1
TYLER MORROW
There were a million reasons why this was a shitty idea, but I didn’t have much of a choice.
I’d lost my job at a doughnut shop—it shut down—and if I didn’t find another gig quick, I’d end up on the streets. I’d done that for about two years, and I refused to go back.
Never again.
Sucking off randos never got me anywhere but beat up, and the shelter I’d lived in wasn’t available anymore. They only accepted teenagers, and I was twenty. Too old.
While my roommate, Foster, was a decent guy, no cash meant I couldn’t pay rent, and he’d find someone else. I hated the situation and so did he. But that was life. If I knew anything aboutthatbitch, it was that she loved to fuck me right up the ass without lube.
Today I was downtown, looking every bit as out of place as I felt in my worn jeans, holey winter boots, and a button-up shirt I’d found on sale, all topped by a secondhand coat. I hated the part where I begged for work while dressed as a pauper. I couldn’t prove I was a good employee if my outfit didn’t showeffort, or at least, that’s what I’d learned most bosses thought. Not everyone could afford a nice suit—or even a shitty used one.
New Gothenburg was covered in sparkling Christmas lights, as if the businesses on this block had coordinated. The multicolored bulbs blinked rapidly, which hurt my good eye. Farther down was a Santa standing on a street corner, laughing and handing out candy canes to curious children who waddled up to him. He was probably raising money for something because the woman standing next to him was holding a green bucket.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and ignored the attention I was getting. It wasn’t unusual, especially with the burn scars spread across the right half of my face that twisted my skin and cut into my bottom lip.
I was a monster.
Except, I wasn’t. Not inside.
I’d never hurt a soul, no matter how much pain had been inflicted on me. Strangers didn’t care about my life story, though. They saw my wrecked face and made assumptions.
A single piece of paper was heavy in the pocket of my pants, and I pulled it out to go over the list of names. I didn’t need the physical copy anymore. The information was etched into my brain. The people who’d ruined my life. It wasn’t only my outsides that were burned, but my insides were scorched, too.
Because of this list, I had so much pain.
1. Mike Shanahan
2.James Orr
I’d crossed him off because.... Well, my friend Ari and his boyfriend had already dealt with him last year.
3. Aaron Newland
4. Mario Wilkerson
5. Warren Andrews
6. Eddison Wheelwright
And the most important one of all, the one who’d destroyed my life as I knew it?—
7. Chuck Wheelwright
Someone bumped me, and I mumbled an apology. I had problems seeing out of my right eye and it had become natural for me to take the blame.
The guy grunted out “fuck off.”
What a nice fella. I rolled my eyes, shoved the list back in my pocket, and contemplatedÉlégant. I’d peeked inside yesterday afternoon and caught a glimpse of the “understated glamour” they bragged about on their website. Apparently, that meant white tablecloths and red glass hurricane lamps as centerpieces.
The chances of getting a job at the bistro were high because the pay for dishwashers was shit and I doubted many sane people had applied. You’d have to be desperate to give this job a chance.
Unfortunately, Iwasthat desperate.
I took a step forward, then hesitated. Was this how my life was going to be? Struggling? Of course it was. I used to joke with Mom that our family was cursed. One of our ancestors had pissed off a witch and we were stuck living a shitty life. Mom didn’t have to worry about it anymore. She’d drunk herself to death on cheap booze. But I’d left her life before that, when shewas still married to Chuck Wheelwright, the insane detective who’d made it a habit to track her. She’d divorced him at some point after I’d left, so at least he wasn’t my stepfather now.
