I round the corner, the neon sign of Joe’s Diner coming into view. Through the grimy windows, I can see Rosie darting between tables, her flaming red hair a beacon in the dingy interior. She looks up, spots me, and her eyes widen.
I burst through the door, the bell jangling like it’s trying to announce my tardiness to the whole fucking world.
“Well, well, well,” a gravelly voice drawls from behind the counter. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”
I turn, panting, to face Joe. He’s a barrel-chested man with a permanent scowl etched into his leathery face. Right now, that scowl is directed squarely at me.
“Sorry, Joe,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “Family stuff; won’t happen again.”
He snorts, clearly not buying it. “Save it, princess. You’re lucky I don’t fire your ass right now.”
“Aw, come on, Joe,” Rosie pipes up, sliding behind the counter with an empty coffee pot. “Cut her some slack. You know she’s good for business.”
Joe’s scowl deepens, if that’s even possible. “Yeah, yeah. Just get to work. Table 3’s been waiting for their refill for five minutes.”
I nod, grabbing an apron from the hook and tying it around my waist. As I pass Rosie, she leans in close.
“You owe me big time,” she hisses. “I’ve been covering your ass for the last fifteen minutes.”
“I know, I know,” I mutter. “I’ll make it up to you.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “You better. Now get moving before Joe blows a gasket.”
I grab a coffee pot and plaster on my best fake smile as I approach Table 3. It’s occupied by a couple of truckers who look like they’ve been on the road for days.
“Sorry for the wait, gentlemen,” I chirp, filling their mugs. “Can I get you anything else?”
One of them, a burly guy with a ZZ Top beard, leers at me. “How about your number, sweetheart?”
“You’re cute,” I say, lips curving into a smirk. “But I’m not that kind of gal. Unless you wanna get burned with some coffee. Your call.”
As I turn away, I catch Rosie’s eye. She’s grinning, having overheard the exchange.
I shoot her a wink.
But the exhaustion hits me like a freight train, and I can’t stifle the massive yawn that escapes. Of course, that’s the exact moment Joe decides to poke his head out of the kitchen.
“Am I boring you, princess?” he growls, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.
I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. “You know me, Joe. Living for the thrills of grease and coffee stains.”
He grunts, but I catch the hint of amusement in his eyes before he disappears back into his domain. Asshole’s got a soft spot; he just hides it well.
I pour another round of burned coffee for the regulars at the counter, fighting to keep my eyes open. Two hours of sleep ain’t shit, but it’s all I got. My feet are already aching in these cheap-ass shoes, and we’re not even through the morning rush.
“Order up!” Joe bellows from the kitchen, his voice grating on my last nerve.
I grab the plates, loaded with greasy eggs and hash browns, and shuffle over to Table 5. “Here ya go, folks. Enjoy,” I mutter, plastering on a smile that feels more like a grimace.
As I turn, I catch Rosie’s eye. She gives me a sympathetic look. “You look like death, hon,” she says, low enough that Joe can’t hear.
I snort. “Feel like it, too. Thanks for covering my ass earlier.”
She waves it off. “Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me.” She glances at the clock. “Lunch break in an hour. Joe’s making his famous meatloaf.”
I nod, grateful. It’s one of the reasons I stick around this dump. Joe might be a grouchy bastard, but he feeds us. Saves me from having to buy lunch, which means more cash in my pocket.
Speaking of cash, I feel the wad of bills pressing against my back, tucked into my jeans. I resist the urge to check it for the hundredth time. Paranoia’s a bitch, but in my world, you can’t be too careful.
