Danger in the Streets

What Happened Last Night?

I wake up, run, shower, and make myself look presentable, all with my mind racing. I turn up my music, trying to drown the thoughts out. It doesn't work. The sheets and blanket on my bed are neatly folded and tucked. Azra is nowhere to be found, but I left the room key and some clothes on the nightstand last night. They aren't there.

How many other girls are hurt like that? How long has this been going on?  What will happen to Azra? You're lucky that Mica stopped you. You wouldn't have gone with the man....would you?

And:

What about Mica?

When I get to the kitchen with several minutes before I have to leave, Azra is seated on a bar stool. Three steaming bowls of oatmeal and omelettes are laid out on the counter top. Glasses of some sort of orange drink accompany them.

"Wow...Did you make all this?" I say. I close my eyes and inhale the delicious aroma of apple cinnamon oatmeal.

At the same time, Dariya walks in wearing bunny slippers, rubbing her eyes. "I smell food," she says blearily.

"Look! I think Azra made us breakfast as thanks for last night," I exclaim.

"Eat," Azra says impatiently. "It's getting cold."

I smile and nod, spooning oatmeal into my mouth. Perfect. The omelette is filled with spinach and mushrooms, and some sort of spice that I'm unfamiliar with.

Dariya takes a loud slurp from the drink. Azra glares at her in disgust.

"What's this stuff? Tastes thick and fruity," Dariya mutters, holding the glass up to the light.

"Mango lassi. It's a traditional yogurt and fruit drink, with spices," Azra replies. She barely touches her own food.

I, on the other hand, eat all of mine. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I need to go to work. Azra, you can stay here or you can leave anytime. Thank you for breakfast." I grab my purse.

"Yeah. Thanks, Azra. I gotta go in an hour to do grocery bagging. Ugh," Dariya grumbles.

I smile and head out the door.

*  *  *

I'm proud to say that I'm not late today. I slide into my chair with a cup of coffee from a nearby coffee shop.

Mica looks up. He looks so concerned for me, and I don't know what to do. "What happened? I called 911. I called you. I questioned the exact people who served you drinks. Where were you?"

I open my mouth, but I don't know what to say.

Mica continues. "By the time the cop got there, I had no idea where you, the girl, or the man were. He asked me what you and the girl were wearing, and I said I just remembered the heels that you left there. He was useless; he said you were asking for it if you were wearing those. He threw them in the dumpster, and I tried to clean them up, but the stains wouldn't come out..."

I blink furiously, trying to keep the tears from coming.

Mica looks at me expectantly. Fortunately, Ms. Bridges saves me by summoning me to her office.

"Veronica! Lovely. Now, first, I need my coffee."

I choose to ignore Ms. Bridges' mistake on my name. I pour steaming dark coffee from the coffee machine into a BRIDGES DESIGN mug. I place it on her desk.

"Sit."

I sink into a chair.

"Now, as my assistant, you will be attending to all my personal needs. Flight schedules, meetings, advice, phone calls, and the lunches I hold on Saturdays with my highest paying clients. And getting me coffee, of course. The pay is certainly better, but the bragging rights are probably enough, if I know children like you well enough."

I nod.

"I told Queen Elizabeth that her son was rather bad in bed. We had to go on a hot air balloon ride afterwards, and I tell you, under the strange hat she wore, there is a dirty mouth. I think she took the time to insult all of my body parts. And I mean all of them."

I nod. Then blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

Ms. Bridges scoffs. "I can't have an assistant with her head in the clouds! Although I must say, Edward did teach me a thing for two."

I grimace. "Um, sorry about that. I've been distracted."

Ms. Bridges leans forwards, her cold eyes staring daggers into mine. "Then un-distract yourself! This business doesn't need mindless little girls thinking about kittens and one-night-stands and the price of tea in China or whatever the hell you children are thinking. I can't afford it, and neither can you. So either tell me what's going on and get focused, or leave!"

She sits back and sips her coffee.

"I'm fine. I'm sure it'll all blow over," I say. I'm not sure who I'm reassuring: Ms. Bridges or myself.

She purses her lips. "Fine." She slides a piece of paper with a list of company names on it, and taps it with a well-manicured nail. "I need you to order attractive pieces from these manufacturers. Think new age, modern, with historic accents. They love those. Also, schedule a flight to Los Angeles in January...three years from now. Ellen DeGeneres will finally get me to be at her birthday party."

I nod, my eyes widening. But there's something else. "Can't I get a new office? Maybe something closer to yours?"

Ms. Bridges laughs, but it doesn't show in her eyes. "You haven't earned it. For now, you get to stay with the others. You'll be paged every time I need you. Which isn't right now."

I guess that's my cue to leave.