Four

Wynne

I was already struggling to juggle my backpack, my camera bag, and my iced coffee while simultaneously unlocking my apartment door when my phone rang. Not expecting anyone to call me this early in the morning, my entire body jolts in surprise, coffee dropping to the floor and pretty much exploding in a geyser of coffee, sugar, whipped cream, and iced cubes.

"Dammit!" I hoped the sound of my day already falling apart would not wake my neighbor across the hall, or worse, my roommate, Vanity. Mrs. Brillings would give me a sour look and remind me that others live in the building. Vanity, on the other hand, would berate me for at least a couple of hours before I could shower and change out of my now coffee-soaked comfort wear, and I would be risking being tardy for class.

Taking a deep breath, I finally manage to get my wonky old lock to turn and open the door quietly to my tiny little apartment. Not hearing any sounds of rancor or rage coming from Vanity's side of the apartment, I quickly close the door before Mrs. Brillings could rouse. My phone began to ring once again, and I answer it without looking before the shrill tone can bring down Vanity's wrath upon my shoulders. I get along with almost everyone I meet, but Vanity is a hundred-and-ten-pound ball of fury on her best days, when she is able to wake up after most of the country has already had their lunch.

"Yeah?" I whisper-hiss into the phone while I step into the kitchenette to grab paper towels and a mop to take care of the iced coffee disaster in the hall.

"Is that how you greet your oldest and dearest friends, Wynnie?" Zeph teases on the other end.

"Only when they have the absolute worst timing in the universe," I retort, using my shoulder to hold my phone to my ear as I ease the door back open, squatting to soak up as much of the brown sticky puddle as I can before wiping down the door. "You owe me a coffee, by the way. My phone scared mine right out of my hand."

"Sorry. I have an early meeting with Doctor Douche this morning and I was hoping we could meet up for breakfast at Smithy's before I have to hear him tell me how I'm the world's worst TA again?"

"Sure. Give me twenty minutes to shower and change, and I'll meet you there." I could never refuse Zephyros Barone, especially as I haven't seen him in several months. His pre-med classes and my cinematography ones meant that I rarely get to see my best friend. It was a substantial change, considering we spent nearly every day together from the time we could walk. Before college, the longest we had ever gone without seeing one another had been the summer of our junior year, when his parents died in a car crash, and he had to spend the summer with his aunt and uncle before his eighteenth birthday, when he decided to return to his house and live alone for senior year. Now, it seems, I only see him once every few months, when one of us has a spare hour or two for a meal or a night out.

Deciding to leave the mopping for later, I head back into my apartment, rushing through a shower and dressing in a cute olive corduroy skirt and a cream-colored sweater, pulling on my favorite brown knee-length boots. I glance in the mirror to check that my russet locks are not too unruly from my rushed blow-drying and throw on some lip balm to protect against the cool autumn air. I text Zeph and tell him I am on my way as I shrug on my brown wool jacket, then head down the block to the diner.

A bell above my head jingles as I entered the diner, causing the heads of three men seated in the booth by the door to turn my way.

"You didn't tell me your boyfriends were coming too, Zeph," I joke. "I usually prefer my orgies in private." The words fall out of my mouth before I remember my audience. Having grown up with Zeph as my shadow, I was nearly immune to the disgust that would pass through his hazel eyes whenever anyone implied that he and I were ever capable of being more than friends. I would be lying if I said it didn't sometimes still sting, though.

"Oh, love. You'd be so lucky to have the three o' us in your bed," the gorgeous auburn-haired man across from Zeph replies. Romulus "Sully" Sullivan is the kind of hot that wet dreams are made from, nearly seven feet tall, lean but strong, with his boyband haircut, bright green eyes, and an Irish-accented, deep voice that could melt panties off an ice princess. Only his close friendship with Zephyr keeps me from acting on accepting the many offers he presents for me to join the harem of women that rotate between his sheets. Now, as he pats the seat next to him in the booth for me to sit, my mind wanders to what it might be like to take him up on the promise in his grin.

"She could barely handle me, much less the three of us," the third man, Brock MacAmhal, chimes in.

"Great, now I'm gonna have to bleach my brain to get the image of the two of you spit-roasting my best friend out of my head," Zeph complains.

"Or you could give in to our sweet little Wynnie and join us all, Zephyr," Brock teases, looking me over like he has already given the idea more than a little thought. A heat flashes through his eyes that makes me squirm on the faux-leather seat.

Brock is basically sex on two legs. The body of an athlete, a carefully maintained, close-trimmed beard, short chocolate locks, and blue-green eyes only compliment his deep Irish brogue. He and Sully had both grown up in Dublin. Rumor around the school is that their fathers are both deep in the Irish mob. While Sully radiates joy and mischief, there is a dark air around Brock that screams danger. The rumors scared most nice girls away, but I honestly never felt safer than when Zeph and his two friends are around. 

"And you guys wonder why I prefer to have breakfast with Zephyros alone," I say, sticking my tongue out like a child, turning to the waitress that just stepped over to take our order. "We'll each have the waffles and bacon special, Summer. And coffee, please. Zeph owes me for shocking mine out of my hands this morning," I order for all of us. When we started college three years ago, Zeph and I adopted Smithy's as "our" restaurant, and our order is always the same. The waffles are probably Seattle's best-kept secret, and proximity to Smithy's is the entire reason I continue to suffer renting the spare room in Vanity's tiny little apartment.

Summer, whom I have never once seen write down an order, slips away to give Smithy, the fry cook and owner, a nod indicating that we have not broken the norm and, of course, want bacon and waffles.

"So, how many raindrops did you photograph in the sunrise, Wynne?" Zeph teases. When we were kids and talked about running away to Seattle, we always dreamed that he would go to med school and I would be a famous photographer, capturing nothing but photos of Seattle's famous rain by day and a renowned stage actress by night, lighting up the stage with my flair for the dramatic.

Before I can come back with a smart answer, Sully's head snaps straight up, his face jerking to the window next to him as his arm shoves me roughly to the side, sliding me right off the bench and to the old, stained tile floor. The motion triggers the other two men at my table, who, in a seemingly choreographed movement, drop to the ground, heads just at the level of the tabletop, all three drawing guns from their backs like it's something they do every single morning over breakfast. A sound like a car backfiring sounds and the glass from the window blows in over us.

I shield my eyes as best as I can as Zeph, Sully, and Brock begin shooting out of the now missing window. I spin myself on the floor with my back to the window, just as something sharp bites into my arm. I kick myself backward toward the safety of the hollow space under the booth, trusting that these three men will not let anything happen to me.

A squealing of tires peeling away seems to end the cacophony of bullets and breaking glass. Lowering my arm from my face, I survey the area around me. The blood rushes to my head, deafening me to everything around me as I take in the shards of glass, broken dishes, and the few other patrons in the restaurant all on the floor or hovering under their own tables and booths.

I look up at the rest of the room and notice that Summer is bent, face-down over the counter, at an awkward angle. Blood drips down the front of her face from a dark spot at the side of her forehead, into her open, unblinking eyes. I hear a scream from somewhere as I realize the woman that has been serving me my favorite meal for the last three years is dead in front of me. The world starts to go black around me, the scream the last thing I hear before I pass out.