“Order up,” the cook called from the back, slamming his hand hard enough on the bell to make me grit my teeth. I glared at him and grabbed the plate, eyeing the mashed potatoes and their pool of gravy longingly. It seemed so long since I’d put carbs in my face. If I closed my eyes, I could remember the Eggo waffle I’d inhaled like it was yesterday. Probably because it was yesterday.
It’d been more than twenty-four hours since I’d had carbs, which was an eternity in my world. I briefly debated stealing a spoonful of taters, but quickly dismissed it. Even thieves had standards—not many, admittedly. But swiping food from a customer’s plate was pretty much where I drew the line.
Granted, I had eaten more than my fair share of leftover pieces of toast, long after the customer had left and paid their bill. Like I said, my standards weren’t many nor were they that high.
After delivering the plate of warm, carby goodness, I retreated to the back where Kissy was washing dishes. “Need help?” I asked, grabbing a towel and picking up the silverware she’d laid on another towel.
Kissy gave me a grateful smile. “Thanks. There’s something clogged in the dishwasher again.” She pushed her headband further up on her head, holding back the riot of black curls that poofed around her head like a poodle. As she leaned in, her head concealed entirely by the inside of the machine, I pocketed a fork and a spoon at the same time, and then resumed wrapping a fork, spoon, and butter knife in napkins. Silverware wasn’t cheap, but I was.
“Found it!” Kissy exclaimed from inside of the dishwasher, unearthing a square plastic tag that she tossed onto the counter. “Wonder what piece of shit did that?”
“Probably Marky Mark.” I nodded at the line cook whose pants were dangerously close to falling off his ass. “You know that wanna-be underwear model has the hots for you.”
“Ugh.” Kissy shuddered and began washing her hands. “I don’t think he’s matured past the sixth grade.”
As if his ears were burning, Marky Mark—whose name was actually James—pulled up on the waistband of his pants and then did this weird nod with his head at Kissy. I imagined his internal dialogue with that move to be something like, Hey girl. Lookin’ good. Some seriously eloquent shit, for sure.
“But why would he put a plastic tag in the dishwasher?”
I shrugged and discreetly pocketed a second set of silverware—just in case I ever had a guest. “Like you said, he hasn’t matured even into the teen years. Boys do stupid shit to get girls’ attention. And he got you to bend over, so in his book, he’s a genius.”
Kissy blew out a breath and wiped the paper towels she used to dry her hands over her forehead. She was a natural beauty, with caramel skin and features that didn’t need makeup to make them stand out. Her blue eyes were the color of those commercials you see for tropical waters, which made her that much more striking. At twenty-one, she was two years younger than me, but had accomplished so much more than me that it was unfair that she was working as a dishwasher for a Podunk diner and not teaching kids trigonometry or whatever math she’d studied in college.
“Is it busy today?” She asked, raising her arms above her head and stretching her neck back and forth.
“So busy. Two tables. One of which has ordered water, so I’m sure I’ll get a big, fat tip from him.”
Kissy frowned. “I don’t know how Marybeth is going to keep this place afloat much longer if business doesn’t turn around. We’ll all be out of jobs.”
I equally dreaded and relished the idea of not working at the diner. The former because, well, it was my only source of legitimate cash at the moment. The latter because it was a total dump, and the pay was shit. “I had a dine and dash yesterday,” I told Kissy. “Fifty bucks. Goodbye groceries,” I said, dramatically blowing a kiss with my hand.
“Come eat dinner with my family a few nights this week. We always have extras, and we’d be happy to have you.”
Bless Kissy. Her kindness was admirable, but there was no way I’d take her up on her offer. Kissy was nice, but I’d seen enough of her dad to know that the dude was a total dick—and knowing me and my big mouth, there’s no way I’d be able to sit back and endure a dinner listening to him bitch at Kissy without opening my mouth or plotting ways to poison his food. Either would only serve to make things more difficult for Kissy, who was the sole breadwinner for her dad and siblings, so I just kept politely declining her offer. There were very few instances where I relished the fact that I had no family of my own, but being around Kissy’s was one of them. I’d rather have no family than hers.
“Thanks, but I have to wash my cat.”
“You have a cat?”
“Sure do,” I lied.
“And you have to wash him … multiple times this week?”
“She’s a girl, actually, and she’s mostly an outside cat. Her name’s Garbage because that’s where she hangs out.”
Kissy laughed and tossed a dishrag at me. “You’re such a liar.”
“I know.” I sighed and folded up the last silverware set. “Sorry. I know you’re a great cook, but I’ve been on a kick with putting eye drops in the beverages of my arch nemeses lately, so unless you want your dad to destroy your apartment’s only toilet, it’s probably best if you keep me from coming over.”
“Kind of you,” Kissy said on a laugh. “Maybe I’ll just pack up some meals for you anyway.”
“That’d be great. I don’t remember the last time I ate a home cooked meal in my own apartment.”
“You need to find yourself a boyfriend then, someone who’ll bring home Chinese or tacos or whatever the hell you’re craving in your time of need.”
“Ugh.” I put the rest of the unused napkins away. “Yeah right. A boyfriend is just what got me in this position, and the only position I want to be in because of a man, is on my back.” I raised an eyebrow and Kissy giggled.
“You strike me as a girl who prefers to be on top.”
I shrugged. “I’m equal opportunity in that area.”
“Hey!” Marybeth barked, coming around the corner. “I’m not paying you to gab, especially when there are customers waiting to eat.” She disappeared back around the corner and I turned to Kissy.
“No, she pays me two dollars and thirteen cents an hour to serve greasy food to greasier people,” I said to Kissy after rolling my eyes. “I’ll catch you later.”
