Page 4 of Little Sunshine

Todd shrugged, confirming it was no big deal to them.

To me, it was my bills and my meager groceries.

Even if I filed a police report, and they somehow tracked down whatever sketchy check cashing place my mom had used, it would take far too long. It would be too little, too late.

“It was that or call the cops on her,” he shot back, like they’d done me a favor.

They hadn’t.

You should’ve called them then, you asshole.

Even with everything, a tiny ball of guilt hit my chest at that thought, but I shoved it down.

Standing, Todd came around the desk, and I locked my knees to stop from retreating.

I wouldn’t show weakness, even if he totally creeped me out.

“For what it’s worth, I tried to get Steve to reconsider.” He shifted my long hair over my shoulder, his hand lingering on my back. “You’re my best girl.”

Barf.

“But this isn’t the first time your mom has caused issues,” he said as if I needed the reminder.

A couple of years before, the hotel had rented out their lot as parking for one of the big RV conventions. My mother, in all her addled wisdom, had seen the RVs and jumped to the conclusion that the hotel was filled with rich guests—as if anyone with money would stay at The Roulette.

She’d hung around the hotel bar before propositioning the wrong man… in front of his wife. A knock-down, drag-out fight had erupted between Roni and the wife. Property had been damaged. Faces had been damaged. The cops had been called.

On-premise violence was bad enough.

But The Roulette—and likely the guests—had a lot to hide. Police sniffing around, even for ten minutes, was bad for business.

Todd gave a sad shake of his head. “I told you then that it couldn’t happen again. You’re out of chances.”

That was also the story of my life.

I was always out of chances.

Out of options.

Out of a job and money.

Out of time.

I nodded and lied, “I understand. Thanks.”

For nothing.

As it often did, his expression changed from friendly boss to something dirty. “Now that you’re not my employee?—”

“I’m going to clean out my cubby.”

Before I barf all over and you make me clean it up even though that’s not my job anymore.

Hightailing it out of the office, I didn’t stop at my locker since it was empty. I didn’t pause to say goodbye—or a well-deserved fuck you—to any of my nosy ex-coworkers. I jetted from the building before the walls closed in on me, trapping me forever in dodgy stains and mildew.

Even once I was outside, the fresh air did nothing to fill my burning lungs. I moved on autopilot as I went to my bus stop, my mind numb.

It wasn’t long before the first bus of my commute pulled up, and I got on. It was a mistake. In the stuffy, enclosed space, my breathing became shallow. My chest squeezed tighter, and spots began to float in my vision.

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