Chapter 9: Filthy hallway confession
The alley door clicked shut behind Heath, leaving Alice alone with the chill brick at her back and the volcanic heat of his confession still scalding her ears. Terrified. He was terrified. Of consequences. Of her.
The anger didn't subside. It solidified, turning into a cold, sharp shard in her chest. He got to be scared? He got to pull away and play supervisor after turning her inside out on his living room floor? After making her body a playground for honey and ice? After promising her more?
The nausea twisted again, a vicious reminder. She pushed off the wall, her breath coming in short, sharp puffs that fogged in the cold air. She couldn't stay out here. She'd either scream or vomit. She shoved through the back door, the warm, fragrant air of the bistro's kitchen hitting her like a wall.
The lunch rush was dying. The clatter of pans was subdued. Frank was at the pass, laughing with a line cook. And Heath—Leo was at the bar, his back to the kitchen, leaning over the draught taps with a wrench, his shoulders tense under his black polo.
She moved on autopilot, clearing a recently vacated table near the restrooms. Her hands trembled as she stacked dirty plates. The sounds of the bistro—the murmur of conversation, the jazz playlist, the chime of the register—felt muffled, distant. All she could hear was the roar of her own blood and the echo of his voice. What if we broke something?
A high-pitched laugh cut through her fog. It was Chloe, Heath's wife, sitting at a corner table with two other women, finishing up a late lunch. She was smiling, radiant, completely oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting just feet away from her. The sight was a match to gasoline.
Alice dumped the bus tub on the counter with a crash that made the dishwasher jump. "Easy there, hurricane," Frank called, but she was already walking, not seeing, her path taking her straight past the bar.
Heath straightened up, wiping his hands on a bar towel. Their eyes met. His were guarded, shuttered, but she saw the flicker in them—a remnant of the alley's panic, a question. She didn't stop. She couldn't. If she stopped, she'd either collapse or claw his eyes out.
She pushed through the door marked 'STAFF' into the narrow, utilitarian hallway that held the office, the break cupboard, and the single-stall staff restroom. The door swung shut behind her, muffling the bistro sounds. The silence was a relief for half a second.
Then the door opened again.
Heath stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the lock was deafening in the small space.
The hallway was dim, lit by a single fluorescent tube. They were alone, enclosed by concrete block walls painted a grim institutional green.
"Alice," he said, his voice low.
"Don't," she spat, not turning to face him. She stared at the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. "Just don't."
