Beauty and the Wolf Read online

  But Betty needs food.

  Her kids need food.

  The reason that she was taking leftovers home in the first place was because Andrew pays us waitresses the bare legal minimum, and despite her good tips, she was struggling to survive. She has four kids, four growing, hungry kids.

  So, after she was fired, I did the only thing I could think of to help her: I started to give her free meals.

  Screw other people's leftovers.

  I started giving free meals to Betty and her kids once a day.

  Every day.

  I know, I know—it's crazy stupid to do something like that right under the boss's nose. But Andrew makes so much damn money off of this diner, the diner my family made into a success... I just couldn't give in to him, couldn't do nothing. Besides, we throw out a lot of unused food; it's not as if I'm really stealing from the guy.

  So, once a day, Betty and her kids come by. I seat them at a table in the back, and I bring them all piping-hot breakfast food: sunny-side-up eggs and toast for the kids, a big omelet and home fries for Betty. And I treat it like a real order; I just...don't tally it up in the cash register.

  Only Betty and I know that I do this. I'm careful. Andrew's never going to find out.

  And if he does...hey, I'll deal with the consequences.

  I won't sit idly by while one of my friends goes hungry because she was fired by a tyrant.

  I tap my fingernails on the tray and glance at the clock anxiously. Betty should have stopped by earlier this morning; Andrew never comes in during the morning. Now it's one o'clock, and my shift is over, and Andrew could arrive any minute now...

  “I'm sorry I'm late.” Betty's voice is soft, pained, when I approach her. Her blue eyes dart around as she searches for Andrew, and, not finding him, she sags a little with relief. “I just... I had a rough day today,” she says, and she meets my eyes.

  I can't begin to describe to you what it's like to watch a friend, a good friend, who was once so happy, once so full of optimism, gradually become consumed with hopelessness. Unable to find work, unable to even afford bus fare to get to interviews... It's been rough for her. As I stand here, as I watch tears spring into Betty's eyes, I gather her close and squeeze tightly.

  “It's okay, Betty.” I rub a small, soothing circle onto her shoulder. “Come on—let's get some food into you. Did you eat today?”

  “No,” she tells me quietly, drooping, and I shake my head, crouch down in front of her oldest kid, Elizabeth, who's ten.

  “Hey, Beth.” I offer the yellow-haired girl a bright smile. She stares at me with strong, defiant blue eyes. “Can you help me get the little ones to the back table?” I ask her.

  Beth is carrying Jerry, the youngest child at just under one year old, and she nods, helping me usher the other two kids, Amy and Aidan, toward the table right in front of the Beast—the second-to-last one on the way down the hallway.

  “What happened today?” I ask Betty, scooping up Aidan, who's roughly two, and balancing him on my hip. The kid clings tightly to me, sucking on his thumb and staring into space.

  “You know how Andrew owns the Blue Star now?” Betty leans close and raises a tired brow. The Blue Star is one of few apartment buildings in Paris, and it's where Betty's been living with her kids. I grimace a little and nod, bracing myself for where this conversation is going.

  Betty takes a deep breath, the tears still standing in her eyes. “Well, I'm late on my rent. The former landlord used to let it slide when I fell behind; he knew I'd catch up eventually, and pay the late fees, too. But now Andrew's the landlord and...” She pauses, winces. “Since I've fallen a couple of months behind, with no job prospects in sight...” She exhales heavily. “Andrew said today that he wants me and the kids to move out.”

  I freeze and stare at my friend, my mouth hanging open. The enormity of what she just told me hits me like a tidal wave, and pure, potent rage begins to course through my veins, rushing fast.

  “No. No, you've got to be kidding me.”

  But Betty only shakes her head, threading an errant wisp of blonde hair behind her ear with nervous fingers.

  No. Not kidding.

  Andrew wants to evict her.

  He wants to put her and her kids out on the street.

  I'm so mad, I feel dizzy.

