Carter
Chapter eight
SHIFT smelled like salt, old grease, and too many summers stacked on top of each other. The neon sign out front flickered half a beat behind the morning sun—a sputtering survivor that looked as tired as I felt. I pushed inside, the air hitting me like a warm, oily blanket.
It was the first thing in days that wasn't currently vibrating with the threat of a collapse. No heavy silences, no Valerio-sized pressure hanging over the room. Just the low hum of the refrigerator units and the rhythmic thwack of a spatula hitting the grill.
I needed the noise. I needed my brain occupied by something other than the sensation that had haunted me since I woke up.
I’d spent the morning trying to scrub the lingering static of sleep off my skin, but some things didn’t wash off with soap.
My subconscious was a traitor, plain and simple.
It didn't care about the ruin he’d brought to my front door; it only cared about the way he’d looked in the dark.
I shoved the memory back into the corner where I kept my most dangerous thoughts, the mental effort leaving a tired ache behind my eyes.
Today, I didn't need a career. I just needed to be somewhere where the air didn't feel like it was holding its breath.
The pool house had become too small. My father wasn't angry—not this time. Anger would have been easier to fight. This was a quiet, vibrating embarrassment, a repeat of the way he’d carried himself after his career went up in flames and Mom followed the smoke out the door.
Seeing him shrink into his chair this morning, looking at his coffee like it held the secrets to his failures, was like watching a slow-motion car crash I was supposed to have learned to avoid by now.
I couldn't fix him, and I couldn't stand the way my own chest ached when I tried to.
I’d only been to SHIFT once before, but as I’d walked out the door, I’d remembered the neon-green Help Wanted sign taped crookedly to the glass.
When I woke up this morning to the sound of Dad’s heavy, rhythmic pacing that sign was the first thing that flashed in my mind.
The woman behind the counter had a bun pulled so tight it looked structural and eyes that had seen every version of a bad customer.
Her nametag read Margaret. She looked to be somewhere in her late forties, but she carried herself with a sharp, iron-backed kind of grace.
Even under the harsh lights, she was pretty—the kind of woman who had earned every fine line around her eyes and didn't seem to mind them one bit.
She didn't ask if I was a Hayes. She didn't ask anything at all until I laid the crumpled application on the counter.
She looked at the paper, then up at me, cataloging my face like she was checking for a shelf life.
“You’re the one who came in the other day with the Valerio kid, right? The nice one?”
“Luka,” I said, a small, tired smile tugging at my mouth. “And yeah. That was me.”
“He tips like a prince but eats like he’s never seen bread before,” she grunted. “Not like the older one. He comes in here and drops a fifty just so I’ll leave him alone in the corner booth.”
“We’re shorthanded. If you can take an order without weeping when someone complains their fries are 'too potato-ey,' you’ll do. Friday and Saturday nights are bloodbaths. You’ll go home smelling like a deep fryer, but you won't have a second to think about anything else. Deal?”
The 'won't have a second to think' part was the real selling point.
“I don't have weekend plans,” I said. The words felt like a relief.
Beyond Luka—who was currently my only bridge to the land of the living—I didn't have friends here. I didn’t have a social calendar, or a life that wasn't currently a wreckage site, or a home that didn’t feel like an apology waiting to happen.
“Good. Grab a T-shirt and an apron. Tie it tight.” She jerked her chin toward the back. “And don’t let Gary hand you anything he says is ‘stable.’ It’s a lie.”
I took the items, the rough fabric a welcome reality. Between my afternoon lectures and the grease, maybe I could finally squeeze out the memory of the other night. Or at least, I’d be too exhausted to dream about it.
"Start now," Margaret said, already turning back to the register. "Gary’s about to drown in a milkshake order."
I didn't even have time to adjust the ties before the midday rush swallowed me whole.
Any hope of a grace period vanished under a mountain of tickets and the aggressive hiss of the flat-top grill.
By 4:00 PM, I was a walking heart-attack risk.
My ponytail was a shipwreck, my feet were screaming in a language I didn't want to learn, and I’d explained that we were out of chocolate malt nine separate times.
But Margaret was right. The relentless rhythm of the ticket wheel was a sedative.
There was no room for anything or anyone else in a brain occupied by Table 4 needs extra ranch and don't slip on the floor drain.
