Back at it again with a third draft. Going to focus less on goal word counts this time around.
As always, I appreciate being told about spelling errors. Thanks for reading!
~ Penny
Myla pulled up to the curb, parking just across from the neon blue umbrella in the window, and scanned the sidewalk for her cousin.
On most mornings, Jasmine was already outside. She would climb into the family wagon, going a mile minute complaining about this and that - the patrons, her boss, how long she had been waiting outside - sometimes all before the car was fully stopped. Myla glanced at the clock on her dash: . Right on time.
It was always a little worrying to not see Jasmine in her usual spot. Whenever this happened, Myla couldn't help but think about the club's unsavory reputation. It used to be mob-owned, or perhaps it still was - that sort of thing was a little outside her scope of knowledge. In any case, terms like "mob-owned" do tend to conjure up the thought that employees who "talk too much" might be made to "disappear", and Jasmine was a flashy, gossipy loudmouth.
These were not the best thoughts to have so early in the day. Myla reached over and retrieved the emergency cell phone from the glove box. Jasmine sometimes went to blow off steam with friends after work with friends, or occasionally went home with some guy, and would sent a text about it. Probably the most reliable thing she ever did, but Myla didn't typically didn't remember to check the phone first thing when she got in.
No texts. She nervously flipped the phone open and shut while contemplating how soon was too soon to start blowing up Jasmine's phone. Maybe she was just distracted - it was the Friday/Saturday shift - plenty of opportunity to get lost in clean-up, or get drunk, or fall asleep in a booth while waiting for her shift to end. This whole situation had happened before: Jasmine messing around, Myla overreacting when everything was fine. Myla tossed the phone into the passengers seat, feeling momentarily assured that, like all those other times, she was worried for nothing. Jasmine would walk out the door any minute now with some wild story about her night. Or at least a decently entertaining excuse.
Well, she tried. The situation had been given about as much doubt as she could spare, but Myla did have a job to get to, and wouldn't be able to work while not knowing where Jasmine was, imagining depressing scenarios of her drunk or dead. She picked the phone back up, flipped it open, and pressed Jasmine's speed-dial number.
Voice mail. Myla frowned. Jasmine never did get around to putting other numbers in the phone - least of all a direct line to her workplace. . Half an hour is plenty long enough to wait around before you go looking for someone, and this was a place of business, not a haunted house. She sighed, glancing again at the empty sidewalk again before turning off the car and stepping out into the mildly smoggy morning. The umbrella flickered from behind the glass as she walked past it, cautiously entering the building.
As surprised as she was to find the front door to a so-called "exclusive club" that had closed for the night completely unguarded and unlocked, it was outdone by the several men in suits by the bar at the sight of her. Perhaps because they were just now realizing they left the door unattended.
"Can we help you?" One of them asked. The one putting too much stock in the "unkempt hair" look.
"Um, yeah" Her voice unintentionally squeaked despite the effort to sound nonchalant. "I'm looking for Jazz-Jasmine." She corrected, her tone evening out.
"And who might be asking about our dear, sweet Jasmine?"
Myla overcame the urge to snort. Sweet Jasmine. If only. "Her cousin?" The men looked her up and down, interested, but wary, and making her exceedingly uncomfortable.
"Oh - you must be Myla." The same man answered, sounding much more cordial than he had before. He stepped forward, sliding an arm around her waist before leading her away from the bar and towards the tables. He smelled like a LOT of sandalwood products. "Take a seat, honey, and I'll get her for you."
Myla nodded, eager to get him off her and breathe in some less contaminated air. She took a spot in an empty booth while he disappeared up some steps on the opposite end of the room. The others left the room as well, leaving her almost alone, with the exception of the bartender cleaning glasses behind the counted, old-west saloon style. This was actually Myla's first time inside the place - Jasmine had "forbade" it, saying she didn't want the "distraction" even though she absolutely lived for attention of any sort. It was a bit of a running joke in their shared circle that Jasmine was secretly a stripper or an escort, but now that she had gotten a good look around, the place was definitely more "dinner theater" than "mysterious sex hotel". There was a stage complete with theater bulbs and violet velvet curtains. The umbrellas overhead lended a more quirky, contemporary touch. If this really was just a nightclub, she would totally work here if Jasmine allowed it. Suspected mob presence aside, it seemed like a neat place to work. And she loved the way the girls got to dress all vintage-vampy. So different from her florals and pastels, like the summery powder blue dress she had chosen today. An outfit which felt like a bad choice at the moment, in the dark, heavily air-conditioned space she was sitting in.
