That Old-school Charm
There are nights when this job doesn't cause the slow, withering death of your soul. Tonight is not one of those nights.
"I just seated a couple guys in your section," Marisol says. "Let me know if you need help." She begins wiping a stack of the laminated menus with a wet cloth.
You doubt you'll need help with a table of two, so you figure that's waitress code for 'possible troublemakers, exercise caution.' You take a deep breath before winding back toward the booths, pasting a customer service smile on your face.
I am not paid enough to deal with lechers, rabble-rousers, or politicians at this hour.
The men are none of these.
"—cameras can't work with all of that voodoo messing with the technology. We just have to deal with the human element and there's only one guar—" the first man's murmur cuts off abruptly when the second kicks him in the leg at your approach.
Real subtle, dudes.
"What can I get you this evening?"
You hope they're better at tipping than they are at espionage. You're not going to call the police—what would you even say?—but if these guys try anything funny while on the diner's premises you won't hesitate to have Marisol show them the door; the tiny woman is as efficient and frightening as any bouncer.
"I think we both need a moment to look over the menu and really consider our options." The last bit is obviously not meant for you and you valiantly repress an eye roll at his 'coded' talk.
"Right." You draw out the word drolly. "You just let me know when you're ready."
Guy number two narrows his eyes slightly; you smile placidly back.
Back at the serving station, Marisol has finished with the menus and has moved on to cleaning ketchup bottles.
"Any trouble? They looked shifty."
"Nah, just a couple idiots." They hadn't even given you a suggestive once-over, so you consider them relatively harmless. "Although… I recommend taking a mental picture of their faces. I have a feeling we could be seeing their mug shots in the paper." Marisol doesn't even look concerned, turning back to her task.
"As long as I'm not called to testify; I need all of my shifts."
Such is the life of a New York City waitress.
When you started at the diner—aptly named "Dailies," as it was open twenty-four hours—you'd only intended it to be a stopover. It was a part-time position to make ends meet when you realized living in New York is really damn expensive and college is even more so.
Two years later, you've come to terms with the fact that this job may be the only one you can get even after you graduate. You pray fervently that the economy will pick up before you're slammed with student debt, but for now you're slogging through a weekly fifteen credit hours at school and thirty additional hours of under-tipped hell. Needless to say, you've gained superhuman powers of multitasking and operating on very little sleep.
Marisol, the one light in the darkness that is your job, keeps you afloat with anecdotes of her children and soulmates. On your first day, she catches you staring at the two curling lines of script on her biceps and the older woman grins knowingly.
"You see this one?" She's pointing to the words that say 'Dios, eres bella.' "He was my first. He's lucky he's so charming, otherwise…" She trails off, exasperated but fond. "We've been together since high school. It's been a very long decade and a half." Her words are harsh, but she has a little smile caught on the corner of her mouth.
You don't think fate would pair two people who truly hate each other.
"And the other?" You nod to her left arm.
"Ah, that's Marcus. I met him five years ago." The only words you can see are 'Excuse me, ma'am—' as they snake around her arm.
"That's really sweet. It must be great to be in a triad." You cup a palm over your left hip, fingers splayed over your covered words. One day.
"Ha-! No, Marcus and Sebastian aren't mutuals. Sebastian was not terribly happy with the thought of sharing after eight years. And Marcus hadn't considered that his only mark would already be married with two kids."
"How'd you convince them to cohabitate?"
"Oh, I didn't convince them—I made them."
And that is Marisol in a nutshell.
Your shift ends just after one. There had been a few stragglers over the last hour and a half—glassy-eyed tourists, jet lag slowing their steps, and graveyard shift workers who ordered coffee strong enough to peel the enamel from their teeth—and the shady pair from earlier had slouched out thirty minutes ago.
You were right. They were awful tippers.
"I'm heading out. Need anything else?"
"I think I can handle it, chica. Go to bed." You wave and the bell above the door chimes at your exit.
You step along the curb, deliberating between getting a cab or jogging a couple blocks to the subway.
Your problem is solved when two arms shove you into the back of a windowless truck.
