“Nova Devlin?” the spiffy man standing in the hall of my apartment asks with an air of suspicion when I open my door.
Yeah, I’m feeling the same. “Who are you?” I’m not answering his question. I have enough sense not to tell this man who I am. He’s probably from a collection agency looking to sue me for medical bills or some crap. The Gucci loafers are a nice touch, probably fakes, but I bet he regrets coming into my building. The carpet is sticky in some spots, but we’re not going to talk about that.
“My name is Virgil Haynsworth. This is 32059 Cheboygan, Apartment D, is it not?” I wonder if he got his rump kicked when he was a kid with a name like that. I take a good look at his empty hands, which are hanging loosely by his sides, his lean body, and clean-shaven jaw, and contemplate what the heck he’s doing around here. I stick my head farther out the door to see if there’s someone else waiting out of sight to serve me with paperwork or something, but the hall appears to be empty.
“That’s what it says on the door,” I finally respond.
“Then you must be Nova Devlin. I have a pressing matter I need to discuss with you.”
“If this is one of those extended warranty things, I don’t even have a car,” I retort, ready to close the door.
“Miss Devlin.” He peers down his nose at me, giving me assistant principal vibes. “It is very important that I speak with you.”
“Okay.” I keep my grip on the door, ready to slam the thing in his face if he tries anything. I regret even answering it at this point, but I thought it was Junior from across the hall again, and I was ready to give him an earful for banging on my door and running away all the dang time.
“We should really speak privately.”
I snort. It’s not ladylike, but I’d rather be rude than dead any sooner than I already will be. “If you think I’m letting you in here, you’re wrong. Plus, my boyfriend is sleeping, and he gets really cranky if he gets woken up.” I don’t have a boyfriend, and I certainly wouldn’t have a cranky one.
He moves his hand, reaching into his inside jacket pocket, and I slam the door in his face and flip the deadbolt before he can pull out whatever he’s grasping.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Devlin, my apologies.” I can hear him clearly since the walls in this place are paper-thin.
“Sure, I’m not dumb enough to open the door again, mister. If you have something to tell me, say it now or get the heck out of here.”
A small white card slides under the door, and I hop back before realizing what it is. It looks safe enough, but I’ve read stories on Reddit about girls being drugged just from touching something they think is harmless.
“I don’t feel comfortable talking in the hall, Miss Devlin. I assure you this is to your benefit. Please call the number on the card. If you’re not willing to arrange a meeting, we might discuss matters over the phone,” he offers.
“What’s this about?” I have to admit that his tenacity definitely has my interest piqued.
“Your family,” he answers just loud enough for me to hear him through the door, but anyone else eavesdropping in on our conversation would have a hard time picking up his reply.
“They are dead. I can’t pay their bills. Do you think if I had that kind of money, I’d be living here in this crap hole?” Damn hospitals, they are worse than leeches. They take everything from you, then squeeze you for blood after. I knew he was a bill collector. What a waste of time and money to send him here.
“I’m here at the behest of your grandparents, but I’m afraid I cannot say any more under these conditions. Call the number on the card.”
“My grandparents?” I whisper past the whooshing sound in my ears. I don’t have any family. Mom told me she and dad were both orphans, and that was how they bonded and fell in love, so what the heck is he talking about?
With shaking fingers, I jerk the door open to accuse him of lying, but the hall is empty. I shut and lock the door again while examining the card at my feet. There’s fancy silver lettering shimmering up at me, but I’m still too apprehensive to reach down and grab it.
I pull it away from the door with the toe of my sock-covered foot, worried a draft will suck it back under the slot and it will be gone forever, and then I head into the kitchen. I don’t want to use my gloves to pick it up, but I do have some dollar store sandwich bags I can put over my fingers.
I know I must look like a crazy person, and I feel like a crazy person, but it’s better to be crazy than dead or worse.
I still don’t bring the thing close to my face when I pick it up to read it.
Virgil Haynsworth
Attorney at Law
Charleston, South Carolina
843-555-0000
When I flip the card over, there’s a hand scrawled phone number on the back in black ink. “What the heck is he doing all the way up here from South Carolina?” I flip the card over again, knowing I didn’t miss anything, but my curiosity is piqued, and who says things like behest? I roll my eyes. It must be some sort of scam anyway. I don’t have grandparents.
I toss the card into the soil of one of the dying plants stationed near the door. I can’t bring myself to throw it in the trash yet, and I’m not setting it on the counter or the table. I’ll get rid of the card next time I remember to water my mom’s flowers.
I twist the key in my deadbolt, locking up my apartment before making sure to avoid the super sticky spot to the right of my door. I feel like the stain has gotten bigger in the few months since I’ve lived in the unit. I still find myself looking at the ceiling to make sure there isn’t some dead body up on the third floor slowly decaying and dripping down. Yeah, my mind is a dark place sometimes.
