Daddies Brat

Katriona

Six Months Later

I’ve lost everything. The truth hits me at this time every night.

The familiar jingle of the evening news drowns out the sizzle of fries being lowered into days’-old oil and a group of rowdy teens out for a late Friday night meal. Like every other night, I let the smell drag me away to a time when I enjoyed a fast-food meal with my best friend.

Girl nights with Nikki seem like a lifetime ago.

They seem like nothing more than a dream. Sylan. Drake. Grey. I push past the lump of pain clogging my throat. I’ve scoured all the obituaries and listened to the news for any hints of the infamous Grey Hudson’s demise but came up empty-handed. Then again, it’s not like they would announce about him taking a bullet for me.

Now I just numbly make my way through my shifts.

The rowdy teens grab a booth in the back far corner where they think no one sees them lighting up a cigarette. It’s about the biggest excitement this place will see until three in the morning when the less-than-upstanding citizens of this Podunk town stop in for a heavy dose of coffee and our famous cherry pie off at mile marker number 132. It’s the only claim to fame this crappy small-time diner at the corner of forgotten and nowhere has going for it.

Honestly, I don’t pay too much attention to who I serve. I keep my eyes on the tips that help me cover rent, and I don’t mind working graveyards and serving men with massive leather coats big enough to cover a small arsenal and enough bad hoodoo vibes to send anyone with a lesser constitution scurrying out the door.

Thanks to my father, the few thousand dollars I had saved up from working at Club Lex are sitting in a bank account I can’t touch. I do, and I might as well put out a billboard ad for my location.

So here I am. Working longer hours for less pay hoping to survive long enough to make a few hundred bucks more before I move to the next noname town.

I’ve been working at Sally’s diner for five months now. She’s the only one who took a chance on a nobody girl with no home or ID.

So I clock in when she needs me and serve pie and the house special to anyone willing to walk through those doors. It’s that simple.

But on nights like tonight, I can’t help but think about them. Wonder whatever happened to Grey. A ping of regret stabs at my heart but I rub at the pain until it goes away. It’s all I can do.

He, Drake, and Sylan all stirred up unwanted emotions inside me. And when the darkest of night comes, their faces drift through my dreams. But when morning comes, I find I’m still alone. Cold. With no place in this world. No one to call.

It’s just the way it is.

I’ve worked a double shift for the past five days and my throbbing, aching feet are letting me know I’ve reached my limit, but I shove down the pain and push on. I can’t afford not to. I grit my teeth past the stabbing pain in my heels and screaming calves and shove aside the fact I’m three days late on rent again. This time I might not have a home to return to even if I do manage to make the last four dollars in tips I need.

I rub at the spot between my brows, trying to ward off a coming headache but it’s not working. God, what I’d do for a solid straight eight hours of sleep, but I would have better luck spotting a freaking unicorn running down Main Street right now.

“Kat, you’re up.”

The cook bellows my name through the small portal window where they place the trays for me to deliver, and I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against for the past few minutes watching the news. I take the plates and pass them out, welcoming another diner pushing through the door and grabbing the closest booth. “What can I get you tonight?”This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

He says something, but I don’t hear his reply. My mind is too busy trying to catch up with what I hear coming from the TV.

With my mouth wide open, I stare across the half-empty tables and booths as the news anchor’s face cuts to a picture of a man in a black suit with a familiar set of whiskey-colored eyes.

“Son of a bitch. You finally went too far.” I can’t believe it.

“Excuse me?” the newcomer gruffs but quickly follows my line of sight and shuts up.

I wave him off and we both watch as my father’s face is plastered across the evening news.

I might have told him to screw off all those months ago like some cold bitch, but my very human heart lurches to the floor by my feet among the crumbs and crumpled napkins.

Someone cranks the volume up a few notches.

“In a shocking twist this evening, the known head of an organized crime family William Kane has been found shot to death in his home. Officials have ruled out suicide and are currently investigating what they believe is murder. Once thought untouchable, Kane has reportedly been in talks with the FBI. No further information is known. Maybe in death the truth about his dealings and true ties to crime will finally come to light. He’s survived by one daughter. Her whereabouts are still unknown by authorities… In other news-”

Dead.

Chills run through me.

My father is dead. I knew it would only be a matter of time but… dead.

There’s no one else now.

I stare at the TV anchor who delivers the news with the practiced matter-offact coldness her job requires, but the words sting all the same. Just as the TV screen switches to a reel of my father sitting with several government officials at some country club for aristocrats, I see an even more shocking image.

A younger version of myself fills the TV screen.

Oh, shit.

I clamp a hand over my mouth and hold back a groan of frustration, pain, anger. An internal Molotov cocktail of all the above ready to explode inside me.

I look back at the TV. That day I had fire in my eyes and determination spiked through my spine.

But tonight, I just feel tired and scared that someone will recognize me. My eyes dart around but no one is looking at the nobody waitress in her mustard-colored uniform.

Thank God.

The headache I hoped would wait until I clocked out thunders through my brain and bounces off the side of my head, causing tears to sting my eyes. Why? I don’t know, it’s not like he cared about me, but I can’t help the sudden rush of utter despair.

Someone changes the channel and slowly, I can feel the diner’s eyes peel from the screen to land on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I can’t. Hiding among the masses of people and blending in is my specialty.

I shove my pad and pen into my apron pocket, wondering how fast I can make a run for the door. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me and call the authorities thinking they’re “doing the right thing.”

Ice runs through my veins about as fast as molasses uphill, and my thoughts jumble in a tangle of knots as each one freezes. I shove my hands into my apron pocket and tighten my fingers around my pen and notepad, trying to refocus my eyes. A full-body numbness takes over until I can’t feel the paper in my hands or the pain of losing my last parent, bastard or not.

And what that means for me. I’ll need to pack, leave. Maybe New York this time. I didn’t nearly put enough distance between them and me. Hide under their noses, right? Maybe I’d been wrong. There is no maybe about it.

“Miss, did you hear me? The house special.” The customer’s words are clipped, rugged like he gargled sand on a nightly basis.

A rough hand clamps down on mine. I jump, pulling my gaze off the TV to look at the man. My attention falls to meet a set of eyes so dark they appear black. It could have been a trick of the eye from the dim lighting or smudged windows blocking out the shine of the parking lot lamps, but the newcomer has a look about him that creeps me out. I jerk my hand back and do my best to hide the tremble in my fingers as I scribble the order down, trying my best for normal or what passes for it.

Unlike the normal customer of the everyday Joe at this hour, this one wore all black. But that wasn’t the odd detail. The way he shifted closer in his booth seat is what caught my eye.

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your shit yet. Not everyone is a mobster. Besides, no one knows where you’re at.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Got it. Um…house special… coffee and apple pie. Will that be all?” I keep my head down, eyes glued to my pad. I try not to sound rushed but the crank of his bushy eyebrow screams I need more practice at the whole not giving a shit act I am trying to pull off.

He gives me the once-over, stopping a little too long on my cleavage before giving me a gruff grunt of approval.

Freak.

Rain pelts the windows and I take the small interruption as my cue to step away as I finish scribbling the order and turn toward the back, but I only make it a couple of steps when the words finally break through the fog of too many hours on my feet.

My father is dead.