Page 69 of Broken by my Bully
“Drivewhere?”
She rolls her eyes. “Gamma Alpha Zeta. My sorority? Food. Booze. Clean restrooms.” The last seems most important. If she even knew the restrooms I’ve had to use…
“What about the library?”
“The lighting gives me a migraine.”
“Well, I can’t now. I have work.”
“Like, studying? Do it after.”
I blink at the bossiness in her tone, but I get the feeling it’s just part of her personality.
“I haveworkwork. Like at a diner. Like, employee, boss, job?”
“Work,” Melissa repeats, like the word is a foreign concept…which it probably is. “Oh.” She draws back from my window like being employed is contagious, and she hasn’t had her shots yet.
“Sorry.” I shrug.
“I wanted to get this done ASAP. But I guess tomorrow will do.”
“I have work. Tonightandtomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“I work weekends too.”
She straightens, looks away, but I hear a quiet, “For fuck’s sake.”
Then she ducks down again. “I’m not failing because you’re working. Call in sick.”
I stare at her, because it hits me then what a privileged life Melissa Parker must have led. She’s got to know that I work for tips, right? That I don’t get paid unless I’m there…to earn those tips.
But then I think about Kai waiting for me outside the diner.
I can afford to miss one shift if I work a double on Sunday. That’ll mean cramming in more study time during the week, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.
“Let’s get it done. I can find someone to fill my shift.”
“Good.” Melissa starts walking, pointing to the other side of the lot. “I’m in the Aston.”
Melissa’s white Aston Martin is gorgeous, sleek, and almost too perfect. Just like her. I want to hate her for it, but she’s so methodical about how she treats her things, I believe she respects her possessions.
Somehow, that makes it okay. Like she’s allowed to be this filthy rich because she doesn’t take things for granted.
Guess Kai’s imagination rubbed off on me.
But in the five minutes walk to the GAZ house, I realize she’s just as ridiculously entitled as I first thought.
I stare up at the double-story building, then glance over my shoulder where the roof of AHC is still visible through the trees.
“Is it that you don’t like walking, or…?”
“Paving ruins my shoes,” she says. “And don’t get me started on dogshit.”
It’s the most enthusiastic I’ve ever heard her.
Talking about dog shit.
