Callie Hart & Lili St Germain Hell's Kitchen (epub)

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.I see all of them.I hear them.And it hurts.My eyes scan the ever-moving sea of people in front of me, everybody with their own purpose.Me, I feel like I’m just floating along from one day to the next, eating and working and sleeping and trying to stop the weight of my sins from pulling me under.People say drowning is a peaceful way to die.But I’ve been drowning for nine months, and I can tell you, there’s nothing peaceful about clawing at the air in front of you every time you wake up in the morning, unable to breathe, trying to stay afloat.I finally find the source of the screaming: a boy with a mop of blond hair, thick and shaggy, but cut blunt all around the bottom.I imagine his mother placing a bowl on his head as he wriggles on a stool, taking great pains to cut the hair that hangs in his eyes without accidentally cutting her antsy child.I can only see him in profile, but he’s turning toward me, and I know if he does I’ll see the color of his eyes.Don’t be blue.My own eyes don’t work quickly enough, can’t swivel to the side before he’s facing me, still screaming, blood on his knee.They’re fucking blue.He fell over on the sidewalk and scraped his knee.Of course.He didn’t get hit by a car.He didn’t go underneath the tires with a sickening thud.He needs a Band-Aid, and I need to chill the fuck out.The relief that floods my limbs almost dizzies me.He’s not going to die.He’s not going to die.My cell phone beeps loudly, making me jump.I reach into my handbag, seeing a text from my cousin Elliot.I swipe the screen and read his message.ELLIOT: Hey Scar.Got some friends who need a place to crash tonight.You know the drill.Is your place free?I fight the urge to roll my eyes.The last thing I want is someone crashing in my tiny walk-up, but it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.I owe Elliot big time after he helped with the court case.Without him, I’d be rotting in a jail cell somewhere.I slow my pace so I can tap a reply message into the screen.Me: Sure thing.I’m off work at six.There’s a spare key in the plant next to my door if they arrive earlier.I lock the phone and drop it into my bag, irritated that I won’t be alone tonight.It’s a lot harder to get drunk with strangers in the room.Which makes me think—I need a drink.The Victoria’s Secret perfume bottle in my bag weighs heavy on my shoulder, full of vodka instead of flowery scent—just a fifth, because I’m supposed to be stone-cold sober as part of my parole conditions—and my mouth practically waters at the thought of locking myself away in the bathroom and having just a little sip to make the day slightly less shitty.Booze and pills, the things that get me through the days, until I decide I don’t want to get through them anymore and jump off this express train through hell.The diner is already busy when I arrive, morose and with the image of two little boys with blond hair and blue eyes stuck firmly in the front of my mind.One from this morning, and the other from nine months ago.It strikes me as strange that the sound of a kid’s voice sets me off.The boy nine months ago didn’t scream; I never even heard his voice.I saw him on the news once after I’d been arrested.It was a home video the reporters had somehow gotten their hands on when the media frenzy was at its peak.He liked Spiderman.He had this excited little voice when he spoke, a rasp in his throat, the tail end of a cold.In the video, he was showing his dad how he could climb a tree.His name was Ryder.He was five years old, and then he was dead.“You’re late, Scarlett,” Sylvia hisses as I pour coffee and take a sip, burning the entire roof of my mouth.My throat protests as the bitter liquid scalds on its way down, settling uneasily in my stomach where it will churn until Serge hands me a plate of leftovers and tries to slap my ass around ten-thirty, when the breakfast crowd slows.Sylvia’s a bitch.I know she steals my tips when I’m with other customers.For some reason, I’m the highest-tipped waitress in Cabrezzi’s.Something about my shiny white teeth and my convincing smile? Or maybe it’s because they feel like they know me, like I’m familiar, a washed-out, slightly chubbier version of the actress who used to appear on their TV screens every Tuesday night and save the world.It’s the only reason she doesn’t fire my ass.Italian Sylvia owns the place with her Russian husband, Serge, and together they’re the oddest couple I’ve ever met.She wears the pants, bossing everyone around as she taps her taloned fingernails on her chipped coffee cup that says Cabrezzi’s down the side, black letters on a yellowed white mug.She talks a mile a minute, makes me serve her family every time they come in, even though I’m the only waitress who doesn’t speak Italian.And they don’t tip.Like, at all.And Serge, her husband, fifty, with a paunch and a hint of his Russian accent still lingering on after thirty years in the Big Apple.He cooks greasy breakfast plates for the hungry hordes and tries to shove his hand in my dress whenever I have the misfortune to pass through the kitchen.I choke a little, put the coffee down on the pass, and try to compose myself.In the first few months that I was here, I used to get angry when she spoke to me like this.Now, I barely even notice.I pull my long brown hair up into a messy bun, the ends crunchy and dry as they slide through my fingers.I used to visit this hairdresser on Rodeo Drive every four weeks when I was back in LA, get my roots done and my ends trimmed, conditioning treatments, the works.I was sad in the beginning, after I’d lost everything, after all the money was gone and the best I could do was a package of dye from the supermarket that promised chocolate brunette but delivered dull black strands that looked oily all the time [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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