  Betty was the first person who knew I was gay, the first person I ever confided in about it. Years later, when the rest of Paris found out, there was a wide range of reactions, from enthusiasm to outright horror. And Betty stuck with me through everything. I was on the receiving end of some awful stuff—slurs in the school hallways, homophobic notes stuffed into my locker—but Betty always did everything within her power to cheer me up, to make me forget about the ugliness in the world. She'd crack corny jokes to force me to smile. And when the going got really tough and I became depressed during senior year, Betty went out of her way to check on my emotional state every single day.

  Betty cares. She's a good person.

  Her parents aren't going to help her. And she has no money, nowhere to go.

  She's going to be homeless.

  No.

  This can't happen.

  I gulp down air, already thinking quickly, trying to come up with a solution.

  Betty smiles at me through her tears, shaking her head and toeing the chair out to sit down on it gratefully. “It'll be okay, Bella,” she tells me in a tired voice. “I'll...figure something out.”

  “You can stay with us—” I start, but Betty continues to shake her head.

  “In your tiny apartment, with four kids?” Her voice sounds so weary. “That wouldn't be fair to you or Pam. You’re so good to me, Bella, but please don’t worry about us. We'll be all right.”

  I begin to protest, but Betty looks so exhausted that I deflate, shut down, grow quiet. I'm deeply shaken, anger roiling inside of me. I have no idea what to do right now, so I just make sure the smallest kids are situated comfortably in high chairs while my mind reels.

  Then I turn around slowly, ready to head back to the kitchen to put in the order for Betty's family's food, when I pause, cringing.

  Oh, crap. I forgot all about her—and, at this point, she's been waiting for quite a while...

  The Beast.

  I grimace with discomfort and walk over to her table. She’s probably going to be pissed; she has every right to be. I'm braced for shouting. For an icy demeanor. For some sort of rebuke for making her wait so long to take her order...

  But when I come to stand beside her, she glances up at me without a hint of malice, her expression calm, neutral, as she closes her newspaper, her eyes clear and solemn.

  “I'm so sorry,” I begin, drawing the pen from behind my ear and tapping my pad of paper nervously as I shift from one foot to the other. “I'm sorry for your wait. It's just a little...busy today,” I finish, voice weak, because, in truth, the diner isn't busy at all anymore. The lunch rush has come and gone.

  But she shrugs, leaning back and holding my gaze, an arm dangling languidly over the chair as if she’s comfortable here, could be comfortable here all day long. “Don't worry about it.” Her voice is deep, the words a soft growl. “I'll have the usual.” Her amber eyes hold my gaze, take me in. “Thank you.”

  I watch her for half a heartbeat, adjusting to this unexpected reality. I had anticipated anger and was instead met with politeness.

  What on earth is Pam's problem with her? She's really nice.

  I notice a flicker of something within her eyes—eyes that are glimmering with tiny gold flecks. And I realize—too late—that I’m bent forward at the waist, peering down into her eyes as if I’m an optometrist conducting an examination...

  Or, you know...a lover about to give a kiss.

  A fleeting smile slides over the Beast’s mouth, but it comes and goes so quickly that it’s like the flash of light at the end of a tunnel: you don’t really know whether it was there or not. She raises one brow wickedly high and cocks her head, lounging so far
back in her chair that I get the strange feeling that her spine doesn’t conform to the laws of physics.

  “Do I have something in my teeth?” She chuckles, deep and throaty, and then that smile comes back, but it’s a bit more...toothsome than before.

  I try not to stare. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile before, and I know I've never seen a smile where she showed her teeth. Because her incisors? They’re...pointy.

  All of her teeth are, actually. They’re all a little pointy.

  I blink, force myself to shake my head. “Sorry, no, you...don't. You just have really pretty eyes. That's all,” I mutter, then gulp, realizing that I blurted out the first thought that came into my head. Dear Lord, what’s gotten into me?

  But she doesn’t miss a beat.

  The Beast leans forward, placing her elbows on the table. “So do you,” she growls softly, her mouth turning up into a sly smile. She tilts her head in a curiously canine expression; I'm reminded of a dog cocking its head when it hears an interesting sound.

  I pause to digest her words—and then, cheeks flushed, I bite my lower lip.

  Was she just coming on to me? I mean, I was coming on to her...wasn’t I?

