Page 20 of Bratva Hunter

“Ernie. Shut the hell up.”

The old man laughs. “I’m just kidding. I was hoping to make the pretty little one here laugh.”

I step back to the table with a glass of ice water to place before him. “Want me to smile? Treat me with respect and kindness.” I stare down at him with a sour look. “Honey is so much more productive than vinegar.”

I approach the counter and smile at Marcel, who’s chatting with Jefferson. “You’ve decided to stay, no?”

Have I? I’ve been here for more than three weeks, and it’s starting to feel familiar. Safety isn’t something I’ve been used to, but this is heaven. Everyone treats me with respect. Well, except the few assholes that come in.

Jefferson hands me an envelope. I peel back the top to expose cash. Flipping through, I count almost a thousand dollars for the week. He’s paying me under the table, so no one can track it. I work more than the usual forty hours. No one seems to mind, and Jefferson is paying me really well. I work all day and go to bed late, but I’m tired enough that I sleep for the first time since my father took me to New York. Holding up the envelope, I nod at him. “Thanks.”

“No. Thanks to you. You’re great at this. Marcel is right. You should stay.”

“It’s too big a risk that they’ll come for me and hurt you guys.”

Marcel laughs. “We can handle anyone that comes after you. You belong here with us.”

The other server calls to me before I can acknowledge his words. I hope I can stay.

The following evening, A tray of drinks rests on my overturned palm. A voice calls out from the kitchen, which sits between the restaurant and the bar. “Pick up, chère.”

It’s sweet that Marcel calls the women he likes ‘chère.’ I asked him earlier, and he explained it was a familiar nickname his people use.

After I set down the drinks on a table near the pool tables, I head to the kitchen and claim the tray of finger foods. Walking by tables, people motion for my attention. The bar smells like lemon cleaner and beer. Jefferson’s a stickler for a clean bar, and it gives me great satisfaction to clean it every morning before I go upstairs and pour myself into the bed.

Jefferson loves eighties rock. He’s such a fan that there are vinyl records tacked up around the bar. There’s a stage in the corner, but the dust on the outlets tells me it hasn’t been used in a while. The bar is a duplicate in size to the adjacent restaurant, but that’s where the similarity ends. Where the restaurant is bright and homey, the bar is dark and lively. Heavy wood tables take up space in the main room of the bar. Jefferson’s pride and joy is a wall of autographed photos from bands of the eighties. AC/DC, Kiss, Boston, and Chicago, just to name a few of the bands represented on the wall.

Julie, my taxi driver from the first night, is staying over in the upstairs bedroom next to the one I’m using. She stops by every few weeks to spend the weekend with her brother. I distribute the appetizers to the various patrons and smile at the other server when she calls me a natural.

“You just want me to close tonight too.”

She beams at my comment as I move into the kitchen to eat the food Marcel sets aside every night for my dinner. The delicious aroma tickles my nose and makes my mouth water. I’m sure I’ve gained weight working here and eating Marcel’s food. Can’t say I mind that at all. My mind floats back to my one-night stand with Rory. Wish I’d gotten his number. A trip to Europe to stay away from the men chasing me would be the perfect distraction.

“The cops are coming. You need to leave.” Jefferson bellows at the bar as banging and raised voices from the bar get the attention of everyone in the kitchen. I move to the doorway to peek out.

“Where is she?” A dark-haired man in a leather jacket and chains in his pockets screams at everyone. His hand balls up his fist, and he strikes Jefferson in the face. “Where is the little bitch!” Spittle comes out of the man’s mouth as he yells. “Now.”

A hand wraps around my upper arms, maneuvering me back into the kitchen. Marcel whispers. “Get back in here and hide. They’re after you.”

“What? Oh God.” I struggle to pull my arm from his hand. “They’re going to get hurt.”

“Better Jefferson than you.”

“But…” I don’t get to finish my sentence before sirens echo from the parking lot as a bloody Jefferson with a split lip, two black eyes, and various bruises runs into the kitchen. “Amira, get your stuff. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Three guys from the local biker gang were looking for you. A couple of the regulars zip tied them for the cops, but they have a dozen or more in their gang. My sister will take you somewhere else. Let’s go get your stuff.” He leads me up the back stairs to the second floor where his sister sleeps. He stops to wake her as I go to clean out my room. So much for feeling safe and happy.

Marcel leans against the doorway as I pack up my stuff in my duffel once again. “I’m so sorry they found you.”

Blowing out my breath, I catch the sob with my fist. “I don’t know where to go.”

The other server joins Marcel at my door. She purses her lips as she stares out the small window. “Who do you know that the people chasing you don’t?”

Faces of friends and family pass through my brain like photos on a reel. I reach the end of my list and focus on my friend, Melanie. She’s a fellow model, and I trust her. She lives in Phoenix. I sling my bag over my shoulder with my backpack. “How do I get to Phoenix?”

Julie answers from behind Marcel. “I’ve been thinking about that. We need to get you a few things for your next adventure. When we get in my car, I’ll explain.”

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