Like a creeper, I look through the dingy glass at the main level of my unit, searching the parking lot. It’s been hours since Virgil left, but you can never be too careful with people who want something from you. When all I see are the same crappy cars I always see, I shake off the dramatics and push the door open so I can make it to the bus stop with only a minute or two to spare. I don’t feel like chatting with the randoms that hang out at the covered bench, and it’s cold as hell outside.
The driver doesn’t even look in my direction when I climb in and take the first available seat toward the front of the bus, but she knows my stop and always lets me off on the corner near the restaurant so I don’t have to backtrack down Michigan Ave, even when I don’t ask her to let me off early. I appreciate her for it.
The ride is short, less than ten minutes, before it’s time for me to get off. “Thanks,” I mumble before waiting for the doors to open and let me out. I’m eager to get into work. The bus smelled like someone crapped their pants, and the frigid, late December air seems to cut through all my layers. At least I know it will be warm inside the restaurant.
“Hey, Nova,” Elijah, one of the other servers, says as I breach the doorway.
“Hey,” I reply, keeping my hands close to my face to blow warm air on my fingers. The thin knit gloves don’t do much to keep me warm, but they are better than nothing. “Been busy?” I question, looking around Bobcat’s, the restaurant I work at. It isn’t packed, but most of the tables are full, so hopefully, that means it’s a good night for tips.
“Meh.” He shrugs noncommittally. I almost ask him what he’s waiting for, since he’s not one to usually stand around, but after another second, he asks, “Want to have a drink later?”
“I’m closing,” I tell him. It’s my way of saying no without saying no. My age wouldn’t be an issue here, but I’m not interested for several reasons.
“I’m here until ten. I could hang out and wait for you to get off,” he replies lightly.
I wasn’t expecting him to say that, so I don’t have a response mapped out. The look of panic on my face must be effective enough to answer for me, because he adds, “It’s no big deal if you have something else going on. I just thought you might want to grab a drink. Maybe we can do it some other time,” he says with a flat smile before walking away.
I groan on the inside. Now I’m going to have to see him for the rest of the night, and I know my embarrassed brain is going to try to come up with some excuse to tell him about why I can’t hang out, but I’ll just end up looking like an idiot and rambling if I try to talk to him. I need to keep my head down and focus on work so I don’t make this awkwardness even worse.
“Why didn’t you just say, ‘Not tonight, maybe another time’?” I mutter to myself while shoving my stuff into one of the back lockers.
“Nova, get your ass on the floor,” Veronica, the night manager, hollers into the back room. I roll my eyes. I’m not even due to start for another ten minutes, and it isn’t like we are swamped.
“Coming,” I yell, giving up on getting the metal door to latch with all my crap loaded inside.
I grab a black half apron from the shelf, wrap the thing around my hips, and tie it in the back. A few of the other girls wrap it around front too, but I can barely make a bow when I do that since my waist is thicker and it looks dumb.
“Where am I?” I ask Nico, one of the bartenders. He’s a hard worker who’s friendly but private, and we get along great.
He doesn’t even look up from his pour to tell me, “You’re with me. There’s a game tonight, and I’m not dealing with Candy’s lazy ass.”
I let out a relieved sigh. The bar is usually the busiest, which means I can avoid Elijah, and being occupied will make the night go faster. “Am I taking over for Veronica?” I scan the booths and tables surrounding the bar, noting a few glasses that need to be filled and a guy who’s just looking around like he’s waiting for something. It’s not hard to tell by his empty plate that he wants the bill.
“Can’t take over when she hasn’t done shit,” he says, leaning closer to keep his words between us.
I imagine Veronica used to work hard at some point—she would have had to in order to become shift manager—but those days are long gone. She only takes tables if we’re short staffed, and even then, she bitches so much, I would rather do twice the work than listen to her complain.
“I’ll check on everyone.” I make a quick round, introducing myself and asking if anyone needs anything, even though I know she’s going to keep most of the tips from this group.
“Veronica, sixty-seven needs to be closed out.” I poke my head into the kitchen, interrupting her conversation with another server.
“Just use my number.” She rolls her eyes as if I’m the one not doing my job, then resumes her chat. I’m not even supposed to know her number, let alone use it, but she does this kind of crap all the time, and it sucks, because it’s a surefire way to keep all the tips.
I let the door swing shut and get the man his bill, not bothering to disturb her for the other customers when I know she will give me the same response. Maybe I’ll get lucky and some of them will leave cash tips.
“Hey,” Elijah says, startling me, even though he kept his voice low.
“Yeah?” I pull my head back and search his face, silently hoping there’s a reason he’s standing so close to me other than to ask why I turned him down for a drink.
“Some older guy asked to be seated in your section. Just thought I would give you a heads-up.”
“Really?” I glance at the lobby area, bouncing my eyes over the group that’s waiting, but I don’t spy anyone familiar.
“Yeah, not a regular that I recognized. It’s some dude in a suit,” he adds.
