The Heir He Denied

The hunger woke me up before the alarm on my phone could go off.

My stomach twisted into a tight knot. It growled loud enough to echo in the small motel room. I rolled over and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. For a split second I forgot where I was. I expected to see the bunk above me in the servants quarters. I expected to hear the other maids getting ready for the morning shift.

Then the smell of stale smoke hit my nose. The lumpy mattress dug into my back. The memory of the night before crashed down on me.

I was not a servant anymore. I was a runaway.

I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My head spun. The room tilted sideways for a moment before righting itself. I gripped the edge of the nightstand to steady myself.

You just need food, I told myself. You are weak because you skipped dinner.

I grabbed my backpack and dug out my wallet. I counted the bills again. Three hundred and fifty dollars.

I had paid for one night. Checkout was at eleven in the morning. That gave me four hours to find a way to survive.

I needed a job. And I needed one today.

I dragged myself into the tiny bathroom. The mirror was cracked and dirty. I looked at my reflection. My skin was pale. There were dark circles under my eyes. My hair was a tangled mess of brown waves. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to finger comb my hair into a ponytail.

I did not have any cosmetics to cover the exhaustion. This was as good as it was going to get.

I put on a fresh shirt and my only pair of clean jeans. I laced up my sneakers and slung my backpack over one shoulder.

I left the key card on the dresser. I would not be coming back here tonight unless I made money.

The city was loud.

The morning rush hour was in full swing. Cars honked and sirens wailed in the distance. People rushed past me on the sidewalk with their heads down. They looked at their phones or their watches. No one looked at me.

I walked down the main street and scanned the windows for signs.

Help Wanted.

Now Hiring.

My heart lifted. There were plenty of jobs. I just needed one person to say yes.

I walked into a brightly lit coffee shop first. The smell of roasted beans and sugar made my mouth water.

I approached the counter. A manager with a clipboard looked me up and down.

"Do you have two forms of government ID?" he asked before I could even speak. "And a valid social security card?"

"I..." I swallowed hard. "I left them at home. Can I bring them in tomorrow?"

"Store policy," he said without looking up. "No ID. No paperwork. No job."

I walked out. My face burned with shame.

I tried a clothing store next. They asked for ID.

I tried a grocery store. They asked for a work permit.

I tried a flower shop. The owner asked for references.

By noon the sun was high and hot. I had walked ten blocks. I had been rejected six times.

My feet throbbed. The blister on my heel had popped and was stinging against my sock. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the panic rising in my chest.

I was an illegal alien in my own country. I had no papers. I had no history. I was a ghost.

My stomach gave a violent lurch. A wave of nausea rolled over me so strong that I had to put my head between my knees. The world swam in front of my eyes.

It was just stress. It had to be stress.

I spotted a run down diner tucked between a mechanic shop and a boarded up warehouse. The sign above the door was missing several letters. It just read DIN R.

There was a handwritten sign taped to the glass.

Dishwasher Needed. Cash.

Cash.

The word was like a lifeline.

I pushed open the door. A bell jingled weakly. The air inside was thick with the smell of frying bacon and old coffee.

The place was mostly empty. A large man with a grease stained apron stood behind the grill. But my eyes were drawn to the girl sitting on the counter near the register.

She was striking. She had bright purple braids pulled back into a high bun. Her skin was a rich deep brown and she wore a nose ring that caught the light. She wore a t shirt that said Not Today Satan.

She looked up as I walked in. Her eyes were sharp. They were too intelligent. She looked like she saw everything.

"We are closed for the mid day lull," the man at the grill grunted. "Come back at five."

"I am here about the job," I said. I tried to make my voice sound strong. "The sign says you need a dishwasher."

He looked me over. He took in my clean clothes and my young face. He snorted.

"You ever work a commercial kitchen before princess?"

"Yes," I lied. "I work hard. I am fast."

"It is dirty work," he said. "Grease traps. Scraped plates. Ten bucks an hour. Under the table."

"I will take it," I said quickly.

He paused. He was about to say no. I could see it in his eyes.

"Give her a shot Sal," the girl with the purple hair said. Her voice was smooth like velvet. She hopped off the counter and walked toward me.

She stopped a foot away. She wasn't sniffing me like a wolf would but she was definitely inspecting me. Her dark eyes lingered on my hands which were still red from years of scrubbing pack floors.

