Page 3 of Shame

There are issues within the club, but I’m here. I wanna be here. That ain’t gonna change. Loyalty to this club is all I have, and it’s all I need.

Chapter Two

Cora

I rush through the door, nearly bumping into a mother and son leaving the restaurant.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper frantically, putting my hand on the mother’s shoulder. She scowls at me, shaking her head as she grabs her son’s hand and leads him through the door and into the parking lot.

Not having time to worry about grumpy customers, I hurry around the counter and into the kitchen.

“You’re late, again!” Christian, our cook, singsongs. I hear the smile in his voice as I rush to the tiny break room to open my locker and grab my apron. He doesn’t care who does what, as long as his grill is hot and clean.

“Hardly!” I call out.

A glance at the clock tells me I’m fifteen minutes late. At least Norman, the owner, isn’t here to give me crap about it.

I throw my things into my locker and swiftly tie my apron on. Grabbing my pen and my notepad, I slam the locker shut and dash for the door—only to bump into Norman.

“Damnit,” I curse under my breath.

“You’re late again,” he says, raising a brow.

“I’m so sorry, Norman. Dad was refusing to eat. He was shouting and hollering that I was trying to poison him, and when the nurse showed up, he only got worse. Said she was there to help, and we were gonna take him away to another planet.”

Norman holds my gaze, not a single amount of sympathy on his face.

I understand it’s my responsibility to be on time to work, but my father is ill… can’t he give me a break? Just a little one, sometimes?

“This is the second time this week, Cora. It’s not my problem that you have a crazy father who—”

“Sick,” I correct.

“Excuse me?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He’s sick, not crazy,” I say as nicely as possible, my hands balling into fists.

I swear he’s doing this on purpose, just trying to rile me up for a quick way to fire me. I’ve read through the rules, and being late now and then isn’t a fireable offense. But punching the owner in the face sure would be. Workplace violence isn’t tolerated.

“Whatever. It’s still not an excuse—”

“Hey, Cora, I think Fia could use your help out there,” Christian calls from the grill. “It’s getting busy.”

I hold Norman’s stare for another moment before forcing out, “It won’t happen again.” I walk by him, toward the dining room, not wanting Fia to get stressed out or upset with me.

“That’s my good girl,” Norman says, causing me to stop short. I’m about to whirl around and sock him, not caring if I lose my job or not. I’m tired of him treating me this way. But Christian is at my back, hands on my shoulders, urging me forward.

“Just go up front. He’s leaving in a few minutes. Heard he’s got to get his asshairs laser removed or something.”

I huff out a laugh and push through the swinging doors. Leave it to Christian to fix my mood.

“Thanks, Christian,” I say with a sigh.

He winks and hurries back to the grill before the food burns.

Taking a second to breathe and run my hands through my hair to tame any loose strands, I scan the small dining area for Fia to figure out where I’m needed. I see her clearing a table in the back, so I hurry that way.

“Sorry, girl,” I say.

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