"Hey-! You're supposed to offer me candy first!"
You struggle against the man—and it is most definitely a man, you can tell from the muscle definition and the overwhelming smell of cheap cologne—as another pair of arms pins your wrists together and cinches them way too tightly with a plastic zip tie. You can't see their faces—they have stocking caps pulled over them—but you can see a yellow mustard stain on the shirt of the one in front of you.
You're pretty sure you can venture a guess.
"Who tips eighty-four cents, assholes?"
You flail your legs, landing a solid kick on the dude behind you. There's a grunt of pain before he shifts your weight and then—ouch. Stars burst in your vision as he retracts his gloved fist. Your jaw and the whole lower half of your face is lit up with pain. You can feel your pulse where his fist connected, the beats of your heart traveling all the way up to your temple.
This is not how you envisioned your night going.
I have class at nine, you think incongruously.
"I don't want any trouble from you. Just sit here and keep your mouth shut and we'll drop you off once we hit Jersey."
"I will be the paragon of discretion if you tell me what the hell is going on." I will also barrel roll out of this truck the second you have your backs turned. Tell me your villainous plans so I can give the police the rundown.
"We have a job to do. You're our backup hostage if things go south."
The guy behind you shoves you forward. You think you might be starting a collection of bruises.
I was really hoping for a longer evil dialogue.
The back of the truck slams and—huh, there's a lock—your ideas of escaping that way shrivel and die a painful death.
They even took your purse, the bastards.
You're alone in the back of what seems to be a delivery truck, minus the deliveries. You quickly discover that this is not an optimal way to travel, as the sharp turns send you sliding into the nearest wall.I really hate riding coach you think with an edge of hysteria.
The truck stops at random intervals—presumably stoplights—before stopping entirely some indeterminable time later. The engine cuts and you strain to hear whether or not the men get out. The moments tick by.
Oh, screw it.
"HEY, LEMME OUT OF HERE! KIDNAPPING! RAPE! MURDER!"
You bang your fists against the door, ignoring the way the ties bite into your skin. Well, not completely ignoring—it hurts like a bitch, and your hands are starting to purple from lack of circulation.
There's no way we're out of the city, how is no one around? This is supposed to be the city that never sleeps!
"YOU'RE REALLY LETTING ME DOWN, NEW YORK!"
New York must have heard you because the door swings open—nearly sending you out with it—and standing before you is—
A guy in a stocking cap. Of course.
"Dude, you're really killing my dreams tonight."
You can't see his expression, but judging by his body language and the fact that he now has a vise-like grip on your hair, Thug Number 1 does not find you as witty as you find yourself.
"You. Had. One. Job." He leans in close, voice lowered to a menacing baritone. "Keep quiet or I will give you something to scream about. Do you want me to give you something to scream about?" Your head shakes involuntarily as he yanks your hair like puppet strings. "I thought not."
"Are you brutalizing our hostage, G—ary?" Thug Number 2 calls out from where he is approaching. The way he stumbles over the name leads you to believe it's just an alias. Thug Number 2 is carrying a glow-y object under his left arm and is tugging another figure along with his right.
You wonder if they're robbing a convention because the newest addition to the party bus looks like some bizarre Halloweentown escapee. There's gold glinting all over him—although chances are it's Party City gold and not the family fortune—but if they're after the gold, why not take it off of him first…?
"Move over, princess, you have company."
Thug Number 1—who is possibly 'Gary'—shoves you aside without waiting for you to comply. You can add the bruise on your tailbone to the growing collection.
"Rude." Your mutter echoes slightly as the new passenger steps into the space. You notice his wrists are bound, too. He seems much more blasé about this whole experience, though, his expression serene.
The door bangs shut.
"Is it still considered kidnapping if we're adults?"
The guy's head snaps toward you so fast you're concerned about whiplash. You note vaguely that he really pulls off the guyliner aesthetic.
"…I've been rather worried about the situation that requires those words."
Oh, he's English, what a pleasant surpri—oh. Oh. Your hip nearly burns in recognition.
