Page 8 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I stand back to admire my handiwork. What was, just hours ago, a testament to losing faith in the grocery industry—pollock and poppy seed bagels and spicy plantain chips and diapers all in such a chaos that just looking at it raised my blood pressure—has now been transformed into something resembling order.

AndIdid it.

Say what you want about working retail grocery. The customers suck. The pay sucks. And, in my case—the evening shift, from three in the afternoon until closing time at eleven—the hours suck. But a job is a job, and I like organizing things.

Who knows? Maybe I’ve found my calling.

My gaze wanders around, seeking out my next target. Although there’s no clock back here, and I don’t carry my phone on me on purpose, I still know I’ve got at least a couple hours left.

I locate my next project quickly enough: stray rice bags, strewn in several corners. Huh, I hadn’t even noticed before. Then again, I can get single-minded in my focus like that.

That’s what I like about this job, actually. Losing myself in the stocking and restocking—the mindlessness of perfecting each item’s placement. Getting in the flow—just how I do with painting, weirdly enough.

For a few hours, I don’t have to be Joy Smith. I don’t have to be anyone. I don’t have to deal with all the problems waiting at home. I don’t even have to think about them. I just get to be here, now, doing what I’m doing. Nothing more, nothing less.

I hustle over and grab my first ten-pound Basmati bag, which is way heavier than it should be.

As I wheeze under its weight, the sound system creaks on.

I pause, expecting Ruben’s stoner drawl:Would the owner of the black Toyota Prius please move their car? I repeat, would the owner of the black Toyota Prius please move their car to allow access for our delivery truck?

That was another stroke of brilliance from Johnny the owner—constructing a pint-sized parking space right where the delivery truck needed to go. He’s so cheap that he refuses to pay or lease out extra parking.

Instead of Ruben over the loudspeaker, though, there’s music: “Joy to the World, the Lord has come …”

What the heck? Normally, Johnny and Ruben are too lazy to turn on music at all, Christmas or otherwise. And it’s definitely not Christmas.

Then, I hear the swish of the door flap behind me, and I understand.

These days, I can feel Ruben before I even see him. A slinking presence. A tense up your back, a shiver around your rib cage. And that smell—like Axe designed a weed-scented body spray.

“Some song, eh?”

If Ruben was anyone else, I’d laugh. If Ruben was anyone else, maybe putting that song on would be funny, or cute, or at least worth offering a forced smile at the very least. Even if people have been messing with me about my name since before I even fully grasped the humor.

Teachers:Oh, it will a ‘joy’ having you in my class, I’m sure!

Employers:Joy, cheer up—it’s your name, remember?

Even my mom does it:You’re my pride and joy, you know that, sweetie?

But this is not anyone else. This is Ruben. Staring-Too-Long, Standing-Too-Close, Saying-All-The-Wrong-Things Ruben.

I keep my face neutral, give him a glance. “Sure. Some song.”

Go away. Go away. Please, please, go away

“You can smile you know.” He sure is. “You know you want to.”

No, what I want to do—what I really want to do—is take the potato chip bag behind Ruben, rip it open and dump it on his stupid head, then mash the bag in further so he gets the message.What I want is for you to leave me the eff alone.

Ruben leans back on the shelf, still eyeing me. “Ah, the two of us at Briarwood High and now here. Who woulda thought?”

Not me, for one. Back then, Ruben was the kind of stoner who wrote “nyce a$$” on Jessica Wallen’s graduation silhouette, while I was happy at my part-time Wendy’s job.

“Must’ve been fate.” Unfortunately for me, he’s still talking. “You worked at Wendy’s before, right? What happened there?” he asks when I don’t give him anything in response.

“Family stuff,” I say, and leave it at that.

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