4. Chapter 4
Evan
What an interesting turn of events.
Evan couldn’t stop grinning. Well, on the inside at least. Considering their resume had next to nothing on it since their incarceration at seventeen—just a few bullshit jobs they’d made up so something was on the page—Evan had doubted Frankie would hire them.
The longer they considered it, the more they appreciated the utter stroke of luck this afternoon turned out to be.
It was almost a shame they couldn’t take credit for Frankie’s staff being out sick.
They rinsed off the rack of dirty plates before sliding it into the dishwasher and closing the lid.
Despite the apron Evan wore, they were quite damp from the water spray of the last two hours.
With Frankie and her cook also in the kitchen, the place bustled with activity.
Evan had seen more of the pub and staff tonight than they’d managed to achieve in the last week, not to mention overhearing snippets of conversation as servers came and went.
Too bad none of it’s useful in ruining Frankie.
“How you holding up, Evan?”
Evan glanced up from where they were loading the glasses onto the dish rack to see Sloane standing there, an empty platter tray dangling from one hand.
She was athletic and sexy. A total femme, all the way to the pink tips she kept in her hair, yet she dressed down on her days off and hit the trails during mountain bike season.
The research Evan had done on Frankie’s bar manager had been highly entertaining.
It appeared that serving drinks and taking orders was just a minuscule fraction of the woman’s life.
“Hey, yeah. Good, I mean, this is pretty basic shit.” Evan lifted the door open to the dishwasher and pushed in another rack of dirty dishes. In the process, it pushed the clean rack out onto the other side. “Glad to help out.”
“Mm-hmm, Frankie met you just in the nick of time. Gotta run.” Sloane flashed Evan an appreciative smile, and then she was gone again.
Fuck, she’s hot , Evan thought, rolling their lips inward as they watched Sloane disappear through the swing doors, and then corrected themself. In the most respectful, non-objectifying way, of course.
When they turned back to the dish pit, Evan caught Frankie staring at them.
Her jaw seemed clenched, even from across the kitchen, and when their eyes met, a mask slipped over Frankie’s face.
The reaction was stifling, and Evan couldn’t help but feel completely affronted by it.
They bowed their head and got back to work.
The dishes were nonstop, which said a lot about how popular O’Rourke’s Pub was.
Taking Frankie’s business down was going to be a challenge.
“Evan, come jump on the fryer so that Rain can go on break,” Frankie told them half an hour later.
“Sure thing.” Evan stopped at the sink to wash their hands first and then came to stand next to Frankie. It was hard to be around Frankie, knowing what she’d done and what Evan would soon do in retaliation. Their stomach was in knots, but it wasn’t due to the flu.
“I don’t care how she’s taken care of so long as it’s not traced back to me. Make her pay, Evan. Kill the bitch. And only then can you see your mother.”
Evan bit the inside of their cheek, Cecil’s words haunting them at every turn. It had been a long time since they’d seen Leah Landry. Evan knew something was wrong when she’d stopped visiting them in prison, but they only discovered what it was a month and a half ago, after their release.
“Total breakdown … you ruined this family. Your mother tried to kill herself because of you …”
Evan shook themself from the memory. They were prepared to do whatever it took to gain back Cecil’s trust and see Leah again, sacrificing anything it took to avenge Caleb.
But murder? And today when Cecil called, he’d pressured Evan to hurry the timeline up. What was he thinking—that Evan was the type to shoot and not plan? Idiot .
“Thanks again for the help tonight. I guess it’s good that we close at nine on Sundays,” Frankie explained as she spread chopped vegetables over a tray of thinly cut fried potatoes. “You okay to work the fryer?”
“Should be.” Evan didn’t elaborate. Cooking in a prison was significantly different, but seriously, how difficult could lifting and loading a fry basket be?
They worked in silence for a time, which Evan was grateful for.
They didn’t mind the quiet, and it gave them plenty of opportunity to study the femme out of the corner of their eye.
Just like last night, she was wearing a suit.
They ranged in style and color but always accented her curves perfectly.
As a boss, Frankie was direct, fair, and hardworking.
She wasn’t afraid to smile and treated her staff with respect. But it was all a ruse. It had to be.
