Page 1

Chapter 1

“You’re late,” came the familiar greeting to the background of the door chime. The scent of stale coffee and lamp-heated hot dogs filled my nose before the top of Del’s head could be seen through the scratched and worn plexiglass barrier.

“For all you knew, I could have been a robber. Or the sketchy dude who feeds the rats by the dumpster.” I unlocked the office door and shut out the soft crooning of smooth jazz that the franchise owner demanded we play on a loop.

Years of working Christmas at the mall one town over, where the exact same twelve songs were played all day, had honed my skill of completely tuning out jazz.

“Could have. But you’re not. And you’re always late,” Del bit back.

I shrugged and clocked in. She wasn’t wrong. Despite the seventeen alarm clocks and two different apps on my phone, I was, in fact, always late. None of them ever seemed to ring on time or even at dependably irregular amounts of time. I could consistently count on all of them going off at the wrong time or not going off at all. I’d once tried a wake-up call service that ended with my phone magically finding legs and leaping into a glass of water I didn’t even remember putting by the bedside.

She crossed her arms and glared at me as I shoved today’s shabby excuse for a purse and coat into my cubby. I’d given up on keeping an actual purse three years ago when both sides of the strap broke as the bottom gave out. I was lucky enough to have it explode all over the busiest intersection in our Detroit neighborhood when the light turned green. I got quick at finding some sort of pouch to stuff my lunch into. My boobs, tiny as they were, served as the only semi-reliable wallet I could keep.

“Dan wants you to call him when you’re done clocking in.”

Fuck.

My eyes flicked up to the bedraggled calendar hanging above the time clock. Friday. I had learned to hate Fridays, the day everyone did their firing and had come to be a day full of dread. Would today be the day I’d get fired? Spin the wheel and find out!

I exhaled and picked up the phone, dialing the store manager’s cell phone. I knew what was coming, so I was already pulling my keys off my ring and getting my work property out onto the desk by the time he answered.

“Hey, Sonny.” Dan’s voice chirped on the other end of the phone.

“Hey, Dan.”

I didn’t let the disappointment and resignation leak into my voice.

“Del said you were late again. This is the fourth straight day you’ve been late, Sonny. We talked about this last week. You promised me that, with a later start time, it wouldn’t happen again. I took your word on that.”

The two store keys and my timecard were already assembled into a neat little pile, and I was pulling an envelope out of his stack to seal them by the time he finished his thought.

“I know, Dan. I’m sorry.”

“No, Sonny, I’m sorry. I thought this would work out for you. I thought we could get you back on your feet and help you out. It looks like that’s not going to happen. I wish I could help more, but Del can’t be punished for your irresponsibility.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d never held a job for longer than eight months. Not once in my entire miserable life. I told myself that if I ever made it to a year, I’d be sure it was a sign of the end times. So, I’d witnessed countless firing techniques. Dan here had chosen the style I hated the most, the guilt trip “it’s not you, it’s me” route.

I don’t know why this was such a popular style—what were they looking for?

“I understand, Dan.” What was there for me to say? Nothing, really. I’d learned that, by the time this phone call happened, all the paperwork had been signed, the decision written in stone. There was no point in fighting it. I’d tried a few times. But it was already decided. “I’ve got my keys, timecard, and badge all in an envelope for you already. It’s in the top drawer of your desk. I’ll send you a video of me leaving the store with it in the drawer when I hang up.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself, Sonny?”

I paused. No, Dan, I have a lot to say for myself. I want to tell you that your breath smells like overcooked, moldering brussels sprouts, and you have the intellectual capacity of a rutabaga, but what’s the point?

“Excuse me?” he barked back. I swore that was my inside voice and not my outside voice.

Apparently not.

Welp. Time to full send it.

“I saaaiiiddd . . . your breath smells like overcooked brussels sprouts, and you’ve got the intellectual capacity of a rutabaga. You’re built like a walrus who had an unfortunate accident with a meat grinder, and the three slimy hairs on the top of your head called. They’d like to be put out of their misery.” When in doubt, Sonny Rule #7: commit to the bit. “Oh, and wash your beard, my dude. I didn’t even know a human could grow mold, but you somehow fucking managed it. Deuces, Dan!”

I heard him yelling that I had to work my full shift before leaving as I slammed the phone onto the cradle and looked up into the aghast face of Del—Delilah Mickens. Dan’s side piece.

“As for you, Delilah, a little on the fucking nose, eh? I’m sure Mrs. Dan would love to hear about how you let him shove hot dogs up your ass and eat them out last week. Top-notch performance, by the way. Sasha Grey would be proud. Next time, maybe don’t do it in the beer cooler, where the camera is directly pointed at you, with other people in the store.”

I smirked and shoved my things into my pockets as I sauntered out, waving my favorite finger as a goodbye.