Playing With Fire (2 page)

“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 is a brown-nosing moron.”

Another sigh. “Belle—” Finally, his gaze landed on me and out of habit slid straight to the girls. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a dinghy in a tidal wave. “Uh, what was I saying?”

I almost grinned, every muscle in my body relaxing. Penetration complete. And so much easier than I’d anticipated.

Being looked at was far different from hearing his sex-offender voice comment about me lingering in bed.
This
I could handle. “I believe you were about to tell me to get to work and never be late again. I planned to respond by telling you that you’re the best boss in the world and I’ll make you proud.”

“Yes, I wanted to tell you to get to—” Eyes widening, he shook his head. “That’s not what I meant to say,” he said, a stern edge creeping into his voice. But he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like
brought down by a pair of pretty knockers.
“I should fire you, you know. Hell, that’s why I brought you in here.”

“I know,” I admitted softly. I didn’t mean to be such a disappointment to him. Honest. I just, well, I had always dreamed of being a—Wait. My eyebrows drew together. Even as a little girl, I hadn’t been able to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still didn’t know. But being a peon stuck in a cycle of debt and endless servitude hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, part of my life’s ambition.

Don’t get me wrong. For my dad, I’d sign my soul over to the devil. Permanent ink. No “out” clause. Dad had toiled and slaved for years in construction, even when his weak heart caused him more pain than one person should ever have to bear. He’d worked so hard because he loved me, because he’d wanted me to have pretty clothes and take fun trips with my friends. But mostly because he’d wanted to make up for the car accident that had killed my mom when I was a toddler.

After I graduated high school, I had convinced him to quit, and I’d happily taken care of him ever since. I didn’t regret it; truly I didn’t, but my life had fallen into such a rut that sometimes I did wish for something extraordinary to happen to me. Something amazing, perhaps a little wild. What, I didn’t know.

I frowned. No more wishing for things I couldn’t have. From this point on, I would be a better employee. I would work harder, be less confrontational. Screw restlessness! Ron was giving me another chance, and I wouldn’t let him down.

“I swear, Belle, you keep my ulcer in fighting form,” he said darkly. He reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a packet of Tums and popped several in his mouth. “Why can’t I be more like the Donald and just say it? You’re fired. Boom. You’re fired. So easy in theory.” He sighed yet again, this one a dejected exhalation that made his shoulders sag. “This is your last chance. If you screw this up—”

“I won’t. Swear to God.” I didn’t mention that I needed to leave a wee bit early today if I hoped to make my interview with Ambassador Suites, a nearby hotel. I’d bring up that little gem later. I’d double up my coffee-making or something to earn the early departure. “I’ll be so good you’ll nominate me for Employee of the Week. Maybe Employee of the Month.”

“Yeah. Right.” He popped a few more Tums and eyed the girls again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Go. Open a register before I change my mind.”

Grinning, I blew him a kiss, bounded out of my chair and raced to the door. Thank God for perverts.

I
SPENT THE NEXT SEVERAL
hours being a good little robot, smiling a sunshine-and-roses smile and waving customers to my register like a Miss America contestant. All under Ron’s hawklike eyes. Once, I came close to bitch-slapping a woman who had the nerve to ask me if I moved that slow for everyone or if she was just special.

You’re certainly a special pain in my ass,
I’d wanted to say. But I didn’t. I restrained myself from violence (see “bitch-slap” comment above), consoled by the thought that such an evil witch would surely acquire deep, deep wrinkles and lose all her teeth and hair before she kicked it.

My friend Sherridan—the only friend I had, really, since she didn’t mind the fact that I had no free time—would have been proud of me for remaining silent and not launching myself forward, a catapult of retribution. When we were in grade school, she’d told me the devil on my right shoulder must have brutally strangled the angel on my left, destroying any hint of moral influence.

I plead the Fifth on that.