A few more minutes passed, and Myla started to feel nervous again. She knew from experience that it didn't take this long to shuffle Jasmine on her way, no matter how tired or drunk she was. In another few minutes, Myla would have to...seriously consider leaving. She wouldn't, but she would consider it, and tell Jasmine so, in a half-hearted bid to make her cousin feel a bit guilty.
"Hello."
Myla suddenly stiffened in her seat. For many reasons, the least of all being the fact that she should be punching in right now, she had hoped to be in and out, with as little interaction as possible. Ignoring that desire to avoid anything that might keep her here longer than she had to be, she turned around to see a very pale man, with black hair, and a thin, beak-like nose. He smiled at her, though she couldn't help but notice his eyes didn't match up with the friendless and warmth of the rest of his expression.
"Are we hiring?" He asked. "I can't say I know your face."
Considering she had spent the bulk of her time in here thinking about how cool the place was, you think she would have jumped at the chance. Myla's mouth was too dry for the laugh she attempted, but she gave that a go. She wasn't usually this bad at meeting new people. Maybe it was the irregularity she found in his expression throwing her off, or because she wasn't entirely supposed to be here - she felt like she shouldn't be hitting up Jasmine's co-worker for a gig. "No, I'm here for my cousin."
"I see." He said, still smiling. "But where are my manners? I'm Oswald Cobblepot - the proprietor of this establishment. Would you mind terribly if I sat with you?"
The fact that Mr. Cobblepot couldn't be much older than thirty, yet was talking like some Industrial Age billionaire, threw her off even more. "Not at all." She answered automatically, returning his smile and smoothing down the fabric of her skirt over her lap. Mr. Cobblepot carefully leaned something against the wooden panel separating the booths before sitting across from her. "I'm Myla. Myla Kozak." She added quickly, not wanting to seem rude, or too impersonal.
His eyes did light up at the recognition of her surname, but made no mention of Jasmine, at first. "It's lovely to meet you, Miss Kozak. So, what do you do?"
Besides wait an impossible amount of time for her family? "I work at a bakery, on Edwidge." She kept the answer simple, glancing around again. The room was still largely empty, save for her new guest, plus the barkeep. There was that, at least, even if it didn't make her feel any more comfortable. Like many women, Myla didn't like being alone with male strangers. "Take night classes, you know..."
"When you say a bakery - do you mean breads? Sweets?" Oswald asked, expressing far more interest in the subject than most had.
"Wedding cakes mostly, but I'm more on the register and writing up orders than in the kitchen." She was allowed to assist during the busy seasons, but with summer coming to a close, so too was her time painting on fondant. Myla's hands moved to play with the ends of her long hair, the way she always did when she was beginning to feel a bit too anxious. It was anchoring, in some strange way.
"Sounds tedious." Besides the formalities, there was an odd sort of quality about Cobblepot's voice. It was raspy, a touch shakey, even though he didn't seem overly nervous as Myla. He definitely seemed like someone who was making his money in sugar cane or railroads over nightclubs, but what did she know.
Myla shrugged. "It's not bad. Mostly I stary for the couple I work for. For example, I'm running about an hour late. I don't think they'll care. Might not even notice." She did, though. This was the very first blemish on her punctuality, and knowing that made her die just a little inside.
"I do hope Jasmine isn't always this inconsiderate."
"She really isn't." Myla blurted out. She wasn't so annoyed that she would badmouth Jasmine to her boss over her unreliability. "The only reason I'm in here is because she has always been waiting outside when I pull up."
Oswald nodded, understanding. "I think it's nice you're looking out for your family."
"Myla." Speak of the devil - Jasmine's voice rang out sharply from the other end of the building, causing Myla to jump in her seat. She looked up to face her cousin, who looked equal parts furious and terrified. Jasmine power-walked over to the table, hand darting out to grip Myla's arm and yank her from the booth. "I'm very sorry if my baby cousin was bothering you, Mr. Cobblepot." She really drew out the word baby, eliciting a rather sour look from the younger Kozak.
