But then, just as the doors closed and I thought I was safe, he walked back in. I froze and went wide-eyed, convinced that he’d been polite to lull me into a false sense of security and would now kill me.
Instead, he just smiled at me and put his hands on his hips—not revealing his gun, but also close enough that he could pull some shit if he wanted to.
“I hope we never see you when there aren’t customers or cameras around,” he said. “That attitude of yours needs some fixing.”
“Fuck off, Damian.”
“One star on Yelp it is!” he said, cackling to himself as he turned, the sound of his motorcycle confirming his departure.
I slumped back into the office, resting on a chair and burying my head in my hands. Did I really want to put my life at risk every time I came to work? Was the money really that worth it?
At the very least, I needed some goddamn security at this place.
And while I wasn’t going to get the Rogers deal of paying Brock or Steele to come and cover me, perhaps I could accomplish something similar with a little bit of flirting and a little bit of smiling.
I hoped, at least.
