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Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Cleo
T he rag caught on something sticky again—probably maple syrup from the morning rush that had hardened into cement over the past eighteen hours.
I scraped at it with my thumbnail, feeling the familiar ache spread from my lower back up through my shoulders.
Booth seven was always the worst. Something about the angle of the sun through the window baked every spill into permanence.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps, one tube flickering in a rhythm that made my left eye twitch.
I'd been here since six yesterday morning, pulling a double because Sandra's kid got sick and Mel wouldn't call in anyone else.
My feet had gone numb around hour fourteen.
Now they just existed as vague points of pressure in my worn sneakers.
"Hey sweetheart, how about a refill before you close up?"
The trucker in booth three waved his empty coffee mug, his other hand resting on his substantial gut.
I'd been dodging his comments all evening—started with compliments about my smile, escalated to suggestions about what I could do after my shift.
The wedding ring on his finger caught the light as he gestured.
"Kitchen's closed," I said without looking up from my scrubbing. "Coffee maker's already off, I’m afraid."
"Aw, come on. Pretty girl like you can't spare five minutes for a paying customer?"
I moved to booth eight, putting more distance between us.
The vinyl seats wheezed as I leaned across to wipe down the far corner.
Someone had carved "T.J. + M.K. 4EVR" into the table years ago.
I traced the grooves with my cloth, wondering if they'd made it to forever or ended up like most things in this town—broken and bitter.
"Sorry, sir, I said no." My voice stayed level, professional. Three years of practice had taught me the exact tone that discouraged without provoking.
He muttered something I pretended not to hear and finally shuffled toward the door, leaving a crumpled five under his mug.
I waited until the bell chimed his exit before collecting it, adding it to the pathetic pile in my apron pocket.
Mostly quarters tonight, a few wrinkled ones, and now this five that smelled mostly of like cigarettes.
Twenty-three dollars and change for eighteen hours of work, on top of my $2. 13 hourly that barely covered taxes.
I moved through the closing routine on autopilot.
Refill the ketchup bottles—tilting them just right so the old stuff mixed with the new.
Wipe down the coffee station—being careful around the crack in the counter that would slice my hand if I wasn't paying attention.
Stack the chairs—red vinyl on the left wall, blue on the right, Mel's system that made no sense but had to be followed.
The coffee maker gurgled its death rattle as I dumped the last pot. Brown sludge swirled down the drain, leaving rings I'd have to scrub in the morning. Always in the morning. Everything in this place was about tomorrow's shift, next week's schedule, pushing through until the next meager paycheck.
I pulled out the Windex for the windows, catching my reflection in the glass.
Dark circles under my eyes, hair escaping from the ponytail I'd redone twice today.
Twenty-two years old and I looked like I'd already lived a lifetime.
Through the smears and handprints, I could see my van in the parking lot.
Faded blue paint, rust eating through the wheel wells, back left tire looking dangerously low.
My stomach clenched. Gas gauge had been hovering near empty when I'd parked this morning. The twenty-three dollars in my pocket might get me through the week if I was careful, if I didn't eat much, if nothing else broke. Always if, if, if.
The register counted out perfectly—Mel would check the cameras if it was even fifty cents off.
I recorded the totals in his grimy ledger, my handwriting neat between the grease stains and coffee rings.
$247.63 in sales for the whole day. Mel would complain about the slow business, blame us for not upselling desserts, never mind that most of our customers were counting their own quarters just to afford coffee.
The back office door scraped against its frame—a sound that set off a Pavlovian anxiety response in me. Mel emerged sideways, his gut preceding him through the narrow opening, clutching a manila envelope that made my chest tighten before he even opened his mouth.
His apron had new stains since this morning—ketchup, grease, what looked like egg yolk. The envelope crinkled in his meaty fingers as he waddled toward the counter where I was finishing the register count.
"Cleo, sweetheart." He wouldn't meet my eyes, focusing instead on a spot somewhere over my left shoulder. "I got some bad news."
My hands stilled on the stack of ones.
