Chapter 2 - THE TASTE OF STALE COPPER
The heavy steel door didn't just creak open; it was shoved inward with a violent force that sent a stack of plastic bus tubs crashing to the wet linoleum. Clara stumbled backward, her pulse hammering wildly against her ribs as the frigid alley wind swept into the humid kitchen. Standing in the doorway, soaked in rain and shivering with a frantic, twitchy energy, was Derek. The moment he stepped under the flickering fluorescent light, the sickeningly familiar scent hit her—a nauseating blend of stale copper, cheap peppermint, and unwashed clothes.
"Hey, Clara," he slurred, a crooked, desperate smile twisting his pale face. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated into massive black pools that swallowed his irises entirely.
"Derek, you can't be here," Clara said, her voice shaking despite her desperate attempt to keep it steady. She instinctively backed away, her hands grasping the cold edge of the stainless-steel prep counter. "I told you never to come to my job. I’ll call Rick. I’ll call the cops."
"Oh, come on, baby, don't be like that," he mocked, stepping deeper into the kitchen and letting the heavy door slam shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the rain. The finality of the lock clicking back into place echoed like a gunshot. "I just need a little favor. A tiny loan to tide me over. I know you walk out of here with a fat stack of cash every night."
"I don't have anything for you," Clara snapped, her terror rapidly calcifying into a hard, defensive anger. She had spent four years shrinking herself to accommodate his explosive moods, but the sight of him violating her one safe space flipped a switch in her mind. "Get out."
May you like
Derek’s fake smile vanished, replaced by the ugly, feral snarl she knew too well. He closed the distance between them in two terrifyingly fast strides, his hands slamming down on the counter on either side of her, trapping her in. The stench of his breath washed over her face. "Don't lie to me, you ungrateful bitch," he hissed, his spit hitting her cheek. "I owe money. Bad money. If I don't pay up by midnight, they're going to break my legs. Now open your goddamn bag."
Before she could scream, he grabbed her by the throat, his filthy fingers digging into her skin, forcing her head back against the edge of the metal shelving unit. Black spots danced at the edge of her vision as he reached blindly for her apron pocket, where the thick wad of Arthur Moretti’s cash sat heavily. Clara kicked out, her heavy non-slip shoe connecting solidly with his shin. Derek yelped in pain, loosening his grip just enough for her to drag in a ragged breath, but the defiance only enraged him further. He drew his fist back, his knuckles white, preparing to shatter her jaw.
