First Fall

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Before I had a chance to respond with some snarky comeback, the line went dead.

I looked at the phone, contemplating whether to throw it against the wall or have it exorcised. I went for option three and tossed it onto the makeshift counter in my kitchen, which was nothing more than a hotplate and a fridge so small it would have bewildered a college student trying to stash his beer. I usually grabbed leftovers at the diner and ate standing up anyway, though I’d been too tired to bother today, figuring it was just best to get some shut-eye before my morning shift.

Working my sneakers off my tired aching soles, I placed them alongside the only two other pairs I owned: a vintage pair of Doc Marten’s boots and my backup work shoes—no less worn than their counterparts—and tucked them in the stowaway bin under the sofa bed, which was calling my name.

My phone rang just as I had gotten my pillow all nice and comfy. I planned on ignoring it and was relieved when it stopped ringing. My hopes were dashed when it accosted me again from the counter. Cursing, I reached for it and barely avoided tumbling off the sofa.

“Listen, Assmunch, I don’t know how you got this number but all this heavy-breathing-cryptic-message s**t is getting old—“

“Assmunch?” The voice drawled.

I muttered another curse under my breath. “Bob.” The guy who paid me every week.

A small chuckle rumbled over the line. “Yup, that would be the Assmunch to whom you are currently speakin’.” Nope, I had nowhere to go with that one. Fortunately, Bob had more pressing matters on his mind. “I need you to come back to work, darlin’. Josie’s kid has got the flu somethin’ fierce and she had to take off.”

“I don’t suppose this kid could have gotten sick before I trudged all the way home,” I grumbled, “and her name’s not Josie. It’s Jess.”

Bob had a weird thing about naming his staff after Josie and The Pussycats and other characters from the Archie Comics. He preferred to call me Veronica—or Ronnie for short—though the only similarity I could see to that particular character was the color of my hair. Then again, I guess I should have been happy he hadn’t decided to call me Jughead.

“Whatever. You’ll be here in ten?”

Politely impatient. That was Bob for ya.

“Make it twenty-five. And Bob?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“You owe me. Again.”

A snort reverberated in my ear before he disconnected, leaving me to stare longingly at my pillow.

It looked lonely.

Like a good little soldier, I was dressed and back to the diner in twenty. Bob impatiently waved his flipper at me from behind the grill, gesturing to the patrons awaiting their meals.

I nodded at a few of the regulars as I tied my apron and grabbed the nearest coffee pot. Making the rounds, I noticed Tara juggling an armful of plates as a group of trendy-looking hipsters—frat boy types—made catcalls, each taking a turn smacking her butt as she passed.

She offered me a shy nod as I grabbed a couple of the dishes before they went flying and delivered them to the rowdy table.

“You’re not our waitress,” the hipster who’d squeezed his blockhead into a fedora commented.

Observant.

“We work as a team here at Bob’s Diner.” I flashed a smile as I placed his burger and fries in front of him. “Would you like ketchup or mustard with that?”

“What we want is our waitress,” the one I decided to call Sweatervest whined, while the guy with the stupid-looking baseball cap perched high on his head chomped noisily on his onion rings.

Given the bullet holes that riddled his hat and poor tableside manners, I could only assume Sporty was the group’s designated meathead.

“She’s busy right now, so you boys will just have to deal with me,” I replied, my tone as sweet as Bob’s tea.

“Get Tara back here or we’re not paying,” Fedora replied through gritted teeth. Apparently, he was used to getting his way without having to ask twice. “We came here for the view and not for this slop.” His sneer suggested I wasn’t the view he’d been looking for.

“One moment, please.” Still polite, I smiled and stepped away.

The group snickered when Sweatervest replied, “Freak.”

Yup, that would be me.

I nodded at Bob, who’d been monitoring the situation from his post. He came around the grill, exposing all three hundred and fifty pounds of his six foot five frame.

“Check on Betty, she’s in the can,” he grumbled as he passed.

Thankfully, I knew he meant Tara and quickly collected plates and conversed with a few diners before making my way to women’s bathroom, located in the back. Before entering I cast a glance over my shoulder. From the looks on the unruly table’s faces, Bob was schooling them on proper dining etiquette.

Fedora abruptly stood and thrust his hands on his hips while Sporty shoved the rest of the burger in his mouth and tossed a large stack of twenties on the table as he led the group out the front door.

If I knew Bob, they would not be returning anytime soon.

I found Tara sitting on the floor of the first stall, head between her knees.

“You okay?”

She raised her head and even through the tears she was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with her long blond hair, deep blue eyes and fresh-scrubbed face that was sprinkled with freckles.

My guess was that she’d been the best friend of the head cheerleader or homecoming queen when growing up. Pretty and smart enough but unable to summon the confidence to stand up for herself or stand out from the crowd.

Bob told me she had come from a small town in Ohio, hoping to make her way through culinary school in the big city. According to him, even those dreams had fizzled out after a bad soufflé and she’d ended up working nearly as many shifts as I did to make ends meet.

I handed her a tissue. “Bob took care of it. They’re gone.”

She nodded. “For now, but they’re always gonna be guys like that coming around. Ya know?”