And it was up to Evan to uncover it.
“So, ah, what made you become a pub owner?” they started, shaking the fry basket before lowering it into the oil again.
“You dress like a corporate businesswoman.” Or at least from what Evan had seen on TV.
Even the prison warden hadn’t dressed as well as Frankie.
It was as if she had something to prove.
“Do I? So not a drug dealer then?” Frankie bent to pop nachos in the oven, which happened to give Evan a bird’s eye view of her exceptionally plump backside.
Their gaze narrowed, at once wanting to kick themself for noticing.
Frankie turned to them with a smirk. “That’s the usual assumption I get from people. ”
“That didn’t cross my mind,” Evan said truthfully, but her being a drug dealer would have made sense, especially since her problem-solving skills involved gunplay.
“That’s plus one for you then.” Frankie’s grin lightened the brown in her eyes to a milk chocolate. Evan’s breath caught, and they cleared their throat, looking away. “To answer your question, I sort of came into it. My cousin wanted out of the business, and I was looking for a fresh start.”
Adoptive cousin.
Evan wanted to puff out their chest at knowing such a personal fact about Frankie. It was kind of a bummer that Cecil had dug up her family history before they could.
When nine o’clock rolled around, Evan was glad. They’d spent as much time as they could safely handle near Frankie, so much that they were trembling to leave.
“Let me pay you, then you can head out.”
The sound of Frankie’s voice so close behind them made them jump a little. When Frankie reached out to steady Evan, they couldn’t hold back their recoil. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Frankie frowned down at them, genuine concern showing in her eyes. Evan’s stomach lurched. “Evan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” Evan exhaled through their nose and grabbed their jacket.
They shrugged it on, not waiting for Frankie, and left the kitchen.
They had meant to stop at the bar and wait for payment, but their feet took them out of the pub altogether.
Then Evan was running, their work boots slipping now and then on the icy sidewalks.
Several people eyed Evan warily as they rushed past, the December chill and a mixture of snow and rain seeping into the open collar of their jacket.
Tears blinded Evan’s vision by the time they came across a park a few blocks from Frankie’s pub. There was an uncomfortable weight in their chest, and with each swallow, Evan winced at the ball lodged in their throat.
How were they going to manage taking Frankie down? Sometimes it was too much to even be within touching distance of her.
“Fuck.”
It was closing in on eleven before Evan trudged up the path to the hostel they were staying at while in Vancouver.
They’d steered clear of the place as long as possible, knowing they wouldn’t have been able to think in the room they were sharing with three women.
Their bunk buddies were loud, and for a loner like Evan, to say it sucked was an understatement.
But it sure beats sharing it with three dudes.
And it was a helluva upgrade compared to the tiny, smelly prison cell they’d shared with Rhonda.
Not to mention the hostel had delicious hot cooked breakfasts and a patio garden Evan had taken advantage of in the last week.
It’d been nice to relax with their sketchbook without anyone bothering them.
When they heard their name being called as they passed the front desk, Evan turned to see the manager waiting with a uniformed security guard.
They frowned. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to have to do this, but your credit card was declined—”
“The fuck—?”
“—and an anonymous tip called in. Even if you could provide cash or debit at this point, with your criminal background, allowing you to stay would put others at risk. You can no longer be on premises.”
“But my stuff—”
“It’s all right here for you.” The manager pointed to the lone black duffel bag at his feet. “And don’t worry, Carson here watched me retrieve it.”
“The fuck is going on,” Evan muttered, closing the distance between them. They snatched up their bag, slinging it onto their shoulder along with their backpack. To add insult to injury, the manager actually looked apologetic as he handed Evan a blanket and pillow.
“Keep these. It’s too late at night to get into the shelter, but if you go early tomorrow, you might get lucky.”
Evan scoffed but took the linens anyway. “I dunno what Cecil said to you, but my stepfather’s a lying sack of shit. Thanks for nothing.”
As Evan strode from the hostel, head held high, they had one thought running tirelessly through their mind.
Cecil can try to rush the schedule all he wants. I’ll take Frankie out when I’m good and ready. Fucking asshole.