Page 177 of Broken Pieces
She grins. “Only to the people I love.”
The guy at the counter doesn’t bother to glance up.
He’s too busy filling his oversized cup with Coke from the self-serve fountain. He’s wearing a uniform, so I know he works here, but he’s moving slow as shit.
Someone in the back yells something about frozen patties, voice hoarse and pissed off, and another guy’s jamming a butter knife into the side of the milkshake machine, swearing under his breath while he smears something across his apron.
It’s chaos. Greasy, low-budget chaos.
The office door opens, and a man with a stomach too big for his shirt and a name tag that reads “Derek” waddles out, adjusting his belt.
Classy.
“You’re the one who called about the job?”
I nod. “Yeah. Skylar.”
He gives me the once-over. A bored, dead-inside look that says he’s sizing me up to see if I’ll quit before my first shift or make it long enough to wipe down a few tables.
“Have you ever worked in food service before?” he asks, already sounding tired.
“No,” I say, lifting my chin. “But I’m a fast learner and I’m really good with people.”
Cassie chokes on her gum behind me.
I swing my elbow back and catch her in the ribs. Hard enough to shut her up.
Derek scratches the back of his head.
“Pays fifteen an hour. Shifts are when we need you, mostly afternoons, weekends, and whenever someone fucks off withoutnotice. We clean our own shit, and some customers are a special brand of asshole. You think you can handle that?”
I nod. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
He stares for a second longer, then shrugs, tired and over it.
“You’re hired. We’re desperate.”
Not exactly the dream scenario.
No handshake, no welcome aboard, no laminated training manual. Just a man in a sweat-stained polo admitting they’ll take whoever shows up and doesn’t puke at the smell of old grease.
But fuck it, it’s a job, a start. It’s something that might keep Zane out of that ring a little longer.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. My voice is low but solid.
“Can you start Monday?”
I nod again. “Yeah. Monday’s good.”
“Bring sneakers,” he mutters, already turning away. “And don’t be late.”
He turns away, muttering something under his breath about fryers and teenagers, and Cassie nudges my shoulder with a smirk that’s already loaded.
“Well,” she says, popping her gum, “dreams do come true. Next stop: Employee of the fucking month.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Shut up.”
She widens her eyes. “No, seriously, I can already see your picture on the wall. Holding a mop with tears in your eyes.”
