Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King

Ch 21

MIA

Well, I guess I couldn’t get too far without a plan. My dad and I used to go to this diner a lot when I was a kid. He would take me swimming in the ocean and we would come here for dinner and ice cream. Some of my favorite memories took place here.

What do terrified unwed mothers do in situations like this? There has to be some kind of exhaustive list of resources for people like me. This has been happening since the dawn of humanity; women becoming pregnant by hostile, abusive men and needing to escape.

You’d think that by now, there would be an entire community for women like me. Instead, we’re met with judgement.

I could never leave my father alone in the city. Even if I were able to come up with the money to keep him fed, sheltered, and cared for, he would never forgive me for moving far away. How would I even explain that to him?

“Oh sorry dad, I’m going to have a baby and the man who got me pregnant is a Russian mob boss who has been paying for your doctor appointments for the past three months. I saw him kill a man so I couldn’t stick around.”

My nosey waitress approaches me for the fifth time in the last half-hour. “Anything else for you today?” she says with a grating, sickly-sweet tone, the way that annoying pet owners talk to their miniature poodles.

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I’ll probably just pick at this for a bit longer,” I lie.

She smiles and walks away, and my stomach is quickly growing angry at me for choosing to eat when I’m in such peril. I’ve already been getting sick every morning. How could I expect that now I’d feel well enough to eat?

Before I’m able to consider just throwing my food out and paying, I notice an eerily familiar vehicle crawl past the diner. Wasn’t it just there a few minutes ago? I could swear I’ve seen it here already. Nobody’s that bad at deciding where they want to eat. Am I just being jumpy?

No.

I can see Slate in the driver’s side window.

It’s not one of his cars. He’s driving a new one just to throw me off. I’m glad I was paying attention, but what could he hope to accomplish here in a busy diner? He can’t scream and berate me and threaten me until I concede to him, allowing him to walk me out of the diner to the car.

Someone would call the police on him.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Maybe I should talk to the waitress or something and explain my situation. It’s not like I can make a run for it. There’s only one exit, and it’s right where he’s stalling the car.

Perhaps this time, the bathroom will be an adequate escape for me. I don’t want to call the police. They’d know I was involved. You don’t work for a mafia boss and call the police on him only months later. I’d go to prison too!

I get up from my table and glance around quickly, trying to ensure that I don’t stick out too much as I leave. There’s a decently sized group of people standing up to leave as well, so I can potentially sneak through them without Slate noticing.

I head for the bathroom.

It’s exactly as I remember it, dated and stained with uneven floors and water damage on the drop-ceiling tiles. The window at the very end of the bathroom is just at waist height for me, which makes it a perfect means of escape.

There’s only one other person in here, a woman who is washing her hands as her baby fusses on the sink vanity. She is far too preoccupied with keeping the baby from falling off, so I don’t even need to worry about her seeing me leave.

The window is the only thing in this bathroom that have been updated, and it slides open effortlessly and quietly.

I’m free.

Except, I’m not…

When I step out of the window into the back alley, I’m greeted by a concrete wall that separates the front of the diner from the parking lot. I’m out of the diner, sure, but I still need to walk out of the alley, back out front, and then all the way to the far corner of the parking lot before I can even get to my car.

Once I do that, I still need to drive my car past Slate. There’s no way I’m going to be able to pull this off.

As I’m deliberating new escape plans, a teal Pontiac Firebird slows past me and parks along the sidewalk. It’s odd that they’d be pulled around the back, where nobody else is, but I don’t think too long about that. Maybe I can ask them for help.

Before I’m even able to approach the car, the driver’s side window rolls down, and a pretty blonde woman with red lipstick shows her face. “Hey sweetheart, what are you doing back here? Are you in danger?” she says, her voice sweet, almost maternal.

“Yes,” I exclaim, louder than anticipated from the sheer relief of finding another woman who is willing to help me.

“Let me help you, come get into the other side of my car,” she says, gesturing to the passenger side.

I could fall at this woman’s feet and worship her, weeping and exalting her endlessly if I had the time.

I sprint toward the car, careful not to trip on any debris in the dark alleyway as I approach her.

Remaining cautious even in my excitement, I peek my head out of the alley before I even step out onto the sidewalk. If Slate happens to be looking this direction and sees me escape, he could catch this woman as well as me and the baby.

I don’t see him, so I race to the other side of the car and get in.

The inside of the car is immaculate, with only a single coffee cup and Mojito scented air freshener.

The woman is dressed in a yellow macrame halter top and cutoff denim shorts, almost like she dressed herself using an Americana magazine as inspiration. Her blonde hair falls to her shoulders in thick, soft layers, and her shoulders are constellated by freckles, little footprints of the summer sun on her otherwise fair skin.

She peels away from the sidewalk as soon as I get in, and I can only see Slate in his car for a split second as we speed away. I can feel relief rushing into my bloodstream like heroin. I can finally breathe and calm my pulse down before my heart beats so fast that it bursts into flames like an overworked engine.

I know I’m far from safe in the long-term, but at least now I have a chance to get my bearings.

“My name’s Katie, by the way,” the woman says, glancing over periodically with her steely blue eyes. “What’s got you jumping out bathroom windows this afternoon?” she continues as she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” she asks as she’s about to light up.

“No, no, I don’t mind,” I say, once again regretting my words as I remember that I am, in fact, pregnant.

“I’m Mia, I’m running away from uh, my boss, I guess,” I say, unsure of how to explain my situation without divulging too much information.

“Your boss?” Katie inquires, taking a long drag off her cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window.

“Well, we had an affair, just twice, and I’m worried he’s going to hurt me,” I reply. It’s not a lie, necessarily.

Katie glances at me again, her eyes shifty and unfocused. “Ugh, men, right? They want to use you and fuck you however and whenever they want to until it comes down to your basic human needs. Then they are clueless at best and violent at worst,” she says, ashing out her cigarette in the near-empty coffee cup to her right.

“Yes, exactly,” I say, still unsure of how much I should be trying to connect with this person. “So, where are we going? I don’t want to keep you from somewhere you’re trying to go,” I say. I really only need to be a decent distance from the diner so I can get a hotel for the night, waiting out Slate in the parking lot before I go get my car.

“Why don’t you just out him to his wife?” she asks, redirecting the question onto me.

“Oh, that’s a complicated question, I think. I’d prefer not to answer. Um, where are we going, though?” I ask again, growing uneasy at her lack of transparency.

“I think maybe you should, it would give you more leverage,” she continues, completely ignoring my question for the second time.

“You can really drop me off anywhere, I just needed to get away from the diner,” I say, trying not to let the desperation in my voice show.

Wait, does she have a Russian accent?

How could I not have noticed it? Was I too preoccupied with my newfound safety that I didn’t even realize this woman was Russian, just like Slate?