Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

handed Super Curls the coffee, but didn’t get a thank-you.

      “I’ll have a skinny venti vanilla, please, “ my next customer said.

      “Sugar free?”

      His face scrunched in disgust. “I said skinny, not tasteless.”

      And so another hour passed unmercifully. I should have chucked my apron and left with Sherridan. “This isn’t what I ordered, “ I heard. “Your fingers touched the rim, so I need you to start over and make me a new, uncontaminated drink, “ I heard. “You call this an espresso? I’ve had stronger water, “ I heard.

      Did I complain? Did I mix anyone a swirlie (aka spit in their drink)? No and no! The continued restraint cost me, though. My stomach was a clenched knot of pain. My skin felt too tight against my bones. A tic had developed under my left eye. My back throbbed, and my feet ached—and not from standing too long. I was used to that. The ache was because I hadn’t allowed myself to deliver a few much needed ass beatings.

      If I didn’t get Employee of the Week after this. Wait. I decided I’d rather have a break.

      When I sent my last customer on her way, I glanced over at Ron, who had stopped watching me long enough to turn his attention to a woman who looked like she’d walked straight out of an X-rated pin-up. She sauntered past him, her red spandex halter top and shorts revealing more T and A than a Penthouse centerfold—not that I’d ever peeked inside one of those magazines (cough, cough). Ron adjusted his belt. I snapped my fingers to gain his attention, but the woman’s thong-clad ass held him enthralled.

      The bell above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of yet another group of patrons. Their eyes were feral, and I could tell they were desperate for their morning fix. If I didn’t act quickly, I’d be stuck here a minimum—minimum!—of twenty more minutes, and I just didn’t have another second of sweetness in me.

      With a speed Superman would have envied, I began closing out my register.

      “What are you doing?” Jenni, Employee of the Year— or, as I liked to call her, Bitch of the Millennium—demanded. She stood at the only other open register, a short, rounded-in-all-the-right-places blonde who drew male attention simply by breathing. She’d made her hatred of me known my first day on the job, tripping me every time I walked past her, handing me regular coffee when I asked for decaf.

      Why she hated me, I didn’t know. Didn’t care, really.

      “You’re smart.” I scratched my forehead with my middle finger, covertly flipping her off. “Figure it out.” With her infuriated gasp ringing in my ears, I strode over to Ron and tapped him on the shoulder.

      He jumped and clutched a hand over his heart as he whipped to face me. “Jesus H. Christ!”

      “No, I’m Belle, “ I said drily.

      “What do you want?” he grumbled.

      “I’d really like to take my first fifteen-minute break. If that’s okay with you, Mr. Pretty, “ I added sweetly.

      “It’s Peaty.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Fine. Whatever.” His gaze slid back to the walking centerfold, now bending over to pick up the napkin she’d “accidentally” dropped, her shorts riding higher up her butt.

      Shaking my head, I gathered the necessary items needed for a … hmm. What did I want? A mocha latte, I decided in the next flash. Yep. That sounded good. That’s what I’d have. If anyone deserved chocolate, it was me.

      “You’re such a bitch, “ Jenni muttered, suddenly at my side to mix a chai tea.

      “Your jealousy is showing, “ I uttered in a singsong voice. I poured two shots of espresso into my cup, then whole milk. I didn’t do skim. “If you’d stopped sneaking bites of muffins, éclairs and cake slices you might have realized someone was due to go on break.”

      Jenni gasped. “I’ll have you know I have low blood sugar. I have to eat.”

      “Right. I totally believe you and don’t think you’re delusional in the least.”

      “You’re just begging for a piece of me, you know that?” she growled.

      “I don’t know what gave you the idea I’ve lowered my standards, but I assure you, I haven’t. I want no part of you. By the way, you have a piece of dough stuck in your teeth.” Latte completed, I skipped to an empty table. As I sipped the hot, deliciously sweet liquid (perfectly prepared, thank you!) I stared out the large storefront window and grinned. Ah, my little interlude with Jenni had revived my spirits, chasing away the tension brought on by forced charm.

      Across the way loomed a pretty, obviously well maintained brownstone with steel-enforced, tinted windows. The bushes surrounding it were expertly trimmed and hedged. Flowers bloomed prettily in the spring sun, a pink, red and gold rainbow of petals.

      But there were no signs, no advertisements to be seen. Occasionally I’d spotted a car or two in the parking lot, as I did now, so I knew people worked there. But I’d never been able to figure out what kind of business it was, had never seen an employee entering or leaving.

      The place intrigued me. Always had. I’d thought about sneaking over there late one night and peeking inside, but usually fell asleep before working up the strength to leave my apartment. Perhaps it was a—

      I blinked. What the hell? A tall, lanky man in a lab coat suddenly barreled out the front door of the brownstone at top speed, his eyes wide and wild, his white comb-over flapping in the breeze. One minute he wasn’t there, the next he was. My back went ramrod straight, the movement swishing precious latte over the rim of the cup. I blinked again, as if the action could jump-start my brain into figuring out why he was running.

      The man darted across the street, uncaring as vehicles honked and swerved to keep from hitting him. Two of the cars collided. Even from where I sat, I heard the squeal of tires and the grind of smashing metal.

      My eyes rounded as two burly, scowling guys sprinted out of the brownstone, apparently giving chase to the harried, wreck-causing man—who was now racing inside Utopia as if his life depended on it.

      The bell chimed and I shoved myself to my feet, spilling my latte further. I set the cup on the table and stared over at the man. Skin pale, features tense, breath emerging raggedly, he scanned the café wildly. His gaze bypassed me, then quickly snapped back. Across the distance, our eyes locked.

      “Are you okay?” I called, projecting my voice over the inane chatter around us.

      “Please, help me,” he choked out. He sprinted toward me, shoving people out of the way and babbling, “They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to chase me.”

      Some gasped. Some snarled, “Watch it.”

      When the man reached me, he gripped my forearms. Sweat trickled from his brow; fear filled his dilated eyes. “You have to help me, “ he said between shallow pants. “They’re going to kill me.”

      Kill? My mouth went dry; my blood mutated into ice, yet hot prickles slithered along my spine. “Stay here, “ I said. “No, hide. No, stay. Oh, hell. Do whatever while I call 911.” His clasp tightened on me, but I tugged free and shouted to the people around me, “Does anyone have a cell phone?” I’d given mine up as an extravagance I could no longer afford. “Anyone?” I leapt around the tables, but everyone purposefully avoided my gaze. “I won’t use up your minutes, I swear. This is an emergency.”

      “I demand to speak with the manager, “ someone said, wanting, I’m sure, to complain about what had just happened and demand free service.

      I rushed into Ron’s office and grabbed the phone. The 911 dispatcher answered after only two rings, and I explained what had happened. “A man was chased into this café, “ I rushed out. “He says someone’s trying to kill him.” As I spoke, a woman screamed in the background. A male groaned.

      “Help