Kissy gave me a sympathetic smile and I turned into the restaurant, pushing a smile to my face in preparation for whatever customer awaited me. Water-only guy was gone, his table empty of even the cup. I couldn’t judge him for that, because I already had two cups I’d permanently borrowed from the diner in my own cupboard.
Around the hostess desk stood a man with his back to me, but I recognized him immediately and let the fake smile drop from my face. I half expected the grease in his hair to cause droplets on the back of his shirt, but at least he smelled marginally better than the last time I was in his presence.
“Ronald,” I said, coming around the hostess stand and bracing my hands on it. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.” He raised an eyebrow at me and I narrowed my eyes.
“It’s not the end of the week,” I told him. “You said I had until the end of the week. I’m taking every day until then.” I looked over the restaurant, grateful that Marybeth had disappeared from view. “You can’t just bother me at work—I could lose my job.”
Ronald laid his hands on the hostess stand, far too close to mine for comfort. “What kind of cash are you pulling in from this place? Ten bucks a shift, with tips?”
Closer to fifteen, but he didn’t have to know that. “So what?”
“I don’t think you have the money you owe me. If you did, you wouldn’t be working for pennies here.”
He wasn’t wrong. “Part of the requirements of my parole is holding down employment, Ronald. If I lose my job, my parole officer will be on my ass.”
Ron’s answering smile was borderline clown-like in its creepiness. “And what an ass it is.” He raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down. “If you want to work off some of your debt, we can—”
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “No, we most certainly can’t. Hell no, not ever. I’d rather die.”
His eyes turned icy and he pinned my hands with one of his on the stand. “You know that can be arranged, Lucille. If you don’t get my money, I’ll have to get it out of you some other way.”
“What, by selling my liver on the black market?” I sneered, and tried in vain to release my hands from under his.
He leaned in, his lips inches from my face. “You think you’re so cute and untouchable, don’t you? Guess again, Luce. You’re all alone. Without protection.” Cold poured into my limbs, knowing what he said was true. “There are things I could do to you, things that would be very unpleasant, if you don’t bring me my money. You remember what happened to Angela, don’t you?” He pushed back a lock of my hair and I wrenched myself back.
“I remember what you did to her. What you and Dale did to her.” Dale, his business partner. Every bad guy needed an equally bad guy to back him up. A chill ran through me. Though I didn’t know her, it wasn’t uncommon to hear about the deaths of those in the business—and in Angela’s case: the torture, especially.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I got my money out of her. I can get it out of you, too.”
Fear slithered into me like an unwelcome snake. Despite the debts I’d often owed Ron, he had never had the upper hand with me. Back when I was a hardcore drug user and dealer, I’d had people in my corner to back me up—just not the ex who’d landed me in all this mess. But since I didn’t run with the same crowd anymore, and the people I’d known before prison were either locked up, dead, or felt like I’d betrayed them, I was alone. Which is what drove my fear, knowing that Ron’s threats were not idle ones.
“Let go of me,” I said under my breath, but with as much strength as I could. It was as if I could feel every molecule of grime on his hands, pressing into me.
He let go and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Three more days.”
Sweat broke out across the back of my neck. “Can you give me five?”
His eyes narrowed into slits. “No. Three is what we agreed to.”
I tried to think about when I’d get my next chance at Mr. Moneybags from group therapy, and realized therapy was four days away. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I’d have to steal from him or persuade him to give me big cash. Though Molly had once taught me some exceptionally sexy moves around her stripper pole once, I didn’t think I had enough practice being seductive to persuade anyone to give me the kind of money I owed Ron.
“I need five,” I said, glancing toward the kitchen when Marybeth stepped around the counter. She frowned at me, no doubt misjudging my body language and the way I was glaring at Ron—who was most certainly not a paying customer today. “Please,” I said, hating myself for the way I’d cowered under him.
He studied me for a moment, and I hoped my body didn’t betray the trembles that I felt in my legs. “Four.”
“A long four,” I countered. “I might need the whole day.”
He ran a hand through his hair, and I held in the cringe in thinking how much grease must have now coated his fingers. “Fine. Before midnight.”
I nodded, still not sure exactly how I’d get him the money, but I knew I’d need to study X, as he’d called himself, better—and figure out what I could lift off of him in order to sell.
Marybeth started walking toward us, which was exactly the last thing I needed. Oh hey, Marybeth! Have you met my drug dealer, Ron? He’s a real gem. Marybeth already thought very little of me—but she’d hired me anyway because beggars couldn’t be choosers—something we both acknowledged equally.
“Go,” I said with my head turned so Marybeth couldn’t read my lips. I stepped around the hostess stand to block Marybeth’s approach but was halted by Ron grabbing my wrist and yanking me toward him.
With his head bent and his lips at my ear, he whispered, “Don’t be stupid. I can hurt you in ways you don’t want to imagine.” And then he let go and stepped out the door, leaving me facing an angry-looking Marybeth.
“What the fuck was that?”
I could be quick on my feet when needed, but his parting words made me stumble over my words. “He wanted t-t-tuh-tequila.” I swallowed and glanced at the way he’d gone. “I told him we didn’t serve hard liquor and he got handsy, is all.”
Marybeth put her hands on her hips as she looked me over, and I knew the lie was thin enough to see through. But she didn’t question it, or me, and glanced over her shoulder. “Table sixteen needs a refill.”
Nodding, I moved around her, trying to appear as calm as possible as I picked up my customers’ cups and retreated to the kitchen.
To make myself feel better, I swiped a salt and pepper set, but I still felt that pit of dread in my stomach. I’d need to come up with a game plan at the next therapy session because all of the stolen flatware and salt and pepper shakers in the diner couldn’t pay back Ronald.