~
DULCE, MY NEWboss, shadows the doorway of the staffroom as I’m getting ready to clock out. “Garza, you’re on the line tomorrow.”
“Oh, joy,” I mutter, grabbing my bag from my locker.
Clipboard in hand, Dulce stares at me expectantly, her waist-length ponytail dangling over her shoulder.
“What, were you expecting me to jump up and down with glee?” I ask her. “Then you probably should’ve told me in the morning instead of after you’ve wrung me through another shit day.”
She purses her lips and looks around the staffroom. Not sure what for, seeing as everyone’s already had the privilege of leaving. “You just go around saying whatever you want without thinking it through, don’t you?”
“Most times, yeah.” I shrug, all out of cares to give. “But honestly, I’m just tired. It’s been six months of being heavily underutilized, half a step up from being the dishwasher. And it’s clearly on purpose. For whatever reason.” I close the locker door. “The only reason I’m still here is because I like the team you’ve cultivated. There’s a healthy, diverse, and supportive environment here, compared to the last couple of places I’ve worked at.”
“You’re right. I have been testing you,” she admits. “Given your track record, it would have been stupid not to.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for being honest.”
“That said, I like you. You hate the grunt work, but you have never openly complained about it—until now. You are very humble in the kitchen, follow instructions well, impressively adept, calm under pressure, and an excellent team player. Although I’ve never shown it, please know I appreciate having you here and will ensure your experience with us will be better going forward.”
Well, hell. Finally. “Thank you. Appreciate it.”
I clock out feeling only marginally better about coming into work tomorrow. Being promoted to line cook should be good news, but given how shabby the last couple of months have been, I’m finding it hard to care at this point. I should’ve been on the line to begin with, considering I hadn’t even applied for a job here. They called me to come in for an interview. Imagine my surprise when I turned up at the exact restaurant I resigned from months earlier. Bought out, renovated, renamed, and was about to reopen with new management and new staff.
The mere thought of my despicable old boss somewhere weeping in a bathtub of vodka was what made me accept the job offer as commis chef. An offer I really shouldn’t have accepted. Hell, I’m surprised at myself for having stuck around this long.
I sag like an empty sack once I’m inside my car, too tired to even start the engine. Instead, I rest my chin on the steering wheel with a weary sigh and gaze through the windshield at the restaurant signage, glimmering in gold script letters.REGALITÀ.
And I laugh a little. What are the odds?
Suddenly, his voice is in my head and my heart jerks to life.
I want to see him.
The sudden desire sends a pulse of energy through me, giving me the strength to ignite the engine and drive off the lot.
“Call Trent,” I command my phone mounted on the dashboard.
He answers on the third ring. “Yeah, T.”
“Hey, what time does the tech department close out? I’m having issues with the RedWatch software crashing and was hoping to get someone to look at it in person for me. I don’t wanna go through the customer service ticket thing.”
“Tech quits at nine. They’ll all be gone by now,” he replies. “Guy’s core development team operate twenty-four hours on rotating shifts, but they won’t do anything outside his directive. Better call Guy first, see if he’ll help.”
“Okay, thanks, I’ll do that.”
Alibi in place? Check.
~
I’M GETTING OUTof my car in the Red Cage parking lot when my phone rings.
Will calling...
I send the call to voicemail. Not tonight, Will. Tonight, I have a taste for something different. Something saintly bad.
The phone immediately starts ringing again.
Again, I send it to voicemail and grab the takeout bag from the passenger seat.
