Chapter 1
Luke
“Would you like fries with that?” I ask, trying to not sound bored, but the man behind the counter doesn’t seem to notice my disinterest anyway.
“Do they come with your number?”
This guy. This fuckingguy. I may have accidentally swiped right on him on Grindr some time ago, and now he just won’t go away. He is handsome enough, if not in the age range I tend to go for, and wears a studded leather jacket that screams midlife crisis. The red sports car waiting for him in the parking lot completes a picture of someone who would rather hit on a guy half his age at Best Burgers Bonanza than deal with his issues in therapy.
“No,” I say, giving him a level glare, because I’m at work and hate it when people forget that I can’t just tell them to get lost.
He raises his hands. “Jesus! I was just kidding. I know you’re goth and all that, but it wouldn’t hurt you to smile.”
I don’t even blink. “My mother died yesterday. Lung cancer,” I add, because the yellowish tint on his fingers suggests he’s a smoker.
I love seeing his face fall and eyes widen as flustered panic colors his cheeks. He glances at the tip jar.Yes, fucker. Make it a big one, so I can actually afford a new car.
A car in which I can leave this town one day and never look back.
No more flipping burgers.
No more mediocre hookups with locals.
And no more stupid bosses.
“Luke? Can we have a chat?” My boss’s voice is like fingernails screeching over a blackboard. “Kurt, will you please finish serving this gentleman?” Marty asks my co-worker, who appears dead inside as he shuffles over to swap with me at the register. For Kurt’s sake, I hope the customer’s type is sad goth boys, not perky jocks.
“Sorry for your loss.” The customer chokes out as I walk off.
Best Burgers Bonanza, otherwise known as BBB, isn’t the worst fast food joint in town, but its years show in the peeling leather chairs and the paint that has long faded from a lively green to a washed-out mint.
Which unfortunately also happens to be the shade of my uniform consisting of a barfalicious polo shirt and shapeless black pants. I’m also obligated to wear a baseball cap with the BBB logo and that thing always makes my scalp itch. At least Marty lets me wear my combat boots and doesn’t make me take out my nose ring.
He speaks once we pass the kitchen and reach the corridor leading to the staff room. His gray hair bristles, in a stark contrast to the flushed face.
“What was that? I know for a fact that your mother’s alive, because I talked to her just this morning, to ask if she has any idea why you’re running late.”
I cross my arms on my chest and glance through the tiny window in the back door. The night outside seems especially appealing when the alternative is another hour here. “I told you why I was late. My neighbor found a bat in her attic and it needed to be taken to the vet. It was an emergency. She’s an older lady, and her car doesn’t work—”
Marty raises his hands. “I don’t want your life story, Luke. What I want is for you to be nicer to customers. And yes, that does involve smiling, whether it’s part of theLord of Darknessagenda or not. Get a grip.”
I roll my eyes, but what can I say, really? I might hate my job, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ineedit if I’m to ever move out of my mother’s house. I resent that I even got hired in the first place because Marty is some old friend of hers who may or may not be trying to get into her pants. I’d rather not think about that.
There aren’t many jobs available for a guy with a chip on his shoulder, a neck tattoo, and no high school diploma, not in this small town at least. I could pretend I’m nice, and kind, and good, and agreeable, but most people know me around here, so I might aswell live up to their expectations.
I did get one unsolicited job offer from this weirdo who said he’d employ me as a clown for children’s parties, if I came to Montreal with him, but I’m pretty sure he wanted to harvest my organs.
I did sell him five feet pics though. Beggars can’t be choosers.
So here I am. Working at BBB, living with my witch of a mother, and pipe-dreaming about a move to a big city that doesn’t involve becoming someone’s live-in sex slave. But unless my failing Etsy business suddenly becomes a viral hit, I’m stuck in small-town Maine, and considering that I sell a random assortment of skull-shaped bath bombs, bookmarks with my paintings of bats, and goth pet portraits, I don’t see much commercial success in my future.
Guess I’m just a failure, a loser, and no amount of black eyeshadow can hide that.
“Sorry,” I mumble, swallowed by my own darkness.
“Just… do better.” Marty shakes his head before walking away, as defeated by this conversation as I am.
I return to the front of the restaurant with a heavy weight on my shoulders, but fortunately there are no customers, which frees me from the necessity of grinning like an idiot. It’s not my fault I suffer from resting bitch face.
