Page 11 of Heat & Deceit
That’s what I thought.
“That’s not the point. She could have—I could’ve killed her. That’s not okay.” The guy jabs his finger in my direction.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
My eyes flick toward the sign. Four minutes have passed since the last time I looked. A red hand flashes across the crosswalk light, and people stop all around us, glancing over but quickly looking away. Another thing to love about this city is that everyone is too paranoid to rubber neck when there’s drama.
I take a tiny step back. Neither of the men notice. Tabitha won’t be happy if I fail to arrive within the timeframe she gave me.
“Well, I’m calling this in. You can tell the police how sorry—”
My throat tightens, but before I can swing into a full panic, the alpha gives a hard shake of his head. “You’re not calling anyone.” He sounds so certain he’ll be able to stop the beta.
“I have to go to work,” I murmur, moving farther away from the two of them. Running from the scene of a crime...probably not the best idea, but was it really a crime? I’m tempted to say no. It was an unfortunate accident. RIP, trash can, but I’m not about to be late.
There’s another way to get to the shop; it’ll take a little longer, but if I try to walk by the guy I made crash, he might try to grab me, and I wouldn’t be able to handle that.
“Now, wait a minute.” The guy moves toward me, but the alpha slaps his hand on the beta’s chest and shoves him back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, crowding into the guy’s space.
They exchange scowls and glares, sizing one another up. I take another step to the side. Do I want to stay to see who wins the fight? Maybe. Would I rather get to work and save my job? Definitely.
The crosswalk signal changes, and a flood of people surge forward. I turn and slant through the crowd, breaking free of the mass of bodies on the other side. I check over my shoulder, but there are too many people between me and those men to spot them. Walking as fast as I can—these boots weren’t made for running—I race toward work.
A sign on a different building flashes the time.
Shit.
I guess these boots are going to run.
My bun flops as I jog, and I wince as my boobs bounce in a veryBaywatch-esque fashion. Only, mine are bigger and a hell of a lot more painful. A regular bra is definitely not running approved. Even with a sports bra, sometimes they hurt. I make it to the coffee shop seven minutes later, well past the twenty-minute deadline. Sucking in a breath for my aching lungs, I pull open the door, only to be greeted by the back of someone’s shirt. There’s a line of people waiting to order their morning drink, and it extends all the way to the entrance.
Crap, crap, crap.
With a heavy grimace, I sayexcuse meand sneak around the line, earning a few scowls. I shake out my apron and quickly pull it on, tying it behind my back to make it clear I’m here to help.
“I have a macchiato for Carl!” Tabitha’s loud and sharp voice cuts through the air.
Yeah, she’s pissed.
Another cluster of people is gathered at the far end of the shop, waiting for their coffee with bored, half-dazed looks. As I round the counter, Tabitha is writing on a cup, her red hair pulled back into a tight ballerina bun. Her eyebrows are twisted together, and even the freckles dusting her nose look angry. She’s wearing the same outfit I am—black pants, purple top, and the apron—but her clothes are impeccably starched and stiff. Kind of like the stick up her ass.
No, Nova. Don’t think bad things about your boss. You were late, and she has every right to be angry with you. The store is slammed. You’d be frustrated too. She’s not always a bitch. She’s been nice too, right?
The first day I started, she was perpetually annoyed while she trained me, scoffing and mumbling that the buttons on the screen were literally right in front of my face.
“How hard is it to find the yellow button for Americano?”
Turns out, it was really freaking hard. There are at least twenty yellow buttons.
Then there was the time I accidentally handed over an order by the lid. Not the smartest idea, and Tabitha made sure to berate me while I hastily cleaned up the coffee and offered apologies to the customer.
Every shift, I show up and somehow fail to pass her inspection. My hair is too messy—it’s in spectacularly horrible shape today—my apron is too wrinkled—check, wrinkled as hell—or my shoes aren’t right. Every day, she finds something to pick at. Every day, she scowls at me like I pissed in her coffee, and I, for one, would never attempt to piss in a to-go cup. For starters, they’re not sturdy. I also don’t think I’d be able to aim, so I’d have to hold the steaming cup of joe up to my crotch, and that sounds like a fast way to end up scarred for life.
Right. So, maybe she’s always an asshole.
Randal shoots me a bug-eyed look as he finishes steaming some milk. “Oh my god. Thank fuck you’re here. Tabitha is on a rampage,” he whispers. “Hurry, take the register,” he says, his volume rising.