  The Beast has this aura: it’s pure sensuality.

  And right now, she’s watching me like a predator watches its prey. With half-hooded eyes, her head still angled to one side, she regards me, her stare so palpable, I can almost feel it on my skin, velvety soft.

  As we face one another, I forget where I am, and what I was doing... All I'm aware of is this odd exchange between us. There’s the Beast, staring at me with a wry gaze, her mouth turned up at the corners, her golden glance hypnotic...and then there’s me, clutching my order pad and pen over my chest.

  I fainted once, when I was in my teens—something about blood sugar, and having worked too hard in gym class. Right beforehand, I got tunnel vision: everything began to rush by, and from the edges of my sight came walls of black that started to press in on me. It was sudden and oppressive, that feeling, and I’ll never forget it. And though what’s happening right here and now reminds me of that sensation, it’s not exactly what’s happening. Not quite.

  I feel as if everything else in the universe has broken apart and drifted away, and all that’s left is the two of us, cocooned in our own bubble of quiet intensity. Because it is intense, the way she’s staring at me, her eyes narrowed, smoldering.

  Her eyes: they burn from within.

  I don't know what to say or do. My body is at war with itself. I want to smile at her. But there’s something deeper at play here, something that a simple smile would insult. And I don’t know why, after a month of pleasant exchanges, electricity is crackling between us today...

  But I don’t have much time to wonder about it. Suddenly, the electricity disappears—as if it shorted out—and then I’m taking a step backward, heart beating fast. “Your order will be right up,” I’m telling her quietly, feeling off-kilter, strange.

  She’s no longer looking at me. Maybe that’s what broke the spell, her gaze moving beyond my shoulders. As I watch her, she narrows her eyes further, the smile vanished from her mouth, replaced with a deep, unnerving frown. A low sound emanates from her throat...

  It sounds like a growl, the kind of growl a dog would make when it's angry—and dangerous.

  The hair rises on the back of my neck. I turn quickly, following her stare...and then I swallow, a chill moving through my veins.

  From this vantage point, I have a straight line of sight through the hallway and the kitchen, right to the employee entrance door in the back.

  Oh, crap.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  Because coming through that door, and unbuttoning his coat with an expression of irritation etched onto his perpetually smarmy face, is my horrible boss, Andrew.

  Today, Andrew's wearing a suit. I...have no idea why he's wearing a suit. This is a working-class town; the men wear suits for funerals and weddings, and that's pretty much it. But Andrew has always considered himself to be better than the rest of us. He used to threaten to leave, to head to Boston or some other city, leave us “backwoods people” behind... But I think he was afraid that he'd have no power in a big city. Small men want power, and Andrew's money can buy that for him in Paris.

  So he's probably wearing that suit because it makes him feel, in his shallow way of thinking, important.

  Okay, earlier, I might have made it sound as if everyone in town dislikes the guy, but—shockingly—that isn't true. Andrew has poured a lot of money into Paris, buying up the failing businesses and developing plans to bring more traffic into town. He opened up a fast food restaurant. He even intends to build a miniature version of the Eiffel Tower in the town square so that tourists will come here to take selfies with it. Some townsfolk really appreciate Andrew's entrepreneurship.

  Still...having fans doesn't turn a jerk into an upstanding human being.

  Andrew takes off his suit jacket and loosens his blood-red tie before glancing in my direction and frowning deeply.

  I frown back at him—and notice that, weirdly, there's a small leaf sticking out of his carefully gelled hair.

  “Isn't your shift over, Ms. Thorne?” he asks, his voice as sharp as new nails.

  I shrug uncomfortably, taking a step backward. “Yeah, but Pam needed a little extra help. We were really busy,” I lie. Trying to act nonchalant, I head down the hallway and into the kitchen, wincing and breathing out; from the corner of my eye, I see Andrew aim for his office.

  My heart’s beating a million miles a minute; I’ve got a bad feeling. Normally, I don't let Andrew rattle me, but Betty's here, waiting for her free meal. And Andrew has never been present when that happened before. We've always been super careful to schedule her family's daily meals around his schedule.

