Page 9 of Winning You
“No, he’s literally after me.” Lucas sighed, pressing his forehead against the wall, which was so, so cool. It was a blazing hot summer, he was stuck in the food truck all day, and he was over it.
The heat, not his job, though the asshole with the ableist bad attitude was making him rethink that one. He was finally gone, but he’d taken up all of Lucas’s time before his lunch rush—which forced him to delay his opening, which cut into his profits after a bunch of people walked off to find somewhere else to eat.
“Who do I bill for lost wages?” he demanded as he listened to the asshole’s shoes clicking on the metal floor as he took off.
The guy left without answering him, and Lucas never got his name. All he had was a business card, which he couldn’t read,and he was feeling too prideful to FaceTime a friend or use his Seeing Eye app.
He was a strong, independent chef who didn’t need a man—or woman—to help him do his job.
He was officially the co-owner of the truck, now with an associate’s in business management under his belt. A whole, grown-ass adult with an apartment and everything.
And this dickhead spent the last ten minutes implying with his tone that Lucas needed a babysitter because how could he properly do his job if he couldn’t see. Like Lucas hadn’t been doing this for the past three years. Or navigating the world without sight for pretty much his entire life.
“Listen, I’m just saying, if he comes around again, that’ll be it for him. And I guess me. RIP freedom.”
Gage laughed softly, and Lucas took a single moment to appreciate that his best friend sounded more normal than he had in the last several months. Lucas didn’t know much, only that something had gone very wrong when he was at school, and he’d come back changed. Lucas wanted to be surprised, but apart from the fact that Gage had chosen him as a best friend, he had terrible taste in people.
He was also like one of those weird deep-sea clams who didn’t open up unless convinced. He still hadn’t told Lucas details about any of what had gone wrong, and frankly, Lucas wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If it was bad, he was going to want to set something on fire. Most likely the person who hurt Gage, which once again put him at risk for the whole prison thing.
“Shouldn’t you be opening up the window so you can work?” Gage asked in the long silence, interrupting Lucas’s thought spiral.
“Oh, shit. Why are you bothering me during my workday!” Lucas shouted into the phone. He dropped it on the counter,knowing full well that Gage would hang up for him, and he groped around until he found the latch to raise the window well covers and he could hear people milling around. “Sorry, folks. The health inspector had his boot up my ass, but he’s gone now.” He could only hope the dickhead was still lingering around close enough to hear him. “Form an orderly line, and I’ll get you all fed.”
There were times Lucas couldn’t help but wonder if he would have survived in a less technologically advanced world. He’d had several blind teachers at his school when he was younger, who were archaic. They managed to get their degree and get around and live their lives without cell phones and apps and GPS.
It was a wild concept.
Sort of like how his dad always talked about reading maps instead of using his phone like some kind of goddamn caveman.
But he was at least smart enough to appreciate his generational advances as he used his app to count the money in the register. It was a weird little robotic voice, but it read out the numbers in a strange, tinny accent, and he recorded it into his phone for accounting.
They did okay—in spite of the little hiccup that morning. Not his best day of profits, but sure as shit not his worst.
“Knock knock!”
He tried not to sigh. Lane didn’t check up on him often, so he couldn’t claim that he was being smothered, but he also knew that this was Gage’s fault. His asshole, so-called best friend must have called him to say that Lucas was overreacting again.
“I heard you were being harassed today.”
Or maybe Gage had believed him and was just being a dick on the phone earlier. “Do you know all the health inspectors? This one totally had some vendetta against people who make really, really good food but also happen to be blind.”
Lane laughed, and Lucas heard him pull one of the folding stools out, and it creaked as he took a seat. “Do you remember his name?”
“Fuck-face something.”
“Lucas—”
“Uhg, no. He left a card, which of course I can’t fucking read.” He gestured in the direction of the counter where he stuck everything that didn’t have braille on it. The truck creaked again as Lane stood, and Lucas heard him shuffling through papers.
Most of it was mail—bills and announcements, and the occasional flyer that local craft artists wanted him to put up.
“Mm…ah. Francisco Montez.” His fingers made a drumming sound on the counter—an old familiar tell that Lane was stressed-out. “He’s not my usual guy.”
“He’s not the last guy who came to inspect me either, but he didn’t seem new,” Lucas said, tucking the cash into the deposit bag and closing the register. There were exactly twelve dollars and eighty-nine cents left. If anyone robbed him, they’d be sad and sorry they bothered.
“What was his problem?”
“Well, he didn’t know I was blind at first. Bitched at me for being mouthy, then asked why none of my containers were labeled. I told him they were, and it wasn’t my fault he couldn’t use his deductive reasoning toseewhere I put the labels?—”
