Playing with Fire

Breathing deeply of the cinnamon-and-vanilla-scented air, I passed several men and women who were using the tables as mini work spaces, their computers, faxes and shredders surrounding them. I stepped into Ron’s small, cramped office.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Pretty?”

“It’s Peaty, and shut the door, “ he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He plopped onto his chair, the cluttered desktop shielding his belly paunch. His black gaze remained lowered, not touching any part of me.

Shit.

Palms now sweating, I did as commanded. The smells of dust and cloying aftershave immediately assaulted me, wiping away any lingering hint of baked goods. Without waiting to be told, I claimed the only other seat in the room. A stiff, uncomfortable step stool I liked to call the Naughty Chair. File cabinets pressed close on both sides of me, making me feel pinned.

I studied Ron. He had thin lips, and right now those lips were pressed tightly together, barely visible slashes of pink in the contours of his rotund face. His sandy hair stood on end, as if he’d plowed his fingers through it one too many times. Lines of tension bracketed his eyes, and his brow was furrowed.

Ron had been pissed at me a lot these last few weeks, but he’d never radiated such disgruntled irritation. Such grim determination. I recognized the look, though. I’d gotten it from other bosses over the last year, right before they fired me.

I smothered a sigh. I hadn’t always been a bad employee. For nearly five years, I’d worked as a waitress during the day and a maid during the evening. I’d made enough to pay for my living expenses and support my dad, as well as build a nice savings account—a savings account I’d used up during my (forced) hiatus, aka the two months that it had taken me to land this job at the café.

Why couldn’t I hold back my restlessness anymore? Why couldn’t I quash my discontent, as I had for so many years, and stop sabotaging my only source of revenue?

Though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew the answer. I’d woken up one morning and realized life was passing me by, moving at high speed while I wallowed behind. Dissatisfaction had filled me—and had only grown since.

“I’m sorry for anything and everything I might have done, “ I said, when Ron opened his mouth to speak.

“You’re late, “ he growled. “Again.”

The fact that I didn’t utter, “Thanks for stating the obvious, “ should have earned me major good-girl points. “I know, and I really am sorry.” When his expression didn’t soften, when he still didn’t glance in my direction, my heart slammed against my ribs. “I worked another job late into the morning and had trouble waking up.”

He stared at the wall clock just behind my head and adjusted his chocolate-smeared tie. “While I like the image of you lingering in bed—”

Sick bastard. Gross. Just … gross. I might have thrown up in my mouth. And yes, I understand the irony here. You brought it on yourself, Jamison. What else did you expect, unleashing the girls like that? Suddenly hoping to hide them from view, I hunched my shoulders.

Wait, Ron’s mouth was moving. He hadn’t stopped talking.

“—that’s just not a good enough excuse. I mean, I can make an exception for it once, twice, but we’ve had this same conversation seven times now. And you’ve only worked here a few weeks.”

“I’ll be on time tomorrow, you have my word. I’ll go without sleep if necessary.” Did I sound as desperate to Ron as I did to myself? Probably. Damn it. I hated to let him see my desperation. Hated, hated, hated. The more desperate he knew I was, the more he could pull my strings and make me dance like a performing monkey.

He tapped a pen against his desktop. “That’s what you said last time. This is a small, independent operation, Belle, and we rely on our employees to provide superior service to keep us in business.”

“I do provide superior service, “ I gulped, adding, “when I’m here.”

Frowning, he dropped the pen and pushed a hand through his hair, causing more of the sandy locks to spike straight toward the ceiling. “You think you’re good with customers? Really?”

“Yes, really.” I knew what was happening here. He teetered on the brink of firing me and was simply trying to work up the courage to utter the words. And, I realized with shattering fear, I might not be able to talk him out of it this time. By this point in our previous talks, he was usually sending me on my way with a stern (but perverted) warning.

Had his irritation given him a supersonic determination no amount of sweet-talking persuasion could penetrate?

My eyes narrowed; my hands clenched into fists. I wouldn’t allow him to get rid of me easily. Somehow, some way, I was going to penetrate that wall of nefarious determination. I could not lose this job. Lately very few businesses were willing to take a chance on me, so I could only imagine how long it would take to land another.

“Stupid jobs, “ I muttered.

“What was that?” Ron asked, his gaze sharpening.

Had I said that aloud? “Oh, uh, nothing.” I straightened in the chair. “You were saying?”

He pushed out a sigh. “You have no people skills, Belle. Instead of smoothing ruffled feathers, you set them on fire.”

“I’m telling you, I’m a good employee, “ I said through clenched teeth. And that wasn’t a lie. Sure, I usually arrived late, always cussed, sometimes bitched and—and this is not an admission of guilt—(allegedly) borrowed from the stock room. But I worked weekends, holidays and overtime whenever possible. That counted for something, right?

