Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Public places could save fucking lives, they really could.
“Leave it,” she said under her breath. “Denne, you leave this alone.”
Except maybe it was the fact that the woman’s skin was dark like her own. Or that fragile perch on the chair, like she was about to shatter. Or the fucking poser’s arrogance…
When she got back into the kitchen, she headed down the hall that led to her little office and the rear exit of the restaurant. Just inside her door, her parka was hanging off a hook that had been screwed into the concrete wall, and she grabbed her phone out of a pocket. Even though she had a feeling what the hand signal meant, she looked the thing up online.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered as she clicked her screen off.
She was shoving her cell back into the puffy jacket when the door in from the parking lot opened wide and one of the other servers hustled in along with a lot of cold and a swirl of snowflakes.
“Oh my God, thank you for covering!” The young man stomped his boots on the matting and started unwinding a red scarf from his neck. “Me and Nick are totally scrambling with the wedding coming up. I never knew it would be so exhausting—”
When the fast syllables dried up, she looked properly at her friend. Willie Newley was six feet twelve hundred inches tall, as his fiancé always said, thin as a soda straw, and dressed in the mandatory black server’s uniform. Ichabod Crane meets dopamine: He was always in a good mood, and he carried his optimism and cheerful vibe like a rainbow he intended to share a feel-great head cold.
The smile faded. “Girl. What’s going on.”
“Oh, nothing. S’all good—”
“Nuh-uh. Your face is scrunched up like when you have to close out receipts for the month.” He put his hands on his hips. “You have three hours to tell me. If you haven’t by the end of the shift, I’m calling Nick in on this.”
Denne laughed a little. “Okay, there is no reason to escalate that far this fast.”
“I should have known better than to put you on the floor.” He yanked the scarf off and started peeling his layers. “You don’t do well with people. At least you can stay in your sanctuary for the rest of the night now.”
“I’m keeping sixteen.”
“What are you talkin’ ’bout.” Willie waved away the comment. “Your computer is waiting. Those numbers can’t add up themselves.”
“I’m just going to finish things with that one.” She stepped out into the hall and put her hand up. “That’s it.”
Willie stared at her for a long moment, like he was an internal medicine specialist looking for a disease.
“Okay, you do you.” He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “And I owe you. But you’re still going to tell me what’s up.”
“We are totally even, actually.” She leaned into all of his bones as they started walking together. “You didn’t ask me to be in your wedding party. That’s priceless.”
“See, I do love you.”
They separated as he broke away to head for the locker room and she went out into the kitchen to the garde-manger. As she made up the woman’s plate of mesclun, one of the newer hires, Christia, was almost finished with the asshole’s antipasto.
Oh, if only she were in s’Hisbe, Denne thought. As a Shadow, she had a whole lexicon of “spices” she could have added to that plate.
Shadows were great cooks, after all. Particularly if they were preparing their enemies to be the protein source.
With the greens-no-dressing all set, she crossed her arms over her chest and eased back against the counter while Christia finished with the display of cured meats and marinated peppers and olives. All around, the kitchen was ordered chaos, kind of like her mind. Everything had its purpose, and there was a system governing it all, but total disintegration was just one hiccup away, one stalled decision, one misstep.
Like getting involved in that young woman’s three-hundred-pound, misogynistic problem.
“You want me to take them out?” Christia said.
The girl had started about six months ago, and she was a good worker. Always on time, no drama, working her way through SUNY Caldwell. It was hard to say whether she would be here for six months or become another Julianne, who was a lifer.
“No, I’ll do it.” Denne forced a casual smile. Which was a nice trick considering her fangs had fully dropped. “Thanks.”
Before she put everything on a tray, she snagged an empty ramekin and ladled out a serving of the red wine vinaigrette. Tilting the little crock-ware container on the edge of the salad plate, she snagged the antipasto, got the load up on her shoulder, and butt-first’d the flap doors. As she entered the dining room, the chatter of the customers was something she’d been hearing for the past decade, and there was a peacefulness to the white noise. She couldn’t say she loved Sal’s. That was her father, iAm. But she was used to it, and there was something to be said for the predictable.