"Not at all, Jasmine." He rose from his seat with ten times the grace and dignity Myla had been allowed, while keeping his eyes on her. "Thank you for the conversation, my dear."
"Oh. You're welcome?" It seemed very doubtful that she had provided anything resembling good conversation. "It was nice to meet you." She called over her shoulder, as Jasmine was pulling her toward the door.
Oswald ignored the awkward struggle between the pair on their way outside. "Have a good day." He said softly.
Jazz was able to flash a quick, professional smile to her boss, maintaining the tight grip she had on Myla, then continued to drag her away.
The moment the door clicked shut, was the moment Jasmine turned on her cousin. "What the fuck." She hissed. "Why did you go in there?"
"Because you left me waiting for like, an hour." Myla angrily yanked her arm back. "I got worried. Sorry."
"Next time just leave me, okay? I know how to get home - I'm a big girl who can take the rails." Jasmine sighed, rubbing her temples. She was too hungover to deal with this. "Just...don't do it again. It's not safe for a baby like you."
"Look on the bright side," Myla mumbled, ignoring the extra "baby" jab in favor of fishing the car keys from her purse, "I can finally tell everyone you're probably not a stripper." She didn't know what Jasmine's problem was on this particular morning, but it was grating to be called a child. She was in her twenties. Going to college. Plenty old enough to walk into a bar if that was her thing, but as far as everyone else seemed to be concerned, she was perpetually twelve.
"Oh! And - AND - what were you doing talking to my boss?" Jasmine continued, ignoring the stripper comment the same way Myla had dodged the baby one.
"He just...sat down and started talking, I don't know." What was her deal with this guy?
"Yeah? About what?"
"I don't know." Perhaps she deserved to be called a baby, because the inclining whine her voice was developing with every prodding definitely made her sound like one. Myla stepped off the sidewalk and rounded the car. "If I was applying, what I did for work and all that. It was literally a two-minute thing."
"Did you tell him?" Her cousin's tone became almost panicked. "Did you tell him where you work?"
"I mean, I said I work in bakery - nothing super specific." Yeah, not like she mentioned the area it was in, or what type of bakery it was, or what she did there, or give him a vague example of her schedule, and that she took night classes (she didn't specify where, but there were only two colleges in the city). Damn - she was always doing this. Really, Jasmine had every right to act this protective.
After climbing into the passengers seat, Jasmine touched Myla on the shoulder. "Myla, sweetheart, look at me." She instructed softly. Myla looked over for just a moment, then went back to buckling her seat belt. "Look at me, please, Myla."
She looked.
"I am sorry for yelling, but - I do not ever want to see you, or even hear about you being at my job again. If I'm not outside within five minutes of you getting here, just go, alright? I'll be fine. It's sweet you were worried, I appreciate it so much, but don't do it again. Understand?" Although Jasmine tried to keep her voice at a level of motherly sternness, it was laced with a noticeable amount of fear.
Once again, all Myla could wonder was what the hell kind of job could this be?, but she told Jasmine, "Okay."
"Also," Jasmine used to feel grateful that her cousin was so unaware, but she still could believe she had to issue this warning, "don't talk to my boss again. Ever. In the club, or out. Do not engage."
Myla frowned. "Yeah, alright."
"You're not getting it."
"I mean, no? Honestly he seemed more odd than harmful." Or whatever it was Jasmine was trying to imply.
Jasmine let out a loud, dry laugh, and shook her head, further aggravating the headache she was suffering through. "Again - I'm sorry - but, oh, my sweet naive baby cousin. You really have no..." She paused, attempting to look more serious for the moment. "Penguin is the type of man who doesn't think twice about stabbing someone who looked at him wrong. Seriously, keep your distance."
Penguin. What an interesting moniker for this supposedly murderous club owner to go by. Myla nodded in faux understanding, and finally started the car. She did have to admit, that last part of her cousins warning had gotten her thinking - even frightened her a bit, like Jasmine intended. As they pulled away from the curb, the glowing umbrella still visible in her side mirror, Myla felt the most uncomfortable sensation settle into the pit of her stomach, wondering if she had really just spoken to a murderer.