5. Natalia

5

NATALIA

"I am too damn old for this shit."

Turns out dumpsters aren't as good of a hiding place as I first thought. I don't think a thousand showers will get rid of the stench oozing into me right now. My soul will smell like rotten vegetables long after I make it through the pearly gates.

I've been in this dumpster for a minute, two tops, but it feels like an hour. Maybe a century.

But I make myself stay put until the sirens pass and the normal buzz of the city returns.

Then, unable to take this hellhole for another second, I shove open the lid and fumble my way out.

My foot catches on the edge and I land face-first in a puddle of something repulsive, because offuckingcourse I do. After another minute of groaning in pain and misery that this is what my day has become, I peel myself out of the mystery liquid and get back to my wobbly feet.

Pedestrians glance over at me as they pass the alleyway. But only in New York does the sight of a gaunt, shaky, unkempt woman emerging from a dumpster inspire next to no reaction.

I reach instinctively for my purse. That's when I remember that I didn't have time to grab my purse before Katya and I kicked our bodyguards in the balls and ran through the door of the temporary jail cell where we were taken after being booted from the ceremony (a.k.a., a small, unadorned staff room next to the utility closet).

I want to yell and scream and vent. I'm so beyond out of fucks to give that I wouldn't care if the whole damn city watched me lose my shit.

But I don't have the stamina for that. I can only hang my head in abject misery.

My freaking ID was in that purse. My keys. My wallet. My Metro card. My phone. My life.

Now, I'm stranded in the asshole of Midtown Manhattan, reeking of sour cabbage, and I don't have two cents to rub together.

Not only have I lost my purse and my dignity, but I've lost my friend, too. Somewhere in the rush of the chase, I realized that Katya wasn't right behind me anymore.

I'm not even sure I care right now. "Friend" is a bit of a stretch after the stunt she pulled tonight, though. Kat is on probation. Tackling the back portion of this night on my own might be for the best.

How, though?

My best plan is to jump the turnstile and ride the subway home. It'll take forever and a half, but I'm not exactly swimming in options here.

First things first—I need to pee.

I end up in the dive bar around the bend because it looks like the kind of establishment that will accept me in my current state and smell. As predicted, no one stops me when I breeze in, whistling merrily, pretending as though my night is going exactly how I intended.

I head to the bathroom first, which is just as stank as the rest of the place. Honestly, I might be improving the aroma. Once I've peed, I stop in front of the mirror. It's scratched and graffitied to shit, clearly working overtime just to give me back a murky reflection. That's just as well. I mean, do I really wanna see myself clearly right now?

What little I can see looks bleak enough. One thing's for sure, I'm not renting this dress anymore—I've bought it. A hundred and fifty bucks for a gown I'm never gonna be able to wear again.

This night is the gift that keeps on giving.

At least I got a kiss out of it.

I walk back through the bowels of the dive bar, planning on walking right out the door, but my legs suddenly feel like Bambi on muscle relaxants. Those stools at the bar are looking mighty nice.

Five minutes of R I suppose I ought to be more careful by now, eh?" He grins pleasantly.

"Oh. Heh. What I mean is, I've had friend troubles." I shake my head. "Today was supposed to be a fun, relaxing birthday celebration?—"

"Ah! It's your birthday?" The man pounds his fist against the counter. "Max, get this lovely girl a drink. It's her birthday!"

I keep my mouth shut. If this is the universe's way of apologizing to me for this shitty night, I accept.

The bartender slides a shot of something amber over to me. "Thanks." We clink our glasses together.

"The name's Rory," he says. "What's yours, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Natalia."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He takes a long drink. "Don't stress, Natalia. Nights like this are the nights that end up making us."

I'll admit, I'm only half-listening. I didn't realize just how badly I needed a drink. It's just the kick I need to power through the rest of this night. Or, better yet, to rinse away the memory of it.

Rory is a talker, and I'm glad for that, too. He babbles uninterrupted for fifteen minutes and gives me the full rundown of the last fifty years of his life. He really does seem to be exactly what he looks like: a kindly older man offering a drink and a chat to a girl who's down on her luck. He makes it surprisingly easy to let down my walls and pretend everyone isn't out to get me.

Easy enough that I muster up the courage to do the one thing I hate doing more than anything else: asking for help.

"Rory, can I ask you for a favor?"

Rory recoils like he'd be offended if I didn't. "Sure thing, sweetheart. Ask away."

"I lost track of my purse after my friend and I got into that fight, and I have no money to get back home. I'm not asking for a handout. Just three bucks for a subway ticket. I swear to God I'll come back tomorrow to return the money."

He looks amused at my little speech. Then he pulls out his wallet and hands me a twenty-dollar bill. "Tell ya what? Take this, buy yourself a t-shirt from Max here, and use the change to get your ticket. There's no need to return the money. We'll call it a birthday gift."

You really can find anything in the boroughs of New York: even kindness.

"You don't have to do that."

"I insist," Rory says, pointing at the t-shirts hung up behind the bar. "Take your pick of the litter. My favorite is the one that says, SUCIO . Means ‘dirty' in Spanish."

The bartender, Max, hands me an XL tee and I go to the bathroom to change. It's a sweet relief to peel out of my filthy dress and pull the black t-shirt on instead. It's big enough that it covers my ass, albeit just barely. I walk back out and do a little catwalk for Rory's benefit, then give him a kiss on the cheek.

"You don't know how grateful I am."

"Pay it forward, darling. And think of me when you wear that shirt."

"How could I not?" Feeling better than I have in hours, I wave goodbye to Rory and step out of the bar much lighter than when I walked in.

I'm not even five steps from the door when a shadow falls over me.

"What the—" I twist around and find myself faced with two hulking men.

The man with long blond hair gives me a calculated smile. "You left your purse back at the ceremony, miss. Why don't we escort you there now so you can retrieve it?"

"You know what? Keep it. It'd look better on you, anyway."

I try to turn my back on them, but the shaved head goon grabs my arm. "I don't think so, ma'am. You're coming with us."

He steers me towards a gleaming black SUV idling on the curb. It sounds like a purring beast, with two violently white headlights like predator's eyes locked right on me.

I can't see much beyond the glare of the headlights and the blacked-out windows. God only knows what's inside. Once again, I have the feeling He's laughing at me.

The second man opens the back door. "In you go."

I dig in my heels. "My boyfriend is waiting for me," I inform them. "He'll call the police if I don't show up."

The blond chuckles. "He can go right ahead. In our experience, imaginary boyfriends tend not to pose much of a problem."

My body goes cold. They know I'm lying. And the only way they could know that is if…

"So you guys are no joke, huh? The serious kind of baddies?" I say it mockingly to show I'm not scared of them.

But when the blond replies, I have to admit I'm losing the battle.

"Oh, yeah," he says with an amused laugh. "We're the dead serious kind."