Page 24 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

5

BELLE

The trip back to the hotel is no better than my morning commute. Mostly because I’m too trembly from actual rage to even think about catching a cab or figuring out how the subway system works.

Idle chit-chat with a driver would result in me spewing my guts abouteverythingthat has happened in the last twelve hours, which I’m not ready to process.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

I was stressed about handling the Zhukova audit alone, then I unknowingly slept with the owner on a plane, and then that same owner tried to bribe me to commit fraud on his behalf. “Shitshow” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Plus, if I go back to the hotel now, Elise will have questions. Questions I can’t answer.

I know I don’t need to baby her. God knows she reminds me often enough that I’m not her mom. But damn it, the world can be a clusterfuck. I don’t want to try and unpack the chaos with her. Not quite yet, anyway.

So I veer into a small coffee shop and wait in the too-long line. “A large coffee,” I tell the barista when I finally reach the counter.

“Dark, medium, or light?”

I frown. “What?”

“What roast do you want?” she asks.

“Oh. Um.” I shrug. “Medium, I guess.”

She punches it into the register. “Milk?”

“Yes, please.”

“What kind?” she asks.

“I didn’t realize this was an interrogation.” I laugh. Oklahoma doesn’t usually require this much pre-caffeine decision-making.

The young barista looks annoyed with me. “Whole, two-percent, skim, oat, almond, cashew, soy, hemp…”

“Holy cow. That’s a lot of milk.” I sigh. “No pun intended. Jeez, that was awful. Sorry, I just wasn’t prepared. For this or anything else. It’s beena day.”

She looks past me to the line bobbing impatiently behind me.

“Right. I’m not your only customer,” I mumble. “Um… just make it whole milk. And give me two.”

“Two milks?” She frowns.

“Two coffees,” I clarify. “Both with whole milk.”

She punches it in and then I swipe my card. I give her a generous tip. Maybe she’s havinga day, too.

Standing at the end of the coffee line, looking at the customers streaming in and out of the door, I realize how many people there are in the world. How many people with different jobs. Jobs that don’t force them to work for a scumbag like Roger. Jobs where they don’t have to help someone embezzle and cover it up.

Maybe losing my job wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all.

The barista slides two coffee cups across the counter to me.

“Is this a good gig?” I blurt suddenly. “Being a barista?”

“It’s the singular joy of my life,” she drawls with withering sarcasm.

Okay. So that will be a “no” for being a barista. But why can’t I find another job? I used to have hopes and dreams. Used to think anything was possible.

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