Chapter 51
Sam
“Don’t forget, I start at the food bank today,” I say as we pull into the parking lot of the diner.
The project at the park wrapped up a couple of days ago, so I’m finishing the last few weeks of my community service at the local food bank.
“I know,” Jameson answers, turning to face me. “I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss him.
We’ve been sneaking around the last few weeks, trying our best to avoid my father and Carson. Whenever Jameson picks me up, he parks down the street and if we go out, I tell my father I’m working late.
Him and Carson seem to be losing interest in keeping tabs on me, but we’re still careful.
Jameson threads his fingers through my hair, pulling me in closer.
“I’m gonna be late. I’m supposed to help open.”
“So be late.”
“You know I can’t …”
He lets out a low groan, nipping at my bottom lip, before reluctantly pulling back. “I hate leaving you.”
“You’ll see me tonight.”
He shakes his head. “Too far away.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wait,” I tell him, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna get me fired.”
“Oh, come on; they’d never fire you. And you know it’ll only be Patsy this early in the morning.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
He nods, grabbing my thighs and yanking me toward him. “The worst.”
I squeal, a laugh pouring out of me, but it’s quickly silenced when his lips crash against mine. He grips my hips, pulling me to straddle him.
I quickly gaze around the parking lot, but it’s empty since we don’t open for another hour. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, the sky barely even light.
The skirt of my uniform is bunched up, leaving my thighs bare, and I shiver as Jameson brushes his knuckles up and down my skin.
His kisses turn more languid as he wraps his arms around my middle, anchoring me to him.
I pull away, our eyes briefly meeting, before I drop my forehead to his chest.
“I never thought I’d want to be around someone as much as I want to be around you,” he says softly. “But whenever you’re away from me, it’s like …” He brushes his lips against my hair. “I don’t know … I just … I fucking hate it.”
I breathe him in, burrowing deeper against his chest. “I feel the same way.”
“It’s like I’m a fucking addict,” he muses. “Don’t even want you to go to work.”
I lean away from him, my back hitting the steering wheel. “I’ll see you tonight, though,” I tell him, and his eyes heat at the promise in my voice. “We’re still going to Dougie’s party, right?”
He nods.
“Well, then you should be able to get your fill of me there.”
His grip on my hips tightens, and I grab his hands, sliding them away from me before I start to move back into my seat.
“But I’ve really gotta get to work now.”
“Fine,” he sighs.
I grab my purse and reach for the door.
“What time am I picking you up?”
“Don’t know,” I answer, looking back at him. “I’ll text you.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and I hear him call out my name. Turning, I duck down into the open window.
He grabs my chin, pulling me into a kiss. “Love you, baby.”
“Love you,” I answer before breaking the kiss and rushing toward the diner.
I push in through the side entrance, the familiar smell of fry oil hitting me as I walk in.
“You’re late,” Patsy says when I step into the kitchen.
“Sorry,” I respond, not offering any explanation.
“I can’t keep letting this slide,” she continues.
I nod, even though I know she’s all talk. As the owner, she acts like she runs a tight ship when, really, she lets just about anything go. I don’t even know how many times we’ve had the I can’t keep letting this slide talk, yet I’m still here.
“Won’t happen again,” I offer for good measure.
“All right,” she says, turning back to the fruit she’s prepping. “Well, get to it.”
I spend the next forty-five minutes racing around the space, making up for the time I missed. When I flip the sign on the front door to “open,” I’m already ready for the shift to be over.
We’ve been slammed all morning, the Saturday rush keeping us busy. It’s just me and another waitress, Maria, so we’ve been scrambling to keep up with tables.
I’m refilling coffees when the door chimes and a group of kids my age walks in. They glance around the space like they’ve never stepped foot in a diner before.
When they seat themselves in one of Maria’s booths, I’m grateful they aren’t one of my tables. I’m not in the mood to deal with a bunch of snobby rich kids right now. Although, I might have gotten a good tip out of it.
I move over to a couple of my regulars—two older men who come in every morning and order the same thing. I give them a small smile as I fill up their cups, their conversation quieting as I do.
In the short lull, I hear a whistle come from one of the rich kids, followed by, “Damn, she’s hot.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the task in front of me, not wanting to catch his attention. He might not even be talking about me.
I turn to start for the kitchen when one of the girls at his table says, “If you want to slum it.”