“Thanks,” I tell him sincerely. It’s on the tip of my tongue to add more and give him an explanation about why I didn’t take him up on the drink offer, but Emily, the hostess, steps to the side, allowing me to see the spiffy lawyer dude behind her. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong?” Elijah pivots to look in the same direction I am. “That’s him. You know him,” he surmises from my reaction.
“Not really,” I tell him truthfully without divulging more information.
“Sure looks like you do,” he says under his breath while walking away.
Emily leads him to my only empty table. Joey just got done bussing it a few seconds ago, so it’s still damp. I watch as Virgil looks down at the scarred wood top with utter disdain curling his lip. Maybe the loafers aren’t fake and he really is as snooty as he seems.
He blots at the table with the napkins he must have asked Emily for as he angles himself into the chair. Normally, I would head straight over and offer to dry the table for him, but I can’t seem to get my feet moving. I wasn’t expecting him to show up here. How did he even know I worked here? Did he follow me?
I wait for Emily to leave the table, then meet her at the hostess station after walking the long way around. “Hey,” she chirps with a smile.
I get straight to the point. “Hey, that guy asked to be in my section?”
Her smile slips into a frown. “Yeah.”
“What did he say?” I keep my voice down so the waiting patrons can’t hear me.
“He just asked to be seated with you. He waited a while for a table too. Is he a creeper or something? I’m sorry.” She looks over her shoulder as if she’s trying to get a glimpse of him again.
“It’s fine,” I reply dismissively. There’s no way she could have known I’d prefer he wasn’t here at all, let alone at one of my tables.
I make a point of stopping at a few other tables before finally heading over to Virgil, though I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, or maybe it just feels like that, because when I do decide to head over, his face is behind a menu, and he’s not watching me at all.
“Mr. Haynsworth,” I greet coldly, or at least I try.
“Miss Devlin.” He does icy much better.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“You may.” He raises his brow as if to reprimand me for the way I asked. “Bottled water if you have it, a scotch, neat, if you do not.”
“Why are you here?” I question as soon as he’s done speaking.
“I’m a busy man, Miss Devlin. I don’t have time to wait for you to come to your senses and agree to meet with me.”
“So you can tell me here” —I make a point of looking around at all the full tables and loud crowd— “what you couldn’t tell me in my empty hall?”
“If you’re willing to accompany me to my vehicle, yes. Otherwise, I’m here to convince you to speak with me at your earliest convenience.” There’s a sardonic smile smeared across his face, as if even asking me to speak with him is below him and he’s indulging me by doing so.
“You thought showing up here would do that?” I take the plastic menu he’s offering.
“I’m prepared to make it worth your while.”
My spine goes ramrod straight. There are a few things a man can say that will stick in a girl’s craw, and implying she can be easily bought is one of them. “How’s that, Mr. Haynsworth?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“I will give you five thousand dollars to speak with me.” He meets my eyes, and I get the feeling he’s dead serious.
Well, I suppose that’s not easily bought. “I’m not signing nothing.”
“Anything, I’m not signing anything,” he corrects, seeming to grow more and more aggravated by the moment.
I narrow my eyes, giving him a glare, and use my best low-class slang. “What’da want ta eat?”
His lips purse into a constipated scowl. “I’ll have the ribeye, rare, baked potato, no butter, with broccoli, and light on the salt.” His eyes rake over me again as if I’m a heathen and eating here is the last thing he wants to do. I’m not sure what crawled up his butt and died since he left my apartment, but he is in a sour mood.
I walk away without another word and submit his order correctly, even though I’m tempted to enter extra butter, then ask Nico for a scotch neat, because we don’t have bottled water.
I don’t return to his table after dropping off his drink until his order is ready, but I keep my eye on him when possible. At one point, he had a hushed conversation on his phone where it seemed like he didn’t speak but listened a great deal, and I have to admit I’m curious about what he wants to tell me.
After his call, there was a notable shift in his demeanor, so much so that when I returned to the table, he actually apologized for his poor manners. “Please excuse me, though I have no right to ask. I’ve had a trying few days.”
My own irritation crumbles as the stranger’s dissolves. I was goading him, and I knew it. “It’s okay, I haven’t exactly made it easy on you.”
He looks down at the food I placed in front of him, then back up with a pleased expression. “This smells divine, thank you. Have you considered my offer?”
Is he kidding? It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about. Five thousand is a big deal. “What’s so important?” I’m fishing, but maybe I’ll learn something.
“If you agree to call me tonight, I will tell you.”
“On the phone?” I confirm.
“Yes.” He’s holding his knife in one hand and his fork in the other as if he can’t wait to eat.
“Fine, it’ll be late though. After I get off work.”
“What time do you get off?” He ducks his head briefly at my suspicious glare. “I was merely going to offer you a ride home, so you didn’t have to take the bus. Also, so I might know when to expect your call, but I can be patient.”
“So you did follow me. I’ll check on you in a few,” I tell him, then slip away from his table with a strange feeling of anticipation in my stomach.
