“You didn’t ask. You handed me a biohazard and made it sound like a promotion.”
His mouth flattened around a breaded cheese stick, reminding her that he made the schedule and she needed the shifts. She needed rent money more than the satisfaction of winning any argument over trash.
She tightened her grip on the bag and shoved through the back door with her hip. Then she only made it two steps before some random guy appeared out of the shadows and the sound of sirens cut through the night.
After her outburst, he stared at her like she was the crazy one.
“Go back in the restaurant,” he ordered.
“Excuse me?”
“Go back inside,” he repeated. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered and built like he ate conflict for breakfast, the stranger stood between her and the dumpster—
Andthe dead body.
Not that she hadn’t seen more than her fair share since starting this job. Antonio’s was known for its homemade pasta—not its safe location.
She started forward.
“Stop.”
Her body obeyed even though her mind said not to.
The trash bag swung against her leg.
She didn’t listen to men who had no authority over her, or make her schedule.
Maybe his deep voice and shoulders wider than the doorway she’d just walked through were responsible.
“No.” She took another step forward.
His brows pulled together. “No?”
“That means I understood the instruction and rejected it.”
His jaw firmed, and under different circumstances—if she saw him in a club or even sitting at one of her tables—she might have enjoyed annoying him. Tonight she was too tired, too broke and too aware that the dinner rush had been weak even before sirens started screeching outside the restaurant.
She stepped around him, but he moved with her.
Stina looked up at him.Wayup. “I assume you called the cops on another junkie in our dumpster. If you did, congratulations on being civic-minded, but I still have to dump this and get back to my tables.”
For one second, he looked like she’d slapped him with the garbage bag. Then he darted a look around like they were under siege. “You need to go inside.”
“You need to stop telling me what to do. It’s giving serial killer, and I’m already having a bad night.” She edged past him before he could block her again, though the sudden view at the mouth of the alley made her slow.
Police cars lined the street behind the restaurant, their lights flashing. Customers were gathering, their phones raised like this was free entertainment instead of a massive pain in her wallet.
There went her only chance at making enough tip money to cover rent. She spotted the couple from table twelve, the ones who promised to order dessert, and the guys from the cornerbooth that always ordered a second round if she smiled at them enough.
Now everybody was drifting toward the scene. Nothing killed a dinner vibe faster than police lights and a dead body near the kitchen exit.
The door opened behind her and her manager appeared, his nervous gaze bouncing from the stranger to the cops to the dumpster. That bothered her more than the police cars because he only got nervous when money, inspectors or lawsuits were involved, and two out of three could get her sent home early.
She shifted the bag higher and looked at the body. The dead man didn’t look down-and-out. He had good boots and a nice watch. His clothes were clean and he wore a military haircut. Not the usual poor soul who curled up somewhere warm and didn’t wake up.
More black SUVs rolled up at the mouth of the alley.
People poured out of the vehicles. Stina saw the lettering across their jackets and dropped the bag on the ground.