Are soulmarks supposed to burn?
No one mentioned physically feeling it.
You think the events of the night might be getting to you.
"…And are you more or less worried now?" Because I, for one, am very worried.
You are trying to do that whole 'unflappable New Yorker' thing, but you're not a native, and being bound up in an unmarked van with your apparent soulmate—who happens to be wearing a skirt—isn't exactly doing wonders for your inner Zen.
"Surprisingly less. I'm simply pleased that neither you nor I are the kidnappers."
Oh-kay. That is not comforting at all, possible criminal soulmate.
"Do kidnappings happen often in your line of work?"
You motion with bound hands toward his outfit, your unspoken question being what exactly his line of work entails. Birthday parties? Egyptian Renn Faires?
"You'd be surprised. My life has been very surreal these last couple years." His eyes take you in, lingering on the zip tie that is currently cutting off the circulation in your wrists. "Are you alright?"
"More or less." You don't mention the bruise you can feel stretching up your jaw. Or the half dozen other bruises that will probably make you look like a domestic abuse victim in a few hours. "Are you the cargo they're after?"
He's kneeling next to you now, reaching up to touch your face—oh, he noticed; it must be a spectacular bruise—before seeming to realize his hands are attached.
"Just a moment."
He stands, raises one knee and brings his wrists down hard over his leg, snapping the band. You try not to stare like this is very impressive and the slightest bit arousing. You're pretty sure you fail because when he turns his attention back to you he has a gleam in his eye and the corners of his mouth are tilting up ever so slightly.
Smug bastard.
"To answer your question, no, I am not what they are after. You may have noticed the tablet one of them carried; that is their prize." His voice is low and calm, much too composed for someone who is being carted off to an undisclosed location at two in the morning. His fingers hover just over your cheek again, not touching. "That looks quite painful. May I?"
You nod.
This is not at all how you imagined meeting your soulmate, not in any outlandish daydream thought up by your ten-year-old self. At times there had been dragons or pirates—and you guess that these men could be classified as a kind of pirate (the boring land kind)—but never an empty truck and a soulmate in costume.
"So, uh, what's with the fancy garb, pharaoh?"
His fingers are probing your cheek, likely checking for fractures. They pause momentarily at your inquiry.
"That… is a very long story, I'm afraid." He sounds hesitant and almost apologetic. "For now, know this: that tablet is under my protection. When it was apparent that I was outnumbered and outgunned, I persuaded the men that they needed me in order to reap the rewards that they seek. I desperately need to retrieve the tablet and make it back to the museum—the American Museum of Natural History, to be exact—before sunrise."
"…I caught maybe half of that. Tablet, museum, act of either heroics or stupidity—" He grins, not at all offended by your summary. "—it's been a long night."
"Well, you don't have a concussion and other than some impressive bruising, your cheek is fine."
"Thanks, doc. Hopefully I'll manage the rest of this journey without further violence."
His face darkens.
"By dawn they will be repenting for their sins on the scales of Anubis, where Ammit waits to devour their souls." His voice drops in pitch, fist clenched against your cheek, although his thumb slides in slow circles over the discoloration.
You swallow and squeeze your knees together. You frantically tell your libido that that was a death threat and not a sweet nothing. Your libido is pretty sure the two aren't mutually exclusive. Your tongue darts out as you cast around for a response to his oath and his eyes follow the movement, darkening. His other hand slides over your knee, fingers tracing out some unknown message. You can feel every stroke through your thin work pants; each point of contact is a live current, sparks of heat that gather in your abdomen before traveling further south.
"I don't even know your name." Your voice is low with arousal.
This is so far out of your norm, light-years away from any encounter you've had with the opposite sex. There is an intensity, a tension like the magnetic pieces of your souls are trying to pull you back to each other. This is your soulmate nearly pinning you to the wall of a strange vehicle, not some strange, guileless boy, and you'd like very much for the magnets to snap into place, for him to hem you in and find just how the pieces fit—
"I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and I am going to kiss you."
Well, really, who am I to argue with a king?
