Page 142 of Mountain Boss

I have my fork raised, the first bite of potato inches from my lips.

“Already asked her that.” Simpson leans forward so he can see Leon around Sterling.

Sterling, who is also slightly leaned forward, focused on his food, doesn’t lean out of the way.

I shove the potato into my mouth to stop from smiling.

I don’t know why him being a bit of a dick seems funny to me now. But I guess sucking on someone’s private parts can change your perspective.

Then I remember all the things Sterling bought for me today, and my partial smile is suddenly too heavy to hold up.

Even if he didn’t purchase all those things. Even if he had the table and chairs and mini fridge and microwave on the property, he still brought them to me. And he had to have gone to the store for all that food and medicine.

I didn’t want him to do that.

Didn’t want him to feel obligated.

Don’t want him to treat me differently from the other employees when it comes to employee business. And where I live and the stuff I own is employee business.

What we do off the clock is another thing altogether.

Which is why I need to talk to him.

But, like he said, might as well eat while it’s hot.

I use the edge of my fork to cut off a chunk of meatloaf.

My taste buds rejoice at the juicy seasoned beef, and I wonder how a meal can be so bad in one instance and so good in another.

I take another bite as I remember the frozen meals I’d had with Mom growing up.

The RV we lived in was small. Cramped.

There was a platform bed at the back. The space underneath was supposed to be for storage, but she wedged a futon mattress under there and that was my bed.

It was fun when I was little. My own mini cave to hide in.

And some nights, if I was scared from a storm or if Mom wasin a funk, she’d put her head at the foot of the bed so it was above mine and hold her hand down.

We’d twine our fingers together and she’d tell me stories.

Of a future she had planned.

Of a magical world with sparkling creatures.

Of nothing at all.

And it was perfect.

On those nights.

But other nights, while we took turns using the microwave before sharing the small booth-style table, she’d mutter about how expensive it was to feed two people. How crowded the RV was. How she had no privacy.

Like I had a choice in being hungry. Or being fucking born.

I remember comments she made just like that over a frozen meatloaf meal.

I was fourteen.

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