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Aubrey
Myfirstweekofwork has gone by without too much excitement and, thankfully without any more run-ins with Adam or Emmett. Bea warned me Fridays would be extra busy. She wasn’t lying. I’ve only been on shift for an hour and I’ve already made three deliveries and now I’m walking back into the bakery to pick up four more deliveries.
“Your four deliveries turned into five,” Bea says from behind the counter.
I don’t mind. More deliveries means more potential for tips. I can hardly believe it but I’ve already made four hundred dollars in tips this week alone and I don’t even get my paycheck for another week. The four hundred dollars stashed away under my mattress is more money than I’ve ever seen at one time. My only worry is if Mom and Dad will ask about my tithing.
Church documents say we’re supposed to give twenty-five percent of all our income to the church in the form of a tithe offering. Pastor Johnson preaches material things are unnecessary and that giving a quarter of our money to the church helps it prosper. He says all this while driving a shiny new car and living in a house that has five bathrooms.
I’m hoping my parents won’t think about the fact that I get tipped and I can get away with just contributing from my normal bi-weekly paychecks. I should probably also consider getting a bank account. The church is surprisingly okay with us having bank accounts, even though Pastor Johnson tends to lean against corporations and government agencies. I’d rather not ask Mom or Dad for help getting the bank account though, because honestly, I don’t want them anywhere near my money. It’s my one hope of getting out of my house.
I finish helping Bea bag the orders I need to deliver next and check all the addresses. Most of them are pretty close and they shouldn’t take me too long.
“Bea, would you be able to help me with something?” I ask her as I put the last pastry into a bag for Mr. Grissom, the owner of the sports store a few doors down, who orders the same three pastries every other day.
“That depends. What do you need?” she says.
“A bank account,” I confess.
She turns her attention from the counter she’s wiping down and looks at me. Bea gives me the same look I’ve seen frequently since I started working for her on Monday. The look that’s part sympathetic, part shock and maybe the tiniest hint of pity.
“Hell, it’s Friday. I’ll close up the shop early and we’ll go this afternoon,” she says.
She doesn’t ask why I need her help. I’m pretty sure she’s learned over the past week that I’m not exactly well versed in most things I should be at my age. In the week I’ve worked for her; she’s introduced me to music, taught me a dozen colloquial terms I’d never heard before and even gave me my own lip gloss when I complimented hers. I’ve worn it every day but have to be extra careful to remove it all before I get home.
I thank Bea for agreeing to help me and set off to finish my next round of deliveries.
Before I make it to the back door, a large man comes bursting through it.
“You better be upstairs and naked in five minutes,” he yells as he kicks off his shoes and pulls his shirt up over his head. He doesn’t see me.
I’m stuck frozen in the narrow hallway that leads to the back door. Seeing the broad naked chest of the man in my path has me transfixed. He doesn’t notice me as he gets his head stuck in his tight shirt.
“I’ve only got a thirty-minute break before I have to be back at work and I want to eat you for lunch,” the strange half naked man says as he continues to struggle to get free of his shirt while simultaneously kicking off his shoes.
“Bea,” I yelp, finally finding my voice.
The stranger freezes. I hear Bea walk up behind me and rather than being as alarmed as I am, she bursts into loud laughter.
“Bea,” the man says, his shirt still tangled over his head. He’s as frozen as I am now.
Bea manages to calm her laughter for a moment.
“Nate, put your shirt back down before you scare off my only employee,” Bea says, standing next to me now, her arms crossed over her chest.
The man finds his way back into his shirt, pulling it down to cover his muscular stomach, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Nate, this is Aubrey. Aubrey, this is my fiance Nate.”
Nate lets out a strange, almost growl-like sound at the word fiance. It’s a little odd, but he recovers quickly when Bea narrows her eyes at him. It must be another social thing I don’t understand.
The now not half naked man, Nate, extends his hand toward me. I take it hesitantly, my cheeks still burning from seeing his bare stomach and chest. When his large hand wraps around mine firmly, I find it difficult to make eye contact with him.
“Go upstairs Nate, I’ll lock up and be up in a minute,” Bea says, still struggling to contain her laughter.
Nate turns his attention to me.
“Uh, sorry about–” he mumbles before heading up the stairs to the loft above the bakery.
