7. CHAPTER 7
Carey Novak has a weird way of making time pass; quick, then slow, then gone.
For the second day in a row I’ve watched him clean and organize the shop like it’s nothing.
He’s taken to the programming like it’s second nature.
He’s talked his way out of that many confrontations on the phone with Eden’s pissed off clients like it’s his damn birthright to right his brother’s wrongs, all while I dig myself into a hole with back-to-back clients.
He doesn’t complain, if he sees something that needs doing, he just does it with a smile on his face or with sass on his tongue.
And he runs that damn mouth like a marathon, but—and I hate to admit it—it's already growing on me.
I mean, I'd rather him take shots at my expense than hear him bitch and moan.
By the time I’m wrapping the wrist of my second to last client for the day, Carey is humming to himself and chewing on his lip with a zoned out expression that should look dumb but instead looks infuriatingly… cute.
So annoying.
He catches me and straightens up, his lip slipping from between his teeth all swollen and red, like he’s been waiting all day to be a shit. “What ya staring at, old man?”
I snap the black gloves off my hands and drop them in the trash.
Why is he so damn hard to ignore?
I walk to the counter and rummage under it for the aftercare instructions. I hold them out for the client, a wiry dude in a Seahawks hoodie, and I swear I can feel Carey’s eyes burning holes in the side of my skull.
The guy pays, leaves a tip, and pauses by one of the open flash art books to take a Snapchat of his new ink on his way out.
I slip into the back room, sliding the door closed behind me.
I can’t hear Carey humming anymore, just one of the playlists that circles on repeat muted by the walls. But I still know he’s out there, and that fact is more comforting than it should be.
My phone rings in my pocket. I try to ignore it, but when I rub my hand on the back of my neck it feels hot to touch, so I know exactly who's trying to call and that they won't stop until I answer. Reluctantly I take it out, and my suspicions are immediately confirmed.
“Have you eaten?” my mother asks in Korean.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Have you heard from Jintae?”
“No.”
“The police still won’t do anything. They said the voicemail he sent means he isn’t missing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?” she asks curtly. And honestly, what the fuck does she want from me?
“I don’t know, Omma. I want to know that he’s safe, but he is an adult.”
“He’s still a child.”
“You didn’t think that when you forced him off to college.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
I sigh. “I’m not. I’m just tired.”
“Make sure you eat.”
“I already told you I did.”
“You can’t lie to your mother.”
“Okay,” I say because nothing else will placate her.
“I’ll see you on Thursday… I hope both my sons will be here.”
“So do I, Omma.”
“It won’t feel right without the three of you.”
“At least you don’t have to listen to Shawn ramble on after too much red wine, anymore.”
My mother laughs, but it’s dry. I know she’s beside herself with worry over wherever the hell my brother is, but she wants Eden there, too.
He’s spent every holiday with us since he was sixteen and his mom and Brian packed up their lives and took Carey with them down to San Diego.
He’s like her third son, but she’s afraid of sounding selfish when her actual son has fallen off the face of the earth.
“The house will feel empty.”
Tell me about it. I’m not exactly looking forward to facing Thanksgiving alone, just me and my parents… “Hey, Omma?”
“Yes, Tek-ah.”
“I think I’m gonna bring someone.”
“So now you have a girlfriend you haven’t told me about?”
“No. They’re just… I might, okay? There’ll be too much food like there always is so—I don’t know. It was just a thought. I’ve gotta go.”
“I love you, Wootek-ie,” she says quickly and the words sound harsh in my ears even though they aren’t meant to. It’s just that I’m so used to being the disappointment, and not the one she calls when she’s worried.
“You too, Omma,” I tell her and hang up.
I toss my phone next to the sink and watch the screen go black.
It’s too quiet in here now. Like a hospital waiting room.
I know I should eat something. Anything. A fucking Little Debbie’s just to have something on my stomach, but that’s not enough of a distraction.
I grab my laptop and leave the break room to set myself up at the reception desk.
There’s nothing quite like mundane admin work to numb your brain.
Salaries go out every other Friday, so I need to set up a one time transfer for the last money owed to Shawn and Reeze before I forget.
Eden, on the other hand, can get fucked.
I'm not taking his money away from him, but it can stay in our business account accruing interest until his ass is back at his station.
As co-owners, the way we've always been paid is a percentage cut of our personal takings, the rest—and a cut of Reeze's earnings—goes to pay for any business expenses.