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” Ron flipped open a file and ran a blunt-tipped finger down the front page. “Complaint—server is rude and pushy. Complaint—server made tea instead of coffee. Complaint— server is rude. Complaint—server is rude. Complaint—server is rude. Shall I go on?”

“I don’t let the customers yell and scream at me.” Indignation gave me a sense of bravery, and I sat up even straighter, shoulders squared. Did people have nothing better to do with their lives than complain about a lowly server? “That doesn’t make me rude, it makes me human.”

“Jenni doesn’t yell at customers even when they yell at her.”

“Jenni is a brown-nosing moron.”

Another sigh. “Belle—” Finally, his gaze landed on me and out of habit slid straight to the girls. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a dinghy in a tidal wave. “Uh, what was I saying?”

I almost grinned, every muscle in my body relaxing. Penetration complete. And so much easier than I’d anticipated.

Being looked at was far different from hearing his sex-offender voice comment about me lingering in bed. This I could handle. “I believe you were about to tell me to get to work and never be late again. I planned to respond by telling you that you’re the best boss in the world and I’ll make you proud.”

“Yes, I wanted to tell you to get to—” Eyes widening, he shook his head. “That’s not what I meant to say, “ he said, a stern edge creeping into his voice. But he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like brought down by a pair of pretty knockers. “I should fire you, you know. Hell, that’s why I brought you in here.”

“I know, “ I admitted softly. I didn’t mean to be such a disappointment to him. Honest. I just, well, I had always dreamed of being a— Wait. My eyebrows drew together. Even as a little girl, I hadn’t been able to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still didn’t know. But being a peon stuck in a cycle of debt and endless servitude hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, part of my life’s ambition.

Don’t get me wrong. For my dad, I’d sign my soul over to the devil. Permanent ink. No “out” clause. Dad had toiled and slaved for years in construction, even when his weak heart caused him more pain than one person should ever have to bear. He’d worked so hard because he loved me, because he’d wanted me to have pretty clothes and take fun trips with my friends. But mostly because he’d wanted to make up for the car accident that had killed my mom when I was a toddler.

After I graduated high school, I had convinced him to quit, and I’d happily taken care of him ever since. I didn’t regret it; truly I didn’t, but my life had fallen into such a rut that sometimes I did wish for something extraordinary to happen to me. Something amazing, perhaps a little wild. What, I didn’t know.

I frowned. No more wishing for things I couldn’t have. From this point on, I would be a better employee. I would work harder, be less confrontational. Screw restlessness! Ron was giving me another chance, and I wouldn’t let him down.

“I swear, Belle, you keep my ulcer in fighting form, “ he said darkly. He reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a packet of Tums and popped several in his mouth. “Why can’t I be more like the Donald and just say it? You’re fired. Boom. You’re fired. So easy in theory.” He sighed yet again, this one a dejected exhalation that made his shoulders sag. “This is your last chance. If you screw this up—”

“I won’t. Swear to God.” I didn’t mention that I needed to leave a wee bit early today if I hoped to make my interview with Ambassador Suites, a nearby hotel. I’d bring up that little gem later. I’d double up my coffee-making or something to earn the early departure. “I’ll be so good you’ll nominate me for Employee of the Week. Maybe Employee of the Month.”

“Yeah. Right.” He popped a few more Tums and eyed the girls again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Go. Open a register before I change my mind.”

Grinning, I blew him a kiss, bounded out of my chair and raced to the door. Thank God for perverts.

I SPENT THE NEXT SEVERAL hours being a good little robot, smiling a sunshine-and-roses smile and waving customers to my register like a Miss America contestant. All under Ron’s hawklike eyes. Once, I came close to bitch-slapping a woman who had the nerve to ask me if I moved that slow for everyone or if she was just special.

You’re certainly a special pain in my ass, I’d wanted to say. But I didn’t. I restrained myself from violence (see “bitch-slap” comment above), consoled by the thought that such an evil witch would surely acquire deep, deep wrinkles and lose all her teeth and hair before she kicked it.

My friend Sherridan—the only friend I had, really, since she didn’t mind the fact that I had no free time—would have been proud of me for remaining silent and not launching myself forward, a catapult of retribution. When we were in grade school, she’d told me the devil on my right shoulder must have brutally strangled the angel on my left, destroying any hint of moral influence.

I plead the Fifth on that.

Speaking of Sherridan, she strolled into the café a few minutes later, spotted me and waved. She was talking on her cell. She was tall and gorgeous with blond curls and curves that went on forever, curves that were now encased in an emerald pants suit. She marched to me, bypassing the line to stand beside my register, and hooked her cell to her waist. “Hey, you, “ she said with a warm smile.