Page 9 of His to Hunt

Not only am I hungover, but I have to work today.

“Ugh,” I groan, my head spinning when I sit up. “What the hell is wrong with me? Please don’t let this be a stomach bug.”

As much as it sucks, I can’t afford to miss a day of work. Plus, Frank’s my ride, and he won’t be happy if he has to wait.

I force myself to get out of bed and stagger to the shower. Like most mornings, the water is freezing cold when I turn it on. I let it warm up while I brush my teeth, but it’s still barely room temperature when I step inside.

There was no shower in the basement when Shana asked her parents to let me live down here. For the first year, I had to go upstairs every morning to shower. Frank made such a big deal out of adding the shower that I’ve never complained about the temperature. But this is one morning when a blazing hot shower would be incredible.

After my shower, I put on my work clothes and hurry upstairs. Melinda is still on the top floor getting ready. Frank is waiting by the door. He raises a brow and glances at his watch when he sees me.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m not feeling very well today.”

“I’m not surprised. You drank all weekend,” he sighs, opening the front door and gesturing for me to go to the car.

“I didn’t have any alcohol last night,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to care.

My relationship with Frank is basically a roll of the dice. I never know what I’m going to get each day. Sometimes he treats me like a second daughter. Sometimes he treats me like an employee who never works hard enough to earn my paycheck. But most of the time, I just feel like a burden. I’m an unwanted houseguest he has to provide everything for, including a job, so I can afford my own groceries.

“We’ll have a big crowd for breakfast, like we usually do on Mondays,” Frank says while he drives, filling the silence with unnecessary conversation. I’ve been working at the diner long enough to know the patterns as well as he does. “Maybe a lunch rush too, if there are no food trucks nearby.”

“They usually only come on Thursday and Friday,” I say, my head pounding even worse now that I’m in the car.

“Yeah,” he agrees, cracking the window and lighting a cigarette.

Cigarette smoke rarely bothers me, but today it makes me feel sick to my stomach. His brand usually reminds me of teenage rebellion, because Shana used to steal his cigarettes every chance she got. Madison is the only one who turned teenage rebellion into a habit, but it seems she’s finally outgrown it too.

The sickness in my stomach gets worse until I have to rest my head against the window, breathing through my mouth so I don’t smell the smoke.

“You really are sick,” Frank notices. “If you’re going to throw up, either hold it until we get to the diner or roll the window down.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” I mumble.

A pothole makes me question it immediately, but I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.

“Good. Bethany’s out of town, so you’re the only waitress I have until dinnertime,” he says, taking another drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window.

Joe the Felon is waiting for us when we turn into the parking lot of the diner. He grins when he sees us, revealing fewer teeth than a grin really needs. Once we park, he walks around to my side of the car and opens my door. Usually, he doesn’t smell like kitchen funk until he’s started cooking. Today, it smells like the aroma is baked into his clothes and rotting.

“Thought you were going to be late, boss,” Joe says, looking past me.

“She’s not feeling well,” Frank grunts, getting out of the car.

“What’s bothering you, sweetheart?” Joe asks. “If you’re sick, I can fix you a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”

“No, thank you,” I say as politely as I can. “It’s my stomach, so I don’t think I should eat anything until it settles down.”

“Okay, want me to rub it for you? Or I could rub something else that’ll feel even better,” he laughs, leaning closer to me.

I glance at Frank, hoping he heard the inappropriate remark. If he did, he’s ignoring it. He opens the front door of the diner and looks at us, so I move away from Joe as fast as I can without breaking into a sprint. Today definitely isn’t a day for sprinting. I’m worried I’ll get sick just trying to carry food to the tables.

As soon as I step into the diner, I get overwhelmed by all the different smells. I rarely notice anything but the stale grease when I get here in the morning. Today, my nose starts sorting through everything like it has a personal grudge against me for getting out of bed.

Old fryer oil clings to the walls. Burnt coffee sits bitter and stale in the pot Joe forgot to empty last night. The floor smells like bleach, wet mop, and whatever died under the rubber mat by the grill. There’s syrup dried somewhere, sweet enough to make my stomach roll, and onions, even though nobody has chopped any yet. Bacon grease. Old toast. Sour milk from the trash behind the counter.

And underneath all of it, Joe, as he walks into the diner behind me. He’s followed closely by Frank, who now smells like a recently extinguished cigarette. For some reason, that’s even worse than a lit one.

Everything is so overwhelming that when I try to grab the counter, my hand slips, and I nearly fall. Then I feel more bile in my throat and have to rush to the restroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, unable to stop myself from vomiting.