ONE #2
That felt fitting, considering her manager chose that moment to shove an overstuffed trash bag into her hands and point at the back door.
He didn’t even bother looking guilty about heaping more work on her even though they were down a waitress tonight.
He just kept stuffing mozzarella sticks into his mouth.
She looked down at the bag, then back at him. “Why not Geraldo?”
“Because I asked you.”
“You didn’t ask. You handed me a biohazard and made it sound like a promotion.”
His mouth flattened around a breaded cheese stick, reminding her that he made the schedule and she needed the shifts. She needed rent money more than the satisfaction of winning any argument over trash.
She tightened her grip on the bag and shoved through the back door with her hip. Then she only made it two steps before some random guy appeared out of the shadows and the sound of sirens cut through the night.
After her outburst, he stared at her like she was the crazy one.
“Go back in the restaurant,” he ordered.
“Excuse me?”
“Go back inside,” he repeated. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered and built like he ate conflict for breakfast, the stranger stood between her and the dumpster—
And the dead body.
Not that she hadn’t seen more than her fair share since starting this job. Antonio’s was known for its homemade pasta—not its safe location.
She started forward.
“Stop.”
Her body obeyed even though her mind said not to.
The trash bag swung against her leg.
She didn’t listen to men who had no authority over her, or make her schedule.
Maybe his deep voice and shoulders wider than the doorway she’d just walked through were responsible.
“No.” She took another step forward.
His brows pulled together. “No?”
“That means I understood the instruction and rejected it.”
His jaw firmed, and under different circumstances—if she saw him in a club or even sitting at one of her tables—she might have enjoyed annoying him. Tonight she was too tired, too broke and too aware that the dinner rush had been weak even before sirens started screeching outside the restaurant.
She stepped around him, but he moved with her.
Stina looked up at him. Way up. “I assume you called the cops on another junkie in our dumpster. If you did, congratulations on being civic-minded, but I still have to dump this and get back to my tables.”
For one second, he looked like she’d slapped him with the garbage bag. Then he darted a look around like they were under siege. “You need to go inside.”
“You need to stop telling me what to do. It’s giving serial killer, and I’m already having a bad night.” She edged past him before he could block her again, though the sudden view at the mouth of the alley made her slow.
Police cars lined the street behind the restaurant, their lights flashing. Customers were gathering, their phones raised like this was free entertainment instead of a massive pain in her wallet.
There went her only chance at making enough tip money to cover rent. She spotted the couple from table twelve, the ones who promised to order dessert, and the guys from the corner booth that always ordered a second round if she smiled at them enough.
Now everybody was drifting toward the scene. Nothing killed a dinner vibe faster than police lights and a dead body near the kitchen exit.
The door opened behind her and her manager appeared, his nervous gaze bouncing from the stranger to the cops to the dumpster. That bothered her more than the police cars because he only got nervous when money, inspectors or lawsuits were involved, and two out of three could get her sent home early.
She shifted the bag higher and looked at the body. The dead man didn’t look down-and-out. He had good boots and a nice watch. His clothes were clean and he wore a military haircut. Not the usual poor soul who curled up somewhere warm and didn’t wake up.
More black SUVs rolled up at the mouth of the alley.
People poured out of the vehicles. Stina saw the lettering across their jackets and dropped the bag on the ground.
FBI. That was new. Every winter somebody froze to death around here, and the FBI had never once shown up.
Her stomach tightened as she looked between them and her manager.
She knew what was about to happen. She started counting in her head as one of the agents approached her manager.
Five.
Her manager rubbed the back of his neck.
Four.
The agent glanced at Stina.
Three.
Her manager twisted toward the kitchen behind him like he wanted nothing more than to disappear.
Two.
She adjusted her apron and held her breath. Maybe this time he wouldn’t—
“Stina,” he called. “You can go home.”
Shit.
Without bothering to complete trash duty, she whirled to go inside and grab her purse and collect what tips she might have on the tables.
The stranger stepped in front of her. She noticed a scar on his cheek that made him look more menacing, as if he needed it. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Her patience snapped in half. Her best friend Jolie had told her a hundred times never to let men order her around.
She threw up her hands. “What is it with you? I need to go home.”
“Not yet.”
She tried to walk around him, but he stopped her again. She just wanted to go home. It was probably the last time she’d see her apartment before she got evicted.
None of this dead-body nonsense was helping her make rent. Her parents were coming to visit for the first time. She actually needed an apartment to show them around—not a tent on the street.
To top it off, she’d already started the day on a bad note when someone sent her a photo of her and Jolie with rifle sights drawn over their faces.
She’d received an unknown threat in the afternoon and gotten sent home two hours before her shift ended. What next?
Giving him her best glare, she bit off, “You don’t get to trap me here because you’re tall.”