Speaking of Sherridan, she strolled into the café a few minutes later, spotted me and waved. She was talking on her cell. She was tall and gorgeous with blond curls and curves that went on forever, curves that were now encased in an emerald pants suit. She marched to me, bypassing the line to stand beside my register, and hooked her cell to her waist. “Hey, you,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hey, back,” I said, but kept my gaze on the customer and pretended to listen to her order. I loved when Sherridan visited me here. Technically, employees were discouraged from having guests, but lately it was the only time we spent together. “You look good.”

“Thank you.” She spoke over the frowning customer. “I’m showing a house later today and want to impress the buyer—who is half of the reason I’m here.” She clapped her hands in excitement. “I got us dates.”

“Dates?” Months had passed since I’d even thought the word, so it was foreign on my tongue. “Do you want cinnamon sprinkled on your half-caf?” I asked my customer.

“With twins,” Sherridan said proudly. “Wealthy twins.”

“Yes,” the customer said through tight lips.

Sherridan didn’t pause. “I think the older one likes me.” There was a twinge of uncertainty in her voice.

“I’m sure he does,” I said. “You’re beautiful and smart.” Sherridan liked to pretend she was confident, but deep down she needed reassurance when it came to men. She tended to fall for them quickly, become horribly needy and unsure, and drive them away. “I’m working that night, though.”

Sherridan’s grin slipped a little, and she narrowed her silver eyes suspiciously. “I didn’t tell you—” her phone rang “—when.”

“Sometime today on that drink,” my customer said, drumming her nails on the counter.

“Doesn’t matter about the day.” I turned, grabbed a carton of milk and poured a measured amount into the proper container. “I’m always working.”

“Leslie,” Sherridan said to her assistant, “this isn’t a good time. I’m in a meeting.” She ended the call. “Belle, can’t you take a day off? Just one? Please?”

A wave of longing hit me, but I didn’t speak for several seconds as the milk steamed, buzzing loudly. When that tapered to quiet, I said, “I wish I could, Sher, but I’m interviewing for a second job later and I’ll be working nights if I get it.”

“Not another one,” she said with a groan.

“Hey, server girl. Can I get an ETA on my drink? I’m in a mad rush, and you’re taking forever.”

My gaze sought and met the opposition’s, my hazel against her brown. My impatience against her annoyance. She was a tall woman, tanned and toned, almost muscular, with leathery skin and hair as dark a brown as mine. But while my hair was long and straight (and, I like to think, silky), hers was short and frizzy, as if she’d left her perm rods in a thousand years too long.

“My name is not server or girl,” I muttered under my breath. To her, I said loudly, “It’ll be done in a second, sir. Oops, my bad. I mean, ma’am.”

She scowled.

“Belle,” Ron called warningly.

I gritted my teeth, nearly grinding them into powder, and prepared the stupid half-caf. All the while I chanted in my mind,
I will behave myself. I will behave myself. I will freaking behave myself.
On the bright side, at least Ron was overlooking Sherridan’s visit.

“Well, I should go before Super Curls throws a fit,” Sherridan said, ignoring my customer’s scowl. She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Call me if you change your mind about the twins. They have the cutest, tightest asses
ever
and if you married one—a twin, not his ass—all of your money troubles would be over.” With that, she was off.

I handed Super Curls the coffee, but didn’t get a thank-you.

“I’ll have a skinny venti vanilla, please,” my next customer said.

“Sugar free?”

His face scrunched in disgust. “I said skinny, not tasteless.”

And so another hour passed unmercifully. I should have chucked my apron and left with Sherridan. “This isn’t what I ordered,” I heard. “Your fingers touched the rim, so I need you to start over and make me a new, uncontaminated drink,” I heard. “You call this an espresso? I’ve had stronger water,” I heard.

Did I complain? Did I mix anyone a swirlie (aka spit in their drink)? No and no! The continued restraint cost me, though. My stomach was a clenched knot of pain. My skin felt too tight against my bones. A tic had developed under my left eye. My back throbbed, and my feet ached—and not from standing too long. I was used to that. The ache was because I hadn’t allowed myself to deliver a few much needed ass beatings.

If I didn’t get Employee of the Week after this…Wait. I decided I’d rather have a break.