What's left, outside of a nominated amount to always stay in the account, is paid out to us fifty-fifty at set increments throughout the year.
And tips? Well, they're none of the taxman's business.
Shawn kept the books in a way that made sense to her, and she was good at it.
She studied admin, and as far as the money went, she never screwed us over.
But I always kept an eye on them. Not because I didn't trust her, but because, as an owner, if anything was wrong it would fall on my shoulders, just like everything else, because Eden does not care in the slightest. He's never needed to. He's always had me.
When the payroll program has loaded I compare it to the manual timesheets. It's a color coded mess, but the hours are always right.
I take a pen and scribble in Carey's name starting yesterday morning:
"Hey, kid." I call out, and Carey looks up from where he's setting up Eden's table beside my station because he won't take no for a fucking answer. "How do you wanna get paid?"
“Cash, right? I thought you already vetoed sexual favors?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, then try again. “A daily rate, or a percentage of tips?”
“Is that legal?”
“Feel free to leave,” I offer, calling his bluff and hoping he doesn’t take me up on it.
“Twenty-five an hour.” He counters, and I almost swallow my tongue; “Well that’s not gonna happen.”
Carey walks to the front side of the desk and leans on it with straight arms. “So explain the tips to me then.”
“Twenty-five percent of the tips I get. Eighteen if there’s two artists, fourteen if there’s three.”
“And what were your tips yesterday?” he questions.
“Call it six-hundred.”
Carey’s brow creases as he does the math in his head. “So one-fifty? For nine hours?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“But that’s not guaranteed. It could be less.”
I nod again. “And it could be more.”
“But it’s only the less I care about.” He pulls his phone out. “That’s less than Washington minimum wage. And that hundred bucks you gave me for Thursday was only twelve-fifty an hour.”
“Then don’t take the tips,” I tell him.
“So twenty-five an hour, then?”
“Carey—”
“I know you didn’t pay Shawn minimum wage.”
“She has a diploma in admin,” I argue.
“And how much was she paid?” He’s leaning over now, his wild waves have fallen forward and he’s looking down at me like I’m the one being unreasonable.
“She ran the shop. Front and back.”
“Tek.”
“Twenty-five an hour.” Why the hell did I just tell him that?
Carey‘s lips twist into a cocky, shit-eating grin. “Doesn’t seem enough for such an important job.” I want to smack the look right off his face. None of this is any of his fucking business, but the quick, taunting raise of his brows has my tongue moving before I can stop it.
“That’s because your brother gave her a cut of his tips, as well.”
He swipes his hand through his hair, clearing his forehead, then repositions so his elbows are on the counter and his hands are clasped together and resting right on top of the timesheets. “So why can’t I get that deal?”
“Cause you’re not sucking my cock, too.”
Carey’s eyes widen and my stomach jumps into my throat.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
Why did I word it like that?
Why did I say anything at all?
“So no sexual favors isn’t a strict shop policy then?”
“Cut the bullshit, Carey.”
“I think I might go.” He pushes up off the desk.
“You can have twenty.”
“Make it twenty-two. No tips. Cause you’re not into that deal.”
He winks at me.
Fucking winks!
I could call Brooklyn. She would take minimum wage.
I have other options. So why the hell can't I say no to him?
“Look, kid—”
The rest of my sentence is stolen by his smile. The genuine, sunshine one that doesn’t have me questioning ulterior motives. “Relax. It was a joke.” He stands again, putting some distance back between us. “I know you’re straight, and… not into that.”
Is he blushing?
“I’m indiscriminately not into anybody,” I clarify.
“Yeah, I kind of figured that yesterday when you unceremoniously rejected one of the hottest women I've ever seen in my life.”
“So why don’t you ask Brooklyn out?” I suggest as I pick up the timesheets and close my laptop.
“A person being attractive doesn’t make me automatically interested.”
“Same.” I shrug, unable to look at him. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth.
“But you’re not… celibate, or anything?”
“Far from it.”
As I walk to the back room, I look at Carey from the corner of my eye like a fucking narcissist. This time there's no mistaking the blush of his cheeks as he avoids my gaze and busies himself straightening the already straight tattoo tables.
I feel stupid for what I said, but I can’t take it back.
He talks like a girl—or a guy when they talk to a girl—so his questions constantly catch me off guard, and I find myself answering them half the time without even thinking.
I put my laptop in my bag to take home and return to the shop floor to find Carey with one foot up like a goddamn flamingo running a lint roller over his new slippers.