West was a space-hogger. He was everywhere, even when he was on the other side of the trailer.
Judging by the food prep, it didn’t look like he was planning to put me through the nine circles of Dante’s Hell, or if he did, he was doing a pretty crappy job of it.
We opened shop and served the customers trickling in, mainly high school and college students coming back from afternoon classes and practice, and a few working moms who opted out of making dinner. We didn’t exchange one word, other than me asking him to do things and him asking me where certain ingredients were, both of us adopting our driest, least friendly tones.
West worked hard, never complained, and aside from missing Karlie and her nineties this or that questions, working alongside him was marginally pain-free.
“Is death by sweat a thing?” West drawled after hours of radio silence. He grabbed the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe his forehead. My whole body jolted at his voice, like he’d struck me. I was so used to wearing my oversized pink hoodie in this climate, the temperature didn’t register anymore.
“It can be.” I considered his question. “Dehydration comes to mind.”
“No A/C?” He flipped a row of fish over on the grill, keeping them perfectly whole and bronzed.
I shook my head. “The ancient air-con that came with the truck costs thousands to repair, and Mrs. Contreras says it ain’t worth it because the window’s always open, so the cold gets out. She’d rather pay us above minimum wage.”
“Well, I’d rather not die. Let’s take the cut.”
Was he for real? He’d been here for all of half a second, and he was already trying to make changes?
“There’s a sayin’ in Texas, St. Claire. Never miss a good chance to shut up. I suggest you make use of it now.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to dump it in the trash on my way out. And you’re wearing a hoodie.” He turned to face me for the first time during the shift. “Are you deranged?”
“I ain’t hot.”
“A liar on top of being prickly. You’re the entire package, aren’t you?”
Was anything coming out of his mouth not outrageous? I had a feeling if I asked, he’d say something shocking on principle.
“Okay. Fine. I’m a little hot, but I’ve been wearin’ hoodies for years and it hasn’t affected my work here one bit. Ain’t my fault I’m good at things,” I huffed.
“I’m good at things.” He quirked an eyebrow, sticking a candy apple stick he produced out of nowhere into the side of his mouth, smirking. “They’re just not resume-appropriate.”
He handed me another stick from his back pocket. I shook my head, which, by the way, was painfully close to detonating from the sexual innuendo thrown my way.
He was riling me up on purpose, making fun of Toastie by acting like she stood a chance. Talk to the fire victim about being hot … that should be fun. I could practically hear him and De La Salle plotting it together like two mega villains in a sleek spaceship, stroking look-alike black cats.
“Get used to the heat. Things get progressively worse. By June, we dab our faces with ice packs. July and August are a blur of heatwave headaches and suicidal thoughts. I suggest you get the heck outta here by summer break.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m sticking around for the summer. Better stock up on ice and find the local suicide hotline.”
He sounded businesslike, dry, and tough as hell. But he did not sound like he wanted to murder me, which was good news, I guessed.
“That’s a shame.”
“Not for me.” He rolled the candy stick in his mouth, dragging a rag across his station. I noticed he kept his space squeaky clean. “Home sucks.”
“Where’s home?” I slurped my slushie.
“Maine.”
“How come you’re not goin’?”
“Not many jobs available in Bumfuck Creek.”
“Please tell me that’s your town’s real name.”
“Wish it was.” He scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles, dumping the rag on the counter. “That’d be the only good thing about it.”
I looked away again, feeling crappy for assuming he made enough at the fighting arena when he’d first asked for the job. Who was I to make assumptions about his financial situation? I took his privileged asshole reputation and ran with it, even though it enraged me when people judged me based on rumors.
We hit a slow hour. The sleepy pocket between dinnertime to post-frat party munchies. Mrs. Contreras’ policy was that we couldn’t use our phones, unless it was an emergency call, so ignoring one another was pretty hard, seeing as we were each other’s sole source of entertainment.
A few minutes later, West piped up again, “Mind if I lose the shirt?”
“Hmm, what?” I whirled around, glaring at him.
“I’m about to turn into a fucking puddle. Doubt I’d be much help liquefied.”