When I sent my last customer on her way, I glanced over at Ron, who had stopped watching me long enough to turn his attention to a woman who looked like she’d walked straight out of an X-rated pin-up. She sauntered past him, her red spandex halter top and shorts revealing more T and A than a
Penthouse
centerfold—not that I’d ever peeked inside one of
those
magazines (cough, cough). Ron adjusted his belt. I snapped my fingers to gain his attention, but the woman’s thong-clad ass held him enthralled.

The bell above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of yet another group of patrons. Their eyes were feral, and I could tell they were desperate for their morning fix. If I didn’t act quickly, I’d be stuck here a minimum—minimum!—of twenty more minutes, and I just didn’t have another second of sweetness in me.

With a speed Superman would have envied, I began closing out my register.

“What are you doing?” Jenni, Employee of the Year—or, as I liked to call her, Bitch of the Millennium—demanded. She stood at the only other open register, a short, rounded-in-all-the-right-places blonde who drew male attention simply by breathing. She’d made her hatred of me known my first day on the job, tripping me every time I walked past her, handing me regular coffee when I asked for decaf.

Why she hated me, I didn’t know. Didn’t care, really.

“You’re smart.” I scratched my forehead with my middle finger, covertly flipping her off. “Figure it out.” With her infuriated gasp ringing in my ears, I strode over to Ron and tapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped and clutched a hand over his heart as he whipped to face me. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“No, I’m Belle,” I said drily.

“What do you want?” he grumbled.

“I’d really like to take my first fifteen-minute break. If that’s okay with you, Mr. Pretty,” I added sweetly.

“It’s Peaty.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Fine. Whatever.” His gaze slid back to the walking centerfold, now bending over to pick up the napkin she’d “accidentally” dropped, her shorts riding higher up her butt.

Shaking my head, I gathered the necessary items needed for a…hmm. What did I want? A mocha latte, I decided in the next flash. Yep. That sounded good. That’s what I’d have. If anyone deserved chocolate, it was me.

“You’re such a bitch,” Jenni muttered, suddenly at my side to mix a chai tea.

“Your jealousy is showing,” I uttered in a singsong voice. I poured two shots of espresso into my cup, then whole milk. I didn’t do skim. “If you’d stopped sneaking bites of muffins, éclairs and cake slices you might have realized someone was due to go on break.”

Jenni gasped. “I’ll have you know I have low blood sugar. I
have
to eat.”

“Right. I totally believe you and don’t think you’re delusional in the least.”

“You’re just begging for a piece of me, you know that?” she growled.

“I don’t know what gave you the idea I’ve lowered my standards, but I assure you, I haven’t. I want
no
part of you. By the way, you have a piece of dough stuck in your teeth.” Latte completed, I skipped to an empty table. As I sipped the hot, deliciously sweet liquid (perfectly prepared, thank you!) I stared out the large storefront window and grinned. Ah, my little interlude with Jenni had revived my spirits, chasing away the tension brought on by forced charm.

Across the way loomed a pretty, obviously well maintained brownstone with steel-enforced, tinted windows. The bushes surrounding it were expertly trimmed and hedged. Flowers bloomed prettily in the spring sun, a pink, red and gold rainbow of petals.

But there were no signs, no advertisements to be seen. Occasionally I’d spotted a car or two in the parking lot, as I did now, so I knew people worked there. But I’d never been able to figure out what kind of business it was, had never seen an employee entering or leaving.

The place intrigued me. Always had. I’d thought about sneaking over there late one night and peeking inside, but usually fell asleep before working up the strength to leave my apartment. Perhaps it was a—

I blinked. What the hell? A tall, lanky man in a lab coat suddenly barreled out the front door of the brownstone at top speed, his eyes wide and wild, his white comb-over flapping in the breeze. One minute he wasn’t there, the next he was. My back went ramrod straight, the movement swishing precious latte over the rim of the cup. I blinked again, as if the action could jump-start my brain into figuring out why he was running.

The man darted across the street, uncaring as vehicles honked and swerved to keep from hitting him. Two of the cars collided. Even from where I sat, I heard the squeal of tires and the grind of smashing metal.