Page 1 of Bite
Chapter
One
Pain blooms across my palm, sharp and hot, the slap echoing off the cinderblock walls like a gunshot. Archer’s mossy green eyes go wide– first with shock, then with fury so intense I can practically see steam hissing from his ears.
Shit. I just slapped my boss.
For one suspended heartbeat, I wonder if he’s going to hit me back. We’re locked in a standoff, positioned far too close to one another in his cramped, fluorescent-lit office. The air between us crackles, heavy with tension and the sour stink of old coffee and fried grease.
“You’re fired, bitch,” he spits.Literally– tiny droplets pepper my face like sleet, making me recoil instantly. He jabs a thick finger in my direction, shaking with rage, a red bloom already rising on his cheek in the exact shape of my hand.
I should probably be afraid right now. Archer Dunlap is the kind of man who thinks ‘power’ means grabbing whatever he wants with both fists– whether it’s control over his business, the paychecks he cuts, or a woman’s throat. But I’m not afraid. Notyet, anyway. Fury has a way of making you feel invincible.
Or maybe that’s the adrenaline.
Either way, my heart’s pounding, and I don’t regret that slap for a second– because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Drop to my knees just because he unzipped his pants?
Hell no. I’ll swallow my pride, take garbage shifts, put up with a lot of crap just to hold down a job… but I draw the line at sucking off my sleazy boss to make ends meet.
“Go get your shit and get the hell out of my diner,” Archer snarls, his voice thick with venom.
“Fine by me,” I mutter, turning on a heel and strutting past him.
My palm still stings like fire, but it’s the only part of me that hurts right now, which is a damn blessing. I’ve taken hits before from better men.
I won’t let myself think about how much my wallet’s going to hurt, because then I might be tempted to beg to keep this shitty job, andfuck that. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go crawling back to Archer on my knees.
Pushing through the door to the employee locker room, I grab my things, leaving my apron and name tag behind.Let them rot in the grease pit with the rest of this hellhole.
Heads turn as I make my exit, the customers’ hungry eyes following my path to the door. Some hunger for the food on the menu, others for the blood in my veins. Working the graveyard shift means serving all sorts of unfavorable types that prowl around after dark, the worst of which are the vamps. Not that they require much attention since they don’t come here to eat. They just lurk in the stained leather booths, drinking coffee and creeping everyone the fuck out.
I storm out of the diner with my head held high, flipping Archer off on my way out.
“I’d better never see your face in here again, Taylor Holt!” he calls after me furiously.
“You won’t!” I shout back.
Good riddance, dickwad.
Streetlights cast sickly yellow halos over the wet pavement outside, turning the city into a glistening maze of puddles and shadows. The sky is bruised, tinged purple with the promise of dawn, and the cold slaps at my cheeks as I start for my apartment. I shove my hands into my coat pockets for warmth, trying not to think about the slow-motion disaster I’ve just walked out of.
I was already living paycheck to paycheck, already behind on rent. I’d burned through my savings long before landing this gig, and now I’ve got maybe a hundred bucks to my name.
I can’t afford to lose this job. But I couldn’t afford tostay, either.
Most employers take one look at me– a twenty-four-year-old high school dropout with no real degree and no skills– and see a dead end. But I’m a survivor. I’ve been clawing my way through this world since I was a kid, bounced from one shitty foster home to the next until I finally said screw it and ran off at sixteen. I’ve been hustling ever since– cash under the table, food service, cleaning jobs. Whatever I could get. Anything that paid.
I clawed my way into the crappy studio apartment I call home, and I’ve held onto it by the skin of my teeth for eight years. I’mnotabout to lose it now.
The diner might’ve been a graveyard shift gig off the interstate, but it paid enough to keep me afloat. The free meal I got with every shift was also a major bonus, and usually the only one I’d eat each day. Now, I’m staring down the edge of a cliff with no safety net, and the only thing heavier than my footsteps on the pavement is the dread curling in my gut.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text message to Bex as I trudge home. She’s my best friend– my only friend, really– and the sole person I trust enough to ask for help. Thetattoo shop she works at should be closing right about now, so I tell her to swing by my place on her way home if she can.
My building is a three-story walk-up above a shuttered laundromat. The stairwell reeks of mold and stale piss, the wallpaper in the hallway peeling like sunburned skin. I jog up the steps and unlock both deadbolts and the handle of my door, muscle memory guiding me through the ritual. You don’t live in this part of town without learning to bolt yourself in tight.
Inside, the apartment is dim and musty. A curling strip of wallpaper flaps lazily near the ceiling vent, hanging on by a thread. I slap the boost button on my dollar-store air freshener and flip on the floor lamp, bathing the room in weak yellow light. The heater’s been off for weeks to save money, so the chill lingers, coiling around my ankles. I grab a beer from the fridge– the only thing in there other than expired condiments– before collapsing on the futon, exhaling hard.
This place may be shitty, but it’smine. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.