  But the jig isn't up yet. I’ve just got to play it cool. Totally. Yeah.

  It'll all be okay.

  If I keep thinking it'll be okay enough times, it will be okay. Right?

  “Hey, Bella, cover for me while I run to the drugstore for my migraine prescription? I forgot; I'm all out of pills, and my head is killing me,” Pam says, suddenly appearing from behind a cartoonishly high stack of dirty dishes. Her cheeks are flushed bright red, a telltale sign that she's having a migraine attack. “Sorry, I know you're off the clock already, but I'll only be a minute...”

  “Yeah, sure,” I tell her, smiling distractedly.

  “Thanks. You're a lifesaver! Just tell Andrew I'm...in the bathroom, having female problems. That'll shut him right up. Never fails.” She winks.

  As Pam hurries off, I hand Freddie, the cook, my page of orders, and then—drawing in a deep breath—I pull some clean glasses down from the stack, pouring water into them from a pitcher beside the front counter. I consider the situation. If Andrew comes out of his office—normally he doesn’t emerge for an hour or so, but you never know—I need to have a plan. An excuse. Something.

  Because, no matter what, Betty and her kids have to eat.

  I take the ice water to Betty's table, where it is gratefully received, and then I turn and place the last glass down on the table in front of the Beast.

  And my eyes alight on her face.

  She’s watching me, watching me carefully over the edge of her newspaper, a single, elegant brow raised. Her head is tilted to one side again, and she regards me with quiet candor, her eyes fire-bright.

  When her gaze meets mine, she nods, but she doesn't speak, even though she seems like she's going to: she opens her mouth, as if to form a word; in the next heartbeat, though, she glances past me, and her eyes, again, narrow. I probably wouldn't have noticed the change if I weren't paying such close attention to her expression.

  With an ominous shiver, I turn around, feeling a wave of deja vu.

  Son of a biscuit.

  Yeah, Andrew’s come out of his office.

  And that bad feeling in the pit of my stomach?

  It's just gone from bad to wo
rse.

  Chapter 2: The Firing

  We're about to get caught.

  There’s no way to escape this. But, hey, I’ve still got to try...

  “Hi, Andrew!” I chirp, rushing to step in front of him before he walks down the hallway and into the diner proper. I strain my face muscles to give him a smile that looks genuine. He hasn't threatened to fire me in, like, twenty-four hours, so maybe he's had a change of heart/become a better person/been visited by Dickens' three ghosts recently.

  One can hope.

  But my weak grasp on optimism frays when Andrew ignores me, his eyes clamping onto Betty, seated at the table with her kids. His face, typically set in a surly frown, transforms into an unmistakable expression of rage. His skin pales to the color of wet bed sheets, his lips twisted into a snarl.

  And it’s at this moment that Betty notices him, too.

  She visibly gulps and sits up straighter in her chair, her fingers fidgeting with her napkin. A terrible, hopeless resolve washes over her face.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” Andrew stabs his finger in Betty's direction.

  Betty is already lifting her smallest kid, already throwing her purse over her shoulder, already preparing to hightail it out of the diner.

  My heart hurts, and my face burns. How are they all going to eat today if they don't stay?

  Eyebrows furrowed, I stand my ground and shake my head a little. “Hold on, Betty,” I urge her over my shoulder, wishing uselessly that there were more townsfolk in the diner today so that Andrew might be reluctant to make a scene.

  But the lunch rush has come and gone, and what I'm left with is Andrew, Betty, her kids, Old Jeb...and the Beast. Pam's at the drugstore, and our line cook, Freddie, is somewhere in the kitchen.

  Right.

  I square my shoulders; I've got to handle this by myself—and lie.

  “She's a paying customer, Andrew.” I flash my awful boss a smile that I don't feel.

  “A paying customer?” His deep voice rumbles, incredulous. “She can't pay for her apartment. How the hell do you think she's going to pay for her lunch?” Andrew's eyes flick sideways, and, noticing the Beast, he backs down a little, sniffing. He doesn't say anything more, only seats himself at the table in the far corner of the room, opposite Betty, glowering in her direction.