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“Yes,” he pulls back and looks down on me, “but this is getting serious, you see because any minute we’re going to hit our ultimate end as marijuana addicts. We have to make it count.”
He hovers above me with the moonless night sky behind him.
“Then we’d better hurry,” I say, lifting to kiss him and he dodges it, pressing my wrists into the blanket.
“You’re such an ass.”
“And you’re…so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs softly. “So beautiful…” he places my hand on his chest. “Cecelia, you wound me. Why’d you have to be so pretty?” For a second, I see something I’ve never seen in his expression and an unmistakable flash of fear in his eyes.
“Sean, what’s wrong?”
His eyes clear as he gazes down at me. “Not a damn thing.”
“You sure?” I run my hands through his hair as he buries his head in my chest.
“Help me, baby. The madness finally got me.”
SWEAT SKATES DOWN MY BACK as Melinda babbles on, and I silently curse Sean for the absence of my watch. The wall clock mounted above the plant entrance stopped a week ago and I’m most definitely a slave to time during my shifts. “It was his sister,” Melinda says, frowning as I gather the tubs from her and stack them at our workstation. “No, no,” she continues, “it was his cousin who did it. Girl, I have never in my life seen—”
“No! No! Fuck this!” The outburst has me pausing and brings Melinda’s latest report on the extended family to a halt as we crane our necks while a rapid-fire of Spanish and English bursts throughout the floor. Two women argue heatedly a line over and finally appear in the middle of the floor as one tries to restrain the other. It’s then I see the source, Vivica. She’s fighting with one of her cronies, who’s struggling to push her back toward her place in the line. “I’m over it. I’m done!” She shouts, pushing past her, her dark eyes landing on me and narrowing to slits.
Dread courses through me as she begins to make her way in my direction.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
I’ve been in one physical altercation in my life, and it was with an inanimate object, a skirt.
I knew working here wouldn’t win me any popularity contests, but I had no idea what kind of a reputation my father had in this town. He’s not beloved by any, let alone all. No one here seems to respect him in any capacity. The sniggers and whispers I hear at my back are becoming harder to ignore, but I did not think I’d be held responsible for anything concerning matters at the plant. My assumption is clearly wrong because she’s coming straight for me, and I know her beef has nothing to do with me unless it’s about Sean.
“You!” She yells, gaining the attention of everyone else on the line. I point to my chest like an idiot.
“Are you not the owner’s daughter?”
Anyone who didn’t know before is aware now as her friend manages to get between us when she’s only a couple steps away. “Vivica, you need to stop and think about what you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing?” She snaps at her friend before turning to me. I’m still debating whether to lead with a donkey kick or risk a punch. “Your father is a fucking crook. Did you know that?” She waves a piece of paper I recognize. A pay stub. “I worked forty-two hours last week and only got paid for thirty-nine.” She flaps her hand around again, gesturing toward the rest of the workers on the floor. “Ask them, ask them how many times it’s happened to them.”
“They’ll fix it,” her friend says, still attempting to usher Vivica back. The line stops, the noise of the conveyor that was drowning her out before doing nothing now to stop every ear from pricking our way.
“Oh, they’ll fix it, and then they’ll figure out a way to get rid of me.”
I muster up the courage to speak. “Look, I don’t have anything to do with—”
“You are his daughter!” She yells at the top of her lungs as more eyes dart my way. “Bet your paychecks aren’t short.”
“Honestly, I haven’t—”
“Haven’t looked?” She scoffs. “Of course you haven’t. Well, allow me to enlighten you, princess. He’s been doing this for years, screwing us on our overtime, shorting our checks just enough so we don’t raise too much hell. We get told over and over it will be fixed, that it’s an oversight.” She scours me and not in a flattering way. “Are you not rich enough?”
“Ma’am, I’m not…”
“Ma’am?” She harrumphs. “I’m twenty-five years old.”
“I don’t own the plant. I work here. I don’t have anything to do—”
“You’re his daughter.”
I know what that’s supposed to mean, but I’ve never lived any sort of meaningful reality behind that statement.
