Page 22 of Mountain Boss

I don’t spot any, but not wanting to be observed by either while I figure this machine out, I pull the door closed.

Just make some coffee, then you can work on the list.

Remembering that I’m still holding the clipboard, I quickly scan the pages. But—and this should not come as a surprise—there are no instructions on how to work the coffee maker.

Moving over to the machine in question, I set the clipboard down.

The stainless-steel monstrosity stares back at me.

“So, are you one of the old kind of appliances that performs like a workhorse? Or are you a finicky bitch?”

It doesn’t reply.

Propping my hands on my hips, I take a deep breath.

“You can do this, Courtney.”

Saying my name reminds me of Mr. Black calling me Court earlier.

I don’t mind the nickname. I’ve always wanted someone to give meone. But why he would call me the name that offended him so much yesterday, I don’t understand.

Unless this is him pretending I’m a guy?

Joke’s on him, though, because I’ve been working in the male-dominated field of maintenance for years, and I’ve heard it all. So a shortened version of my real name is hardly insulting.

I step closer to the coffee maker and start inspecting it. “Alright, Big Joe, you treat me good, I’ll treat you good.”

It takes some work. Some digging through cupboards. Some guesswork on quantities. But twenty minutes later, the scent of coffee fills the room.

While the oversized pot fills, I poke around in the large cabinets.

All the dishware is metal, which makes sense, durability and all that.

Then there’s bulk groceries filling the other shelves. Canned goods, dry goods, baking supplies…

Big Joe lets out a loud click.

I shut the cupboard and move back to the coffee machine to check out my work.

The pot is made of metal, like everything in this place, so I can’t see the color of the coffee, but it smells right.

The drips from the basket above slow to a stop, and I assume the click sound was meant to announce the shutoff.

I did it.

Feeling absurdly proud of myself, I try to release a little piece of tension by relaxing my shoulders. But the forced movement sends a twinge down my spine. Reminding me that Mr. Blackheart made me sleep on a goddamn board last night.

Pretty sure I’m gonna have to sleep on that board again tonight.

And tomorrow.

On and on until I can afford to buy one of those inflatable camping mattress things.

Afford.

I spread my fingers at my side, stopping myself from pressing my fingertips together.

The application for this position stated the flat per-week pay I’d get, but it didn’t saywhenI’d get paid.

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