”

No one spoke. The girl with the Bible seemed to be praying, and the hippie girl who had been in the bathroom with Joe was patting the praying girl’s arm. I waited for someone to argue, hoping they were willing to follow my lead on this.

After a quiet moment, Cass and I exchanged a look, and I suggested, “Let’s just get him out of here.” I turned to Miss Tiara and Helpful Drunk and asked, “You can deal with the body?”

Helpful Drunk’s head immediately bobbed, but Miss Tiara took her time, apparently needing to let the idea filter through her vodka-soaked brain before she could respond. Finally, she shot a resentful look at Helpful Drunk and nodded.

“Okay.” I squatted down and patted the dead guy down for car keys. He hadn’t been in the bars because they were either places that had smoking rooms or dance floors. The dead man hadn’t smelled smoky or seemed the club type. Since the only nearby places were bars that meant he had a car.