Page 2 of His Passerotta

“You should tell him that,” Rainey says, dragging my attention to her. My vision blurs from the movement, so I set my phone in the locker and close my eyes.

I need food. Now.

“Seriously,” she says. “Maybe if he heard from someone else, he’d consider it. I’ve been here two years and am still taking scraps from the servers. It’s degrading. If you could just tell him?—”

“He doesn’t know me,” I say, my tone a little too sharp. One more symptom of the ever-annoying hypoglycemia: bitchiness.

“Sorry, my blood sugar’s low.” I pause a moment to give Rainey an apologetic tilt of my lips before digging into my purse for a granola bar. I always keep one in case I need it… I needed it yesterday.

Fuck, I already ate it.

I groan and look over at Rainey who’s staring at me with what I’m hoping is a case of resting bitch face.

“Hey, do you by any chance have another sucker? Or anything, really?”

I half consider asking for the one in the sandwich bag. Gross, I know.

I’m ninety percent sure she’s going to give me the finger, but she digs into her pocket and pulls out a red Tootsie Pop. I glance down at her pockets to see two more bulges in each.

Huh.

When she holds it out to me, I take it and nonchalantly pick off a piece of lint. “Thanks, I appreciate this.”

I tear the wrapper away and shove the cherry-flavored ball into my mouth. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do until I get home … which isn’t until tonight.

My eyes pop at the thought, and I snap my gaze to the clock on the wall.

“Shit.” I slam the locker and rush to the exit. “Sorry, I just remembered I’m late for something. Bye, Rainey!”

She gives me an emotionless wave before I burst through the door and hightail it to my car, which is not at all easy to do right now when I can’t see straight. This sucker isn’t doing shit.

I yank my keys from my purse and jam the unlock button on the key fob four times before the damn beep sounds, then I hurry behind the wheel of my Impala. Not a bad car, but twenty-five years is a lot of life for this baby, so she has her problems.

I’m crossing my fingers that Rose behaves today. This morning, I got lucky with her.

Saying a brief prayer, I turn the key in the ignition. Rose makes her usual jajaja noise that has my heart skipping before she finally starts. Tires squeal as I speed out of the parking garage, heading south.

Remember how I was a bartender until a month ago?

Well, I didn’t put aside six months’ worth of expenses like the finance gods recommend. I’ve been working four side gigs while I look for something permanent.

Walking dogs.

Selling sunglasses from a kiosk at a mall.

Data collecting for a company I’m almost certain is bogus.

And … doing makeup for special occasions. Like weddings.

Like today. In thirty minutes. Across town. While I’m at risk of passing out from low blood sugar.

Oh my god, I’m terrible. If I’d forgotten to walk someone’s dog it’s one thing, but this is someone’s wedding. The happiest day of her life, supposedly.

I suck. I suck suck suck.

My knee guides the steering wheel as I pull off my apron and toss it onto the passenger seat. My mandatory button-down is next, leaving my white tank top and a pair of black slacks I picked up from Goodwill yesterday. Not exactly the outfit that sparks faith in beauty knowledge.

The lipstick in my cup holder catches my attention, and I grab it to color my lips pastel pink, hoping that helps. A quick look in the rearview mirror says not so much.

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