Assholes.
The door chimes again, and a worn-looking man walks through, settling into one of my booths at the back.
Quickly, I drop off an order before starting for his table, pasting a smile on my face. “I’m Sam, and I’ll be your server. Can I get you started with something to drink?”
He looks up from the menu, his weathered face twisting with surprise, and I watch as his entire demeanor shifts. The hunched posture I walked up to disappears as he rolls his shoulders back and straightens.
“Well, hello. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
Great. I hold back a sigh. One of these guys.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I repeat, attempting to keep my voice light.
“Coffee. Get me some cream and sugar, too,” he answers before he winks—fucking winks—and adds, “I bet you know how to give some good sugar, don’t you?”
My skin crawls from his words, itching to snap back at him. But he isn’t worth it and, anyway, that never seems to work. Instead, I drop my eyes and head back to the kitchen, determined to ignore him.
A few minutes later, I bring him his coffee, walking past the booth of rich kids, and notice one of the blonde girls who’s with them eyeing me curiously. Her friends are talking around her about prom, but she’s tuned out, distracted. Somehow, she looks completely out of place sitting with them.
I reach the asshole’s table, set down his coffee, then ask for his order, trying to keep the interaction as short as possible. I just want to get him his food and get him out of here.
He drops his menu in front of him instead of handing it to me, and as I reach forward to grab it, I feel his rough fingers move up my leg and under my skirt.
My heart starts to race as I step to the side and slap his hand away. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I saw how you shook that ass when you walked away. You were practically beggin’ me to watch.”
I scoff. “Yeah, not a chance.”
He narrows his eyes.
I reach for the menu again, desperately wanting to get away from him. But before I can grab it, he snatches my wrist, and I freeze, panic coursing through me.
“Why don’t you watch that tone of yours, huh? You sound like a bitch.”
I pull my hand back. “Then you clearly don’t know what I sound like when I’m being a bitch. Don’t fucking touch me again, or you won’t like what happens.”
He laughs, and the sound only puts me more on edge. “You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you? I kind of like that. Makes me want to find out what else you can do with it.”
His words hit me like a blow, and I stare back at him like the fucking lowlife he is before walking away without a response.
I don’t know what to do.
What to feel.
I’m angry, I know that. Really fucking angry that men like him think they can talk to me like that. That they think the way I look gives them some sort of right.
But there’s also a feeling of shame, of embarrassment. I know none of this is my fault, but words like his have followed me around ever since I can remember. The continual accusations of stealing other girls’ boyfriends, being called a slut, the crude things boys say to me.
My breathing begins to quicken the farther I get from the table, my mind starting to spiral. I pass by the kitchen, ducking my head in.
Patsy looks up, her gaze finding mine. “You all right?”
I nod, biting my lip.
“You sure?”
“I just … uh … I need a quick break. I’m gonna step outside for a minute; is that all right?”
She watches me carefully. “Sure, honey, go ahead.”
I mutter a thanks before pushing out the back door, bending forward and gulping in unsteady breaths.
It’s not that big of a deal, I tell myself. You’re overreacting.
But the panic won’t stop. The voices in my head won’t stop screaming at me to listen.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial Jameson’s number.
He doesn’t pick up, and I mumble a curse, trying again. On the final ring, the call goes through.
“You all right?” he asks, out of breath.
“Were you in the middle of something?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Why are you calling?”
“I’m just …”
“Baby?”
“There was this guy and …” I swallow back the panic in my voice.
“What guy?”
“A customer.”
A heavy door slams before he says, “He do somethin’ to you?” When I don’t respond, he pushes, “You promised.”
“He said some things …”
“Some things? What things?” he forces out, his voice dangerously low.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it fucking matters.”
“He … um … he said he wanted cream and sugar and that he bet I gave good sugar … and then my mouth …”
“Your mouth?” he asks slowly. “What’d he say about your mouth?”
“I snapped back at him—”
“Good,” Jameon cuts in.
“And then he said I have a mouth on me and he liked that.” I clear my throat. “That it made him want to find out what else I could do with it.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Jamie …”
“Is that everything?”
“What?”
“Is that all he did? All he said?”
I debate not telling him, worried about how he’ll react. But I promised I’d tell him if anyone hurt me.
“You can’t freak out.”
“What’d he do?”
I hear the car engine start.