"The landlord's selling." The words came out in a rush, like ripping off a bandage. "Some fancy coffee chain, they made an offer he couldn't refuse. We're done here—last day is Friday."
The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting shadows across his face. For a moment, I couldn't process the words. They floated in the air between us, meaningless sounds that refused to form into reality.
"Selling?" My voice sounded strange, distant. "But you said business was picking up. You said—"
"I said a lot of things." He slid the envelope across the counter, avoiding my fingers like poverty might be contagious. "Final paycheck's in there. Calculated everything out to the penny, including the hours you're working this week."
I stared at the envelope. Mel's Diner stamped in the corner, my name written in his cramped handwriting. Inside was everything I'd earned in the past two weeks, minus taxes, minus the uniform deposit he'd never returned, minus whatever else he could legally subtract.
"What about the others?" The words pushed past the tightness in my throat. "Rita's been here fifteen years. Sandra's got three kids."
Mel shrugged, the movement making his chins wobble. "Not my problem anymore. They'll figure it out. People always do."
People always do. Like Rita with her arthritis, popping ibuprofen between orders.
Like Sandra who brought her youngest to work during school breaks because childcare cost more than she made in a shift.
Like me, already calculating how many days I could stretch my final paycheck, how many job applications I could fill out before Friday, how many times I could smile through interviews and pretend I wasn't desperate.
"You're young." Mel's attempt at consolation made it worse. "Pretty girl like you, plenty of places would hire you. Maybe try that new steakhouse on Route 9. Heard they're looking for waitresses."
The steakhouse that required experience with wine service and hired girls who looked good in tight black skirts. The one where the manager's hands wandered and the girls pretended not to notice because the tips were better than anywhere else in town.
"Yeah," I managed. "I'll look into it."
He nodded, satisfied that he'd done his duty. "Anyway, I'll be in the office if you need anything. Got to start going through the inventory, figure out what I can sell off."
The office door scraped shut behind him. I stood alone in the dying diner, holding an envelope that contained my immediate future. My hands shook as I opened it, even though I already knew it wouldn't be enough. It was never enough.
$436.27 after deductions. Two weeks of doubles, of aching feet and fake smiles, of dodging grabby customers and scrubbing stubborn stains.
Rent was due in ten days—$850 for a studio apartment with a broken air conditioner and neighbors who fought every night.
Gas, food, the minimum payment on the credit card I'd maxed out during Mom's last hospital stay.
The numbers swirled in my head, a familiar dance of subtraction that always ended in negative space. Without this job, without the promise of another paycheck in two weeks, the math became impossible. No amount of stretching or sacrificing could make it cover what I needed.
I pressed my palms against the counter, fighting the wave of panic that threatened to pull me under. Not here. I couldn’t let it happen here.
"You okay, honey?"
Rita's voice made me jump. She stood by the kitchen door, already in her coat despite the heat. Sixty years old and still working doubles, still needing every shift Mel would give her.
"Did he tell you?" I asked.
Her face said everything. "Just now. Bastard couldn't even give us two weeks' notice."
We stood in shared silence, two women doing the math that never added up.
Rita's apartment was subsidized, at least. She had Social Security, meager as it was.
She'd survive, probably. We all survived, somehow.
That was the cruel joke of it—you could lose everything and still wake up the next morning, still need to eat, still have to find a way to keep going.
"If you hear of anything," Rita said quietly. "Any place that's hiring . . ."
"You too."
Rita squeezed my shoulder and left. I listened to her footsteps fade, the bell chiming one last time. Then I was alone with my envelope and my calculations and the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears like water.
Four days. Then nothing. Then whatever came after nothing.
T he key felt heavier than usual in my hand. First turn—nothing but a clicking sound that might have been the starter or might have been something worse. Second turn—the engine groaned like it was considering the possibility of life but hadn't quite committed.
"Come on," I whispered, foot pumping the gas pedal in the specific rhythm I'd learned over three years. "Not tonight. Please, not tonight."
Third turn. The engine caught, coughed, died. My forehead dropped against the steering wheel, the horn giving a weak bleat of protest.
Table of Contents
- Page 1 (Reading here)
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