"She has working hands," the girl said. She looked at Sal. "And she looks hungry. You know I hate doing the dishes when Marco calls in sick."

Sal grunted. He waved his spatula at the back room. "Fine. Zoe says you are in then you are in. Aprons are in the back. Don't break anything."

I looked at the girl. "Thank you."

She winked. "Don't thank me yet. wait until you smell the grease trap. I am Zoe by the way."

"Aria," I said.

"Nice to meet you Aria," she said. She lowered her voice so Sal couldn't hear. "You running from a boyfriend or the cops?"

I froze. "What?"

"Relax," Zoe laughed. "Nobody comes into a dump like this asking for a cash job unless they are running from something. I don't care which one it is. As long as you scrub the plates."

She patted my shoulder. The touch was warm. It felt grounding.

"Kitchen is through there," she pointed. "Holler if you need help."

I walked into the kitchen. It was a nightmare. The room was tiny and hot. The steam from the dishwasher machine made the air heavy. There was a mountain of dirty plates stacked in the sink.

I tied a plastic apron around my waist. I started scrubbing.

The water was scalding hot. The soap dried out my hands instantly. But I didn't care. I had a job. I had an ally.

I worked for four hours straight. My back ached. My feet were numb. The heat in the kitchen made me dizzy.

At five o clock the dinner rush started. Zoe was a blur of motion. She carried three plates at a time. She charmed the customers. She yelled orders at Sal.

She popped her head into the kitchen every twenty minutes to check on me.

"You doing okay in here newbie?" she asked. She handed me a glass of ice water.

"I am fine," I said. I wiped sweat from my forehead.

"Drink," she ordered. "You look pale."

I took a sip of the water. It hit my empty stomach like a stone.

Suddenly the smell of the frying onions from the grill wafted into the dish pit. It was pungent and oily.

My stomach revolted.

I dropped the sponge. I barely had time to turn away from the sink before I dry heaved. There was nothing in my stomach to bring up but my body convulsed violently.

"Whoa," Zoe said. She was at my side in a second. Her hand rubbed my back. "Easy. Breathe."

I retched again. My knees gave out. Zoe caught me. She was surprisingly strong for her size. She lowered me to the floor.

"I am sorry," I gasped. "I am sorry. Please don't fire me."

"Hush," Zoe said. She grabbed a wet towel and pressed it to my neck. "Nobody is firing you. You just overheated."

She looked at me closely. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at my pale face and then down at my flat stomach. A strange look crossed her face. It was not judgment. It was recognition.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asked softly.

"Yesterday," I whispered.

Zoe cursed under her breath. She stood up and marched out to the grill. I heard her yelling at Sal. A minute later she came back with a plain grilled cheese sandwich and a ginger ale.

"Eat," she commanded. "Slowly."

I took a bite. The bread was warm and buttery. It stayed down.

"Thank you," I said. Tears pricked my eyes. I was not used to kindness. In the pack house if you were sick you were punished for missing work.

"Don't mention it," Zoe said. She sat on an overturned milk crate next to me. "Listen. Where are you staying tonight?"

I hesitated. "The Traveler's Motel. Down the street."

Zoe made a face. "That place is a roach motel. And it costs a fortune."

She looked at me for a long moment. She seemed to be making a decision.

"I have a pull out couch at my place," she said. "It is not the Ritz. But it is clean. And it is free."

My eyes widened. "I couldn't. You don't even know me."

"I know enough," Zoe said. She pointed a manicured fingernail at me. "You are a hard worker. You are scared. And you need a break."

She stood up and offered me her hand.

"Plus I live above a bakery," she added with a grin. "It smells way better than this place."

I looked at her hand. It was a lifeline. I could go back to the lonely motel room and stare at the wall. Or I could trust this girl with the purple hair and the kind eyes.

I took her hand.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you Zoe."

"Friends help friends," she said simply.

Friends.

The word felt strange on my tongue. I had never had a real friend. I had only had masters and tormentors.

I finished my shift. At ten o clock Zoe and I walked out into the cool night air.

"Come on," she said linking her arm through mine. "Let's get you home."

As we walked down the street I felt a strange flutter in my stomach again. It was soft. It was barely there.

I placed a hand over my belly.

I had a job. I had a friend. I was going to be okay.

I did not know it then but Zoe was going to be more than just a friend. She was going to be the aunt my daughter would need.

And the flutter in my stomach? It was not just a baby. It was the beginning of a revolution.