8. Lucy
Lucy
Isit in the front seat of my car, which is parked in a busy grocery store parking lot.
I recount the stack of cash in my hands. One thousand dollars.
For the past week, I’ve been working at the diner during the day and the strip club at night. I’ve managed to save up half of what I need to get a decent apartment: first month’s rent and a deposit.
I grab a few twenties and put them in my wallet. I open up the glove compartment and tuck the rest of the cash in the vinyl cover of the owner’s manual. I can’t open up a bank account yet because I don’t have an address, so hiding my cash in my car is the next best thing I can think of.
I yawn, my eyelids feeling heavy. I glance outside, taking in the darkening sky. It’s late afternoon, but it’s getting darker and darker each day that we get closer to winter.
I reach up and stretch out, my body feeling stiff and achy. I’d give anything for a bed right now.
I check the time. Two hours until I have to head to the strip club for my shift. I can get a quick nap in here in this parking lot since it’s the busy part of the day and the security vehicle isn’t patrolling yet.
I recline my seat back slightly and grab the blanket from the passenger seat, which is next to the blue waitress uniform I wear at the diner. I instantly think of Leo.
I still can’t believe he left me such a huge tip. A hundred bucks.
That’s more than any tip I’ve gotten at the diner. It’s more than most of the tips I get at the strip club too.
There’s a weird dip in my tummy when I think about him. The regretful look on his face when I thanked him. Like he was truly sorry for what he did.
My tired mind wanders. I think about how big and tall he is. I bet he’s ripped from playing hockey. He’s really handsome too.
A second later, I shut down that thought. What is wrong with me? Am I seriously sitting here, daydreaming about this guy I barely know? The guy who got me fired?
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’m sleep-deprived. That must be it.
I’m still curious about him though. How does he have so much money? He’s a college student. I thought most college students were broke.
I pull up my phone and look up his name online. I don’t know his last name, but when I type “Leo” and “Hollis U men’s hockey,” he pops right up.
Leo Peretti.
A bunch of his photos appear at the top of the search results. One is an image of his ridiculously handsome face against a black and blue background. The corner of his mouth is tilted up in a sexy half-smile. That must be his student athlete photo for Hollis.
The rest of the photos are of him mid-game, in a jersey, wearing a helmet.
I skim the info about him. He plays defense and is one of the top players on his team. He got drafted by the professional hockey team in Las Vegas last semester, which means he’ll play pro hockey when he graduates from college.
I scroll down and see he has his own Wikipedia page. Oh, damn. Is he famous?
I bet he’s well known on the Hollis U campus. College athletes are treated like royalty at a lot of schools. But to have a Wikipedia page dedicated to you is kind of a big deal.
I skim his bio and learn that he was an elite hockey player in middle school and high school.
His dad is Rocco Peretti, a former professional hockey player.
His grandfather was Paolo Peretti, who owned a huge sports equipment company.
He was also a philanthropist. I click a link and skim a short article about all the charities he donated to before he passed away.
As someone who doesn’t pay attention to any sports, those names don’t ring a bell. But no wonder Leo has so much money. His family has a background in professional sports and big business.
I exit the website, feeling kind of like a stalker with how much I’ve learned about him in the past ten minutes. I need to get some rest, not creep on a guy who’s practically a stranger.
I go to set my alarm on my phone so I can get a quick nap in before my next shift, but then it starts to ring.
When I see my stepdad’s number flash on my phone screen, my stomach bottoms out. I haven’t heard from him in more than a year.
I think about not answering. I hate that bastard for what he did to my mom. For what he did to me.
But I have to know why he’s calling me.
With shaky hands, I answer the call.
“What do you want?”
He scoffs. “Seriously? No hello?”
“You don’t deserve a hello.”
He grumbles. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this crap. Come pick up your mom’s stuff.”
“What?”
“I’m getting rid of some of your mom’s stuff. Do you want it or not?”
The gears of my brain slowly clunk together at the shock of what he’s saying. I haven’t heard from him since he kicked me out of my childhood home, and now he calls me out of the blue to tell me I can have my mom’s stuff?
“Richard, I can’t come right now. I have to go to work,” I say.
“Well, that’s too bad for you because your mom’s stuff is sitting on the curb in front of the house. If you want it, come get it. Otherwise, the garbage truck gets it in the morning.”
Anger spikes through my nervous system. Is he serious right now? He dumped my mom’s belongings on the curb?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout.
“You should be thanking me for even telling you. I could have just thrown everything in a dumpster.”
I grit my teeth, raging. “Richard, you can’t just dump all my mom’s stuff—”
He hangs up, cutting me off.
Adrenaline fires through me as I start my car and drive to the house.