Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Maybe she’s his girlfriend and will want to fight if I tell her the truth?
“Sunday.” Truth is always best.
She nods, holds up a finger, and closes the door in my face.
On the other side, several bangs sound, and I half expect Crew to be the one who yanks the door open this time, but not a single part expected the gorgeous girl to come back. Just as naked as before, she shoves an old shoebox into my chest.
“Tell this Crew to take his ass to the post office already. The next thing I get of his, I’m shredding and using as a shit pad in my hamster’s cage.”
“Uh… okay?”
She slams the door.
I look up at the number hanging above it, double-checking it’s the right one, it is, and peeking into the shoebox on my way back to my car confirms as much.
Placing it in the passenger seat, I drop back against my own.
‘This Crew,’ she said.
So she doesn’t know him.
So Crew moved.
When?
Why?
Where?
I consider calling and asking him all these questions, but instead, tear into the cookie bag on the drive home, officially claiming his surprise treats as my own.
What’s worse? I’m almost as relieved to discover he no longer lives where the feisty green-haired girl is sleeping half-naked as I am annoyed I was unaware he didn’t.
Almost.
My favorite class is my humanities one. In part, because Mrs. Anna, as she insists on being called, is hilarious, but mostly because it’s a totally random class I’m only taking to satisfy the elective credit needed for graduation.
I’m not sure what you are supposed to do or learn in a humanities class, but we pretty much search for and stare at ancient artwork all day, coming up with a sophisticated outlook or perception of why it was created and what it could signify.
Basically, we use our imagination to stimulate our professors, and I’m all for it. It’s sort of cleansing to complete a task that literally has nothing to do with anything outside of challenging our own intellect. Unfortunately for me, today, I’m only able to pop in before class begins to turn in my assignment, and then I’m rushing toward the student parking lot—after asking permission to do so, of course. Mrs. Anna just laughed and waved me on.
Rachel, my boss at the diner, works with my schedule pretty well, but every now and then, she’s forced to add me at times employment paperwork notes I’m unavailable. She knows when she does it, I’ve been here since winter break my freshman year and to convince her to give a student the job—something she hates to do—I had to agree to keep my schedule as is. If I tried to change it, it would be grounds for termination.
I agreed, and honestly, it makes my life easier, but like I said, sometimes I’m her only option, so if I can make it in, I do.
The relief on her face as I push through the door this fine Thursday says it all; she’s damn happy I pulled it off this afternoon.
Tying my apron behind my back, I quickly jump behind the counter, using the tablet bolted there to clock in. “Okay, fill me in. What do we got?”
“One fryer is down. Sarah had to leave to pick up a sick kid, and Marla is two seconds from losing her mind if she doesn’t get a break.”
“Lunch, Rachel.” Marla swoops by, snagging a batch of chili cheese fries and a pile of napkins. “I need to take my lunch.”
“Right. Lunch.” Rachel looks at me mid-count of the money. “Got it?”
“Got it. Work Sarah’s section today, cover Marla’s for the next thirty, and convince people they would rather have fresh fruit than fries.”
“Attagirl, I’m going to call Stephanie to see if she can come in an hour early tonight, and I’ll be back on the floor.”
“And I’m clocked out!” Marla whisper-shouts, disappearing through the double doors behind Rachel.
So, I get right to work.
I need the distraction anyway.
Anything to keep from wondering why there’s a pile of unopened mail with Crew’s name on it on the floorboard of my car… and where I can score myself a jewelry-like G-string.
Chapter Nine
Crew
She’s hustling around like a pro, hitting table after table, never once having to be called back for forgetting whatever it is these needy fuckers ask for. So much so, she’s snuck around the counter twice now to stealthily swipe away the hint of sweat building where the loose strands of her mini ponytail are pushed behind her ear.
I’ve been tucked in a corner booth on the opposite side of where she’s working for about an hour now, and not once has she stopped moving, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I’ve followed her every move, waiting to see her make a face when she turns away from a hungover punk, or overworked trucker, but if she is annoyed or irritated, she doesn’t show it.