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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jarett
“What the hell is this?” My boss at Fat Burgers, by the name of Gus, waves a pocket of fries in my face. “Burned, that’s what this is.”
“I’m not the one frying those things today.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “Jimmy there—”
“Shut your fucking mouth, and go get our customer a pocket of fresh fries.”
I shut my fucking mouth, and go away to get fresh fries, because replying won’t get me anywhere, as I’ve quickly found out in the past weeks. Logic won’t get me anywhere.
Justice won’t save me, cuz I’ve betrayed it.
And everyone working in here knows it.
I’m working on finding another job, but it ain’t that easy. Gus told the neighboring businesses and all his goddamn friends not to hire me, and I can’t take a job too far away because I need to keep an eye on Mom and Sebastian, and Angel doesn’t want me far in case the gang needs me nearby.
I’m fucked.
But Gus’s the one in the right. Not me. I shouldn’t fucking complain. I chose my path in life. Made my choices. I’m twenty, for fuck’s sake. A grown man.
Doesn’t make this any easier, though.
I check with Tilly who’s the one on frying duty right now, and she passes me a pocket with unburned fries.
Turning to take them to Gus in the hope he’ll forget to be pissed at me for two seconds, I stumble over something,
Although I have an oh-shit moment, arms wind-milling, fries flying everywhere, I still think I won’t fall, that I’ll regain my balance.
Then my bad knee gives away, and I faceplant on the greasy floor before I even know what’s going on.
The side of my head smacks on the linoleum and the impact rattles my bones, all the way down to my goddamn feet. Dark stars blink in and out in my eyes.
Fuck.
“Aw gosh,” Gus says, smirking as he leans over me, “did it hurt? That was on behalf of the coffee shop your gang smashed to fucking pieces last week.”
I wasn’t even there. I’d missed the text message, balls-deep inside Gigi, and Angel later threatened to break my bones if I failed to show up again for gang business. Angel thinks he’s running the mafia, not just a gang. As if it all matters at all.
“You even listening to me, dickhead?” He kicks me in the stomach, and I curl in, around the pain. “You and your buddies will never amount to anything. Fucking punks.”
He’s right. He’s damn right.
“Now get up and get back to work, cuz I’m telling you, boy. I’m looking for an excuse, one damn excuse to kick your sorry ass out of here. If you’re late, and I don’t care why, I don’t care if your house is burning or your uncle dying, you’re fired. Got it?”
“Got it,” I mutter, and roll to my knees, then get my feet under me, slowly, testing my knee.
At least this, this arrangement—me against the odds—is a familiar one. I’m not giving up the fight, not now, not while I have something to fight for.
Even if that’s my moron of a brother. I’m keeping this job, and I’m keeping my place in the gang to safeguard his stupid ass.
That’s my promise to myself, and like I said before, I keep my fucking promises.
After work, and after one more “accident” involving a bottle of mayo and an elbow in my ribs, I head out to the apartment to clean up and change.
Only to run into Sebastian coming out of our building, his eyes blazing and feverish. I freeze, caught by surprise, and he shoves me aside.
“Stay out of my fucking way,” he hisses, and stumbles past me. “I don’t have time for you, you poor bastard.”
