Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
No words come to defend myself. It wasn’t exactly a bender, but I did have more alcohol than I normally would drink. I know my eyes are bloodshot and I’m probably sweating out vodka under his furious stare.
“I want you to give me the key to the store,” he says, holding out his hand, palm up.
“What? Why?” I stammer, words suddenly pouring out of my mouth in a panic. “I’m so sorry I was late. I swear it won’t happen again.”
“That’s right. It won’t happen again because you’re fired.”
“Stan! No. Please don’t fire me. Demote me if you have to, but I need this job.”
Like, I need this job so badly that without it, I can’t pay my rent. I unfortunately had to pay for a new tire last week, and it drained most of my meager savings.
“You should have thought about that when you overslept,” he snaps. “Now give me the key and get out of here. I’ll mail your last paycheck to you.”
I almost start crying. That last paycheck will only be for three days of work.
“Please don’t do this,” I say, my eyes starting to sting. I’ve tried so hard to make a go of it here in Pittsburgh after Derek kicked me out, needing to prove to my parents and myself that I wasn’t a complete screwup. “I’ll work overtime at regular pay. I’ll work extra shifts if you need.”
“Your key.” Stan snaps his fingers and looks down at his palm.
I blink rapidly to push back the tears, nodding as I open my purse. I pull out my keys and remove the one that opens The Grind. I drop it in his palm and turn for the door.
Stan doesn’t say another word to me.
My stomach is churning by the time I hit the sidewalk, and for a moment, I don’t know what to do. I actually can’t even recall where my car is, but then I remember it’s in a parking garage two blocks over, which is where I’d met Cannon last night for drinks.
I think about him right now, taking a luxurious shower, probably eating some breakfast. I thought I’d feel bitter about it, but I can’t.
I had an amazing time last night. I might have been slightly drunk, but I recognize that was the best sex of my life. Maybe it was the alcohol—or maybe it was Cannon.
Regardless, given that I lost my job and won’t be seeing him for morning coffee the way I used to, I figure he’s now become a part of my past.
Bereft, I trudge along the sidewalk to the parking garage. My car is on the third level—a four-year-old Nissan Maxima with its shiny new tire winking at me. I ran over a nail that went in near the rim at an angle so it couldn’t be patched, and there went $235. I resolve myself to meals of ramen noodles for the rest of the month. At the very least, I’ve got room on my credit card if I need to take a cash advance to make rent, but after that, I’m tapped out.
A new job is an absolute priority.
Once I’m in my car and southwest of the city, I make a dreaded phone call.
My brother’s voice comes through with a slight crackle over the Bluetooth. “What’s up, Sis?”
“I got fired.”
There’s a lengthy pause before Rob says, “I can catch a flight there the day after tomorrow. I’ll help you pack and drive you home.”
I sigh, rubbing my temple. It’s not what I wanted to hear. “I don’t want to move back home, Rob.”
“I swear no one will say a word,” he promises. He was as vocal as my parents when I wanted to move to Pittsburgh to be with Derek. He disliked him more than my parents did and thought I was making a colossal mistake.
But God, it pissed me off that none of them had any confidence that I could make my own choices. I could make them and own up to them if they were wrong. Instead, they just wanted to be right.
“Can I borrow some money?” I ask. “Only enough to get my rent paid. I’m sure I’ll land another job quickly.”
“You’ve been trying to find a decent job since that asshole broke up with you.”
“I broke up with him,” I remind my brother.
“Whatever. The point is, why are you struggling with things like a coffee shop? You can come home and work with the family.”
“I don’t want to be a real estate agent.” My exasperation is on overdrive because we’ve had this conversation many times. My parents own one of the largest real estate companies in the state and Rob is an agent there. It was sort of expected I’d follow in his footsteps, but I had no desire to sell homes.
“Fine,” he snaps with irritation. “Don’t be a real estate agent. But come home and at least have a solid place to live without worrying about your next paycheck.”