Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter
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backward glance.
“Let’s get this day over with, “ I muttered.
Outside, the dim spring morning proved wonderfully fragrant with the scent of magnolia, but oppressively hot, the air sticky with humidity. Ah, crap. I’d forgotten to bring a little towel to pat away any sweat. In a few minutes, my clothes were going to be plastered to my body. Oh, well. Nothing I could do about that now.
Not wanting to arrive at work hungry (hungry = bitchy and bitchy = fired), I stopped for a caramel glazed doughnut on my way to the bus station—and missed my bus. MARTA, Atlanta’s premiere miss-it-and-you’re-screwed transportation system, being what it was, the delay set me back another twenty minutes.
By the time I raced into Utopia, lines were long and winding. Customers were pissed about the wait and quite vocal about it. I yawned. I mean, please. Cry me a river, Richie Richersons. Jeez. Anyone who could afford a daily six-dollar cup of joe didn’t need to be complaining about anything.
Ron, my boss, spotted me and gave me a you-are-so-dead scowl.
I squared my shoulders, thereby tightening the material of my shirt, and offered him a chocolate sundae smile, smothered in whipped cream and cherries. Hmm, whipped cream. That would fit nicely in my Vin Diesel fantasy.
Ron’s gaze connected with the girls. He paled, looked away and crooked his finger in my general direction. Without glancing to see if I noticed, he pivoted on his heel, a silent command for me to follow him. Great. Freaking great. This didn’t bode well.
Breathing deeply of the cinnamon-and-vanilla-scented air, I passed several men and women who were using the tables as mini work spaces, their computers, faxes and shredders surrounding them. I stepped into Ron’s small, cramped office.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Pretty?”
“It’s Peaty, and shut the door, “ he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He plopped onto his chair, the cluttered desktop shielding his belly paunch. His black gaze remained lowered, not touching any part of me.
Shit.
Palms now sweating, I did as commanded. The smells of dust and cloying aftershave immediately assaulted me, wiping away any lingering hint of baked goods. Without waiting to be told, I claimed the only other seat in the room. A stiff, uncomfortable step stool I liked to call the Naughty Chair. File cabinets pressed close on both sides of me, making me feel pinned.
I studied Ron. He had thin lips, and right now those lips were pressed tightly together, barely visible slashes of pink in the contours of his rotund face. His sandy hair stood on end, as if he’d plowed his fingers through it one too many times. Lines of tension bracketed his eyes, and his brow was furrowed.
Ron had been pissed at me a lot these last few weeks, but he’d never radiated such disgruntled irritation. Such grim determination. I recognized the look, though. I’d gotten it from other bosses over the last year, right before they fired me.
I smothered a sigh. I hadn’t always been a bad employee. For nearly five years, I’d worked as a waitress during the day and a maid during the evening. I’d made enough to pay for my living expenses and support my dad, as well as build a nice savings account—a savings account I’d used up during my (forced) hiatus, aka the two months that it had taken me to land this job at the café.
Why couldn’t I hold back my restlessness anymore? Why couldn’t I quash my discontent, as I had for so many years, and stop sabotaging my only source of revenue?
Though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew the answer. I’d woken up one morning and realized life was passing me by, moving at high speed while I wallowed behind. Dissatisfaction had filled me—and had only grown since.
“I’m sorry for anything and everything I might have done, “ I said, when Ron opened his mouth to speak.
“You’re late, “ he growled. “Again.”
The fact that I didn’t utter, “Thanks for stating the obvious, “ should have earned me major good-girl points. “I know, and I really am sorry.” When his expression didn’t soften, when he still didn’t glance in my direction, my heart slammed against my ribs. “I worked another job late into the morning and had trouble waking up.”
He stared at the wall clock just behind my head and adjusted his chocolate-smeared tie. “While I like the image of you lingering in bed—”
Sick bastard. Gross. Just … gross. I might have thrown up in my mouth. And yes, I understand the irony here. You brought it on yourself, Jamison. What else did you expect, unleashing the girls like that? Suddenly hoping to hide them from view, I hunched my shoulders.
Wait, Ron’s mouth was moving. He hadn’t stopped talking.
“—that’s just not a good enough excuse. I mean, I can make an exception for it once, twice, but we’ve had this same conversation seven times now. And you’ve only worked here a few weeks.”
“I’ll be on time tomorrow, you have my word. I’ll go without sleep if necessary.” Did I sound as desperate to Ron as I did to myself? Probably. Damn it. I hated to let him see my desperation. Hated, hated, hated. The more desperate he knew I was, the more he could pull my strings and make me dance like a performing monkey.
He tapped a pen against his desktop. “That’s what you said last time. This is a small, independent operation, Belle, and we rely on our employees to provide superior service to keep us in business.”
“I do provide superior service, “ I gulped, adding, “when I’m here.”
Frowning, he dropped the pen and pushed a hand through his hair, causing more of the sandy locks to spike straight toward the ceiling. “You think you’re good with customers? Really?”
“Yes, really.” I knew what was happening here. He teetered on the brink of firing me and was simply trying to work up the courage to utter the words. And, I realized with shattering fear, I might not be able to talk him out of it this time. By this point in our previous talks, he was usually sending me on my way with a stern (but perverted) warning.
Had his irritation given him a supersonic determination no amount of sweet-talking persuasion could penetrate?
My eyes narrowed; my hands clenched into fists. I wouldn’t allow him to get rid of me easily. Somehow, some way, I was going to penetrate that wall of nefarious determination. I could not lose this job. Lately very few businesses were willing to take a chance on me, so I could only imagine how long it would take to land another.
“Stupid jobs, “ I muttered.
“What was that?” Ron asked, his gaze sharpening.
Had I said that aloud? “Oh, uh, nothing.” I straightened in the chair. “You were saying?”
He pushed out a sigh. “You have no people skills, Belle. Instead of smoothing ruffled feathers, you set them on fire.”
“I’m telling you, I’m a good employee, “ I said through clenched teeth. And that wasn’t a lie. Sure, I usually arrived late, always cussed, sometimes bitched and—and this is not an admission of guilt—(allegedly) borrowed from the stock room. But I worked weekends, holidays and overtime whenever possible. That counted for something, right?
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” Ron flipped open a file and ran a blunt-tipped finger down the front page. “Complaint—server is rude and pushy. Complaint—server made tea instead of coffee. Complaint— server is rude. Complaint—server is rude. Complaint—server is rude. Shall I go on?”
“I don’t let the customers yell and scream at me.” Indignation gave me a sense of bravery, and I sat up even straighter, shoulders squared. Did people have nothing better to do with their lives than complain about a lowly server? “That doesn’t make me rude, it makes me human.”
“Jenni doesn’t yell at customers even when they yell at her.”
“Jenni