Chelsea Fine - Perfect Kind Of Trouble

She nods at my outfit. “I see you haven’t had a chance to change clothes yet.”

I glance down at my wrinkled shirt.

Yesterday at the gas station, Wendy the Manager was more than willing to forgive my atrocious gas bill and give me a ride home. She was a little too willing, actually.

I know the difference between a kinky crazy look in a woman’s eyes and a nutzo crazy look. And Wendy was definitely leaning toward the serial killer end of the spectrum when we got in her car and she sank her fingernails into my bicep, licked the back of my neck, and aggressively invited me to come back to her place to meet her pet ferret.

I have nothing against ferrets. I do, however, have something against ferrets eating my flesh after I’ve been hacked to pieces by a neck-licking psycho. So I very politely declined and had her drop me off at Amber’s house so she and her pet ferret wouldn’t know where I slept.

Wendy the Manager retracted her shockingly sharp claws from my arm and begrudgingly dropped me off at Amber’s, where I crashed on the couch after explaining to Amber how Monique had been hauled off by a merciless tow truck. This morning, I didn’t have time to run home and change before heading to Eddie’s office.

“Not yet,” I say, looking at Amber. “Think you could give me a ride back to my place later?”

“Your place?” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Daren, you can’t keep staying there.”

“I can and I will. It’s a very crucial part of the façade I need to continue pulling off in order to not be categorized as the town outcast.”

“You’re being ridiculous. No one would treat you differently if they knew.”

“ Everyone would treat me differently,” I argue. Then consider. “Except you. Because you’re the best person in the world.” I smile, hoping my compliment will distract her from pursuing the topic.

She doesn’t fall for it.

“I don’t like it,” she says, her mouth in a tight line. “Why don’t you just move in with me and my roommates?”

I scoff. “And be the token male in a house filled with nonstop estrogen? I don’t think so. But thank you, anyway.”

Amber lives with three other girls in a two-room apartment across town. And while living with four women might sound ideal to some guys, I know the reality of the situation: shoes all over the place, makeup strewn about the bathroom counter, tampons everywhere… yeah. I don’t think I’m ready for any of that. But it’s nice that Amber keeps offering.

“Your call.” She shrugs. “But the offers still stands.”

I nod. “I appreciate that.”

“I’ll give you a ride after we close up tonight, as long as you don’t mind waiting.” She wipes down the counter.

“Of course not.” I grin. “I’ll help you close.”

“Deal.” She grabs a frosted glass from a freezer below the counter. “So what’s your poison tonight?”

My face falls. The last time I was drunk was a few days ago at the Fourth of July Bash out on Copper Lake. Old Man Turner had just died so I swigged my sadness away until I was inexcusably hammered. And then I scared the crap out of the only other face that ever makes me happy, Sarah “Pixie” Marshall, when my stupid ass tried to drive drunk with her as my terrified passenger.

Just thinking about the fear in Sarah’s eyes makes my stomach knot. That was a whole new low for me. Pixie was Charity’s best friend and, therefore, someone I’ve always cared a great deal for. I would never intentionally hurt Pixie. Not in a million years. God, I really need to apologize to her.

I shake my head. “I think I’ve had enough poison for a while. I’ll take a lemonade.”

“Ooh. Very badass of you.” Amber fills the frosted glass with lemonade, and scans my face. “What’s wrong?”

I run a hand through my hair. “I just need to straighten some stuff out with Sarah, that’s all.”

“Sarah ‘Pixie’ Sarah?” she asks, setting the lemonade down in front of me. I nod and her face lights up. “Aw… I miss her. How’s she doing?”

I shrug. “She’s been working at Willow Inn with me and Levi all summer.”

She arches a brow. “Have those two figured out they belong together yet?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But God, I hope so. She deserves a win for once, you know?”

She nods silently and carefully eyes me. “I know a few people who deserve a win.”

I avoid her eyes and focus on more pertinent matters. Like eating.

“Hey so…” I swallow, hating this part of my current circumstances. “Since I’m staying here until you close anyway, I was thinking I could maybe help out in the kitchen. Again. You know, if Jake needs a hand with the dinner rush. Again.”

She frowns. “I can spot you dinner, Daren. I know you love to cook, but you don’t have to keep coming in here and doing chores to earn a meal.”

“I don’t keep coming in for that,” I say harshly, even though that’s a lie. I’ve helped Jake in the kitchen at Latecomers five times in the past week. “I’m just, you know, tight on cash right now. That’s all.”

If he had room in the payroll budget, I’m sure Jake would hire me on the spot. But Latecomers is maxed out on employees, all of whom love their jobs and probably have no intention of quitting anytime soon. So for now, Jake lets me cook alongside him every once in a while and, in return, I get a free meal.

Sympathy flashes in Amber’s eyes, but only for a split second. She knows I hate being pitied.

“Jake always welcomes an extra set of hands in the kitchen,” she says then winks. “Especially if those hands belong to an aspiring chef.”

“Right.” I smile and start to get up but her hand smacks against mine, pinning me to the bar top.

“Not so fast,” she says. “The dinner rush won’t start for another hour or so. I think you should have dinner before you head back to the kitchen. Something tells me you haven’t had much to eat today.”

I gently slide my hand out from under hers. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re hungry.”

“No, I’m not.”

She flicks the bar towel at me. Hard. “Quit being so prideful and sit your ass down.” The determined look in her eyes is anything but playful.

I slowly obey and return to my barstool. She slaps a black bar napkin down in front of me, thwacking the counter so hard that the burly guy seated a few stools down looks over. Then she calmly moves the glass of lemonade on top of the napkin.

“Now,” she says pleasantly, all hardness gone from her eyes. “What can I get you for dinner, sir?”

I stare at her, biting back a smile. It never ceases to amaze me how some women can go from sharp-as-steel to sugar-sweet in the blink of an eye.

“Surprise me,” I say.

As she spins around and moves to the computer, I watch her type in an order and shake my head.

After high school, Amber started working at Latecomers to save up for college. After our parents divorced, her life didn’t fall to pieces like mine.

When my mom left for Boston, my dad was a hopeless wreck and burned through his own wealth faster than a speeding bullet in a cloud. High school ended and I had no choice but to work night and day to help pay bills. I had my job tending to Old Man Turner’s yard, and even though he grossly overpaid me for my work, it still wasn’t enough so I started working at the local cell phone store so I could make a little extra cash and keep a cheap phone bill. But with the enormous bills we had every month—the mortgage, the expensive cars, the boat—I quickly started sinking.

Amber, however, was able to set herself up with a decent job and a gaggle of roommates to make rent cheap. Now she’s moving to Phoenix in the fall to start classes at Arizona State University while I’ll probably be selling cell phones in Copper Springs forever, not to mention paying off Connor’s fifty-thousand-dollar medical bills for the rest of my life.