Page 28 of The Love You Fight For
I glance at Paul.
“How much you want to bet Alan didn’t have the generator serviced before he skipped town?” I ask, and Paul flares his eyes.
“I doubt it’s been serviced at all.”
Fuck. I scrub a hand down my face.
“Work on getting everyone out,” I say over the commotion. The murmuring of the customers is getting louder, and we have to get ahead of it. “Make sure people get rides who need them. Take keys and threaten a lifetime ban if you have to. No drunk assholes on the road, got it?”
Paul nods, and I feel around under the bar for the Maglite. The emergency floodlights at the exits give off enough light that we’re not in a total blackout, but it’s still hard as fuck to see anything clearly.
“I’ll go out and see if I can figure out what’s wrong with the generator. If I can’t, we risk losing everything in the cooler.”
Fucking Alan.
As Paul starts corralling customers out the door, I head out the back to look over the generator. I don’t have a coat or an umbrella, so I’m soaked in seconds, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that the battery is dead.
What’s the point of having this fucking fancy generator if you don’t keep the battery serviced, Alan?
I’m going to call him tomorrow and chew him out, then demand he foots the bill for everything in the cooler we’ll need to replace.
I turn to head back inside, soaked from head to toe, and literally scream when I find someone standing next to me. I jump back, ready to throw a punch, but a cackle of glee stops me short.
“Sam, what the fuck?” I shout, and she grins, showing off bright white teeth in the semi-darkness.
“Sorry,” she says, obviously not sorry.
She has to shout over the sound of pounding rain and wind. I catch my breath and take a moment to look her over. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, making it easier to see the fine details, and I laugh at what I find.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Sam Harper stands in front of me wearing a trash bag like a cape over a thin silk robe. Her hair is up in a sopping wet towel and sad, soaked, pink slippers that look like dicks are on her feet. And, to make it worse, her face is covered in some sort of brown goop.
She props her hand on her hip and scowls.
“I thought this shithole had a generator,” she snaps, straight up ignoring my question. “Why the fuck is my apartment pitch black? There are only two windows in that cave. I can’t see a damn thing.”
There are five windows, but I don’t correct her.
“Shithole?” I repeat, tilting my head to the side with a smirk. “I thought y?—”
“Oh, shut up,” she snarls.
I have to admit, I am fucking loving this. Seeing the princess all disheveled and worked up, looking like something straight out of a horror film. If I had my phone, I’d snap a picture.
“We do have a generator”—I gesture to the machine in question—“but the battery is dead.”
“So get a new one.”
“It’s nearly one in the morning, Sam. The hardware store is closed, so the only way I can get a new one is if I call the owners and ask if they can open up shop for me, which I won’t do because they’re in their fucking eighties, and in case you haven’t noticed, this weather is not safe for anyone, let alone the elderly.”
The anger on her face flickers briefly.
“Shit,” she mumbles. “Shit.”
“What’s all over your face?” I ask finally, and she sighs.
“A mud mask. And my hair is being deep conditioned, which I’m now going to have to shampoo it out or I’ll look like a fucking greased pig.”
