Before I can stick the right key in the lock, a chubby, sausage-finger-filled hand pushes the door open. I’m nearly smacked in the face before I can jump back in defeated surprise.
“... Sorry, sir. We’re closed,” I plead, in my best customer-service voice.
The short, tubby man looks back towards the door as it swings shut. “Doesn’t seem closed to me.’ His voice is just as greasy as his lips—high-pitched and jittery.
This motherfucker...
“Well, I was just closing up, as you see,” I rattle my key chain in front of him.
The man’s beady little eyes dance mischievously under the orange glow of the diner’s light. His gross gaze wanders up and down my body. I shiver ever so slightly, then hold back a sneer. “You’re usually open much later,” he says, with a teasing tone. “Feeling a little lazy tonight?”
I let my expression go flat. “Just following orders,” I lie.
‘Well, you can make an exception for me. I just got off work and I’m hungry. This place is no Taj Mahal, but it’s all that’s open in this area at this hour.” He waves me off and waddles past me towards the same corner booth he’d taken up last time he was here.
Fuck me, I think. This motherfucker must have gotten a job in the area recently, which means that I’ll be seeing a lot more of him. I’m no stranger to customer-service jobs—even my dream job, of becoming a nurse, is all about dealing with people—but there’s a lack of respect that waitresses get that just drives me wild.
I gaze up at the clock over the kitchen-window. It’s five minutes to 11pm. I look back out to the street, desperately hoping to see Ronan. He’d know how to deal with this asshole.
The irony of my desire for his presence isn’t completely lost on me. If he hadn’t come to Chelly’s for lunch and been so sweet, he’d be the last person in the world I’d want to see back at the diner—even more so than sausage-fingers over there—but now, he’s the only person I want. The only person I need.
Where the hell are you, Ronan?
Just my luck, a man like that only shows up when you don’t need or want him to.
“Sir,” I say, more forcefully this time, as I turn around to the fat man getting comfortable in the booth at the far end of the diner. “We’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
It doesn’t seem to matter that my tone has harshened, Sausage-man still digs into a menu. “Is the cook still here?” he asks.
I look over to the pass-through and try to telepathically tell Carlos to stay hidden. He’s probably getting changed right now—or at least, I hope he is. The last thing I need is for him to show up in his cook’s uniform.
“No,” I lie again.
Even that doesn’t deter my tubby little nemesis. “Oh well, I’m sure you can cook, right? A woman must be able to cook,” he points his fat sausage-finger at me like he’s giving a lecture. I want so bad to take off my shoe and beat him over the head with it. “How are you ever going to be able to find a husband if you don’t cook? If anything, you should be thanking me—practice makes perfect, after all. Oh, and smile. Don’t forget to smile this time. Maybe I’ll even give you a tip... if I think you deserve one. Come one now, chop-chop.” He claps his hands together and I just lose it.
Before I can explode on him, though, the chime over the front door dings and my attention turns to the entrance. I’m just as ready to go nuclear on whoever has come in for a late-night snack as I am on the short, tubby motherfucker in the corner booth.
But, to my surprise, it’s not a customer who stands in the doorway behind me now. It’s Ronan.
My anger instantly dissipates into something else. Relief? I’m not sure. I haven’t felt relief in such a long time.
“Hey,” he smiles, in his deep, gruff voice. Those dimples. Those eyes.
I turn back to the sausage-man.
This motherfucker....
11
Ronan
“Out!” I command, forcefully pointing towards the front door with my good arm.
This motherfucker....
He’s obviously upset Nia, but all she’ll say to me is, “We’re closed, and this man won’t leave.”
Well, I’ll make him.