I shrugged, not having her looks or figure, I hadn’t had many problems like that, though it made me feel even more sorry for her. She caught my expression and chuckled a little.

“You’re prettier than you think, Harper. Everyone notices it. Everyone, but you.”

Uncomfortable with what I could only assume was an attempt at being kind, I offered her a hand up. As she took it, her sleeve rose, exposing a map of scars and bruises beneath the orange and gold rubber bracelets she always wore.

Tara caught my gaze and quickly pulled the sleeve down. “Thanks. Best get back to the grind before Bob blows another shirt button.” She moved past and out the door before I could respond.

The diner was full of chatter and Bob cast impatient glances as we emerged.

Back to the grind, indeed.

The rest of the shift went without incident, except for Mrs. Headley spilling her coffee on Mr. Headley’s lap, which happened about once a week when she caught him staring a little too intently at the group of elderly ladies who regularly gathered after an evening at church. Tara slipped out and before long, it was just Bob, the dishwasher and I left to clean up and prep for the next morning.

The diner hadn’t been open for business round-the-clock since Bob purchased it from the previous owner. He claimed it was because nothing good happened in the wee hours of the morning but I think he just couldn’t bear to let someone else man his grill. Plus, eighteen hours a day was already beyond his limit and no one wanted to see Bob that grumpy.

At least he didn’t have to travel far to climb into bed. His apartment was directly over the diner, along with a few other small rooms. I hadn’t been up there but rumor had it Bob lived well and had retrofitted the space to mirror his house in Texas. In fact, the janitor once told me that Bob actually had big game mounted on his apartment wall. I was glad his decorating efforts hadn’t extended to the diner which—thanks to an interior designer from Los Angeles—was remarkably modern.

“Want me to take that out?” I pointed at the last bag of trash Bob was tying off.

“You sure? Pretty dark out there,” he replied.

I shrugged. “I’m going out anyway.”

“Be careful, then.”

“Always am, Bob. Always am.”

Famous last words.

“See ya tomorrow, Ronnie.” Bob handed me the trash and shuffled upstairs.

“Bright and early,” I replied as I heaved the bag over my shoulder and headed out the back of the diner.

I allowed the crispness of the night air to fill my lungs and caught of whiff of something fruity—gum maybe—or cologne but it was gone as I tossed the lid of the dumpster open and launched the bag in.

Wiping my hands on my jeans, I shivered, wishing I had thought to bring my heavier jacket. I would not allow sleep deprivation to cause me to make that mistake again. Prepping for a brisk walk, I pulled my hood up. I hadn’t made it more than a few dozen feet down the alley when the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

I wasn’t alone.

I quickened my pace. Twenty more feet and I would be on the main street, closer to the lights.

Just twenty more feet.

Apparently my stalker was equally good at math and grabbed me after I’d only made it another five. A gloved hand covered my mouth as an arm tightened around my throat. Blood surged through my veins as panic took over. I thrashed and attempted to grab for something…anything…but my attacker cinched his grip.

Wet, hot breath was on my ear, forcing me to shiver. My captor snarled out a harsh laugh.

“And here you thought it would be so easy to get rid of me. Guess who’s having the last laugh now, Freak.”

The familiar scent of fruit filled my nostrils as the hipster I’d named Fedora smacked his gum, threatening to nip at my ear.

Menacing.

I assumed he was seeking revenge and his stranglehold on my neck confirmed it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Oh, the irony—I was receiving the punishment for his bad behavior.

Struggling only made the situation worse and seemed to appease him all the more. My mind raced as I fought for breath. I had taken that self-defense class at the Y years ago, but couldn’t even begin to remember what I had been taught.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Fedora snapped and for a moment I was confused.

Then, from the corner of my eye I could see her advancing.

Swiftly.

Silently.

All while recording our awkward embrace with her cell phone.

As she passed the diner’s back door, she banged on it with her gloved fist.

Fedora cursed at her before loosening his grip and dropping me to the ground.

I hacked for air as Bob and the dishwasher emerged.

Fedora was nowhere in sight.

Neither was the girl.

“What the heck?” Bob kneeled next to me.

“Mmmm…okay,” I managed to mumble. “Just surprised some old homeless guy sleeping next to the dumpster.” At least that’s what I had tried to get out.

Both Bob and the dishwasher looked doubtful.

“Seems as though he wasn’t the only one who got a surprise. Quick for an old guy, too,” Bob muttered under his breath.

I nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. Or one that would prevent Bob from hunting Fedora down, chopping off his manhood and mounting it on his wall.

When he was finally convinced I wasn’t going to croak on him, he called me a cab, paid the driver and tucked me in. And just when I thought we were getting all friendly, he added, “See ya first thing in the morning, Veronica. Make sure you’re on time.”

Though rattled from my encounter, there was at least one thing I was sure of—Bob was consistent.

I arrived home in one piece—thanks in no part to the cab driver, who was pissed when Bob hadn’t tipped him particularly well—and stumbled into my apartment, crashing onto the sofa and the pillow that had been patiently waiting for my return.

I shoved the incident with Fedora to the side, letting all thoughts slip away as sleep consumed me.

All thoughts, that is, but one.

That night, I dreamed of the girl who saved me.

The same girl who had predicted my death.