For five hours, I wasn't the daughter of a disgraced legend; I was just a person who forgot to put pickles on a sourdough burger.
When I finally pushed through the diner doors to head home, the ocean breeze felt like a personal insult. It didn't scrub the grease off; it just layered salt on top of it. I smelled like a carnival midway—fried, salty, and cheap.
The closer I got to the Valerio estate, the more the exhaustion settled into a dead weight. I was ready for the quiet. I was ready to slip into the pool house and avoid my father’s embarrassment for just a little longer.
But the silence was gone.
The bass line hit me before I even cleared the main gate, vibrating through the floorboards of my car. I slowed, my brow furrowing as I rounded the corner.
A party. Sunday afternoon, and the lawn was crawling with people—bright swimsuits, designer sunglasses, the sharp clink of glass against stone. It looked like a luxury car commercial, but the air felt wrong.
I cut the engine and stepped out, the music hitting me like a physical shove. I scanned the crowd, looking for the source of the chaos, and found it at the center of the gravity.
Dominic was sprawled on a lounge chair, the sun hitting the planes of his chest like it was paying rent. He looked infuriatingly serene, a king presiding over a kingdom of shallow noise.
I tried to keep my head down, to move toward the pool house without being seen, but I was a grease-stained thumb in a sea of swimsuits and linen.
“Whoa, hold up.” A guy with a beer in one hand and a frat-star smirk on his face stepped into my path, blocking the way to my door. He leaned in, his eyes roaming over my SHIFT T-shirt with a lazy, appreciative grin. “Where have you been hiding, honey? You smell like… a very delicious burger.”
I sidestepped, my composure fraying at the edges. “Move.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder. “You look like you need a drink and a place to sit that isn't a kitchen.”
“She said move, Jax.”
The voice was low, cutting through the pulsing bass like a blade.
Dominic hadn't moved a muscle, but his head was turned, his sunglasses slid halfway down his nose. The bored indifference was still there, but his eyes were fixed on Jax’s hand with an intensity that made the air between them feel brittle.
Jax laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just being friendly, Valerio. Relax.”
“Be friendly somewhere else,” Dominic murmured, the command quiet and absolute.
Jax rolled his eyes and drifted back toward the bar, but the damage was done. I stopped pretending to be nice. I didn't head for my door. I marched straight for the lounge chair.
I stopped at the foot of his seat, my silhouette stretching over him.
“Turn it down,” I demanded.
Dominic didn’t look at me. He didn’t even adjust his posture, his hands remaining folded behind his head. “It’s a Sunday, Shortcut. People like music on Sundays.”
“The speakers are pointed directly at the pool house,” I said, my voice tight. “Turn. It. Down.”
“Why?” He tilted his head back, finally looking at me through the dark tint of his glasses. The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s my family’s property. We can play the music as loud as we want, wherever we want.”
I didn't answer. My eyes involuntarily flicked toward the pool house window—the one where I knew my father was sitting in a dim room, probably with his head in his hands.
Dominic caught the movement. A slow smirk spread across his face, one that didn't reach his eyes.
“Ah,” he murmured, sitting up just enough to lean his elbows on his knees. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your father finishing off a bottle of scotch before noon, would it?”
The air left my lungs in a sharp whistle. I stared at him, the realization sinking deep into my gut. He’d seen. He’d been watching.
“You did this on purpose,” I whispered. My eyes swept over the crowd, the blasting speakers, the performative chaos. “Last night wasn't enough for you? You had to come back today to finish the job?”
Dominic’s expression didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened into something predatory. “I didn't force the bottle into his hand. I just provided a little… ambiance. If he can’t handle a bit of noise, maybe he should find a job that actually belongs to someone with his resume.”
The fury that surged through me was molten, incinerating the exhaustion of my shift.
“He’s a human being,” I snapped, stepping into his space until I was looking down at him.
“But I guess that’s a concept you can’t grasp from up here on your throne.
You’re so bored with your own perfect life that you have to spend your time bullying someone who already feels like he lost everything. ”
I leaned in, my voice shaking. “Is this what you do when you aren’t behind a wheel? You pick on people who can’t fight back? It must be exhausting, being that much of a coward.”
The tiny muscle in his jaw ticked. It was the only warning I got.