Page 10 of Theirs to Corrupt
With a smile in Pax’s direction, I tuck the money into my apron pocket.
When they leave, the bar seems strangely quiet.
I shake my head, telling myself I should appreciate the break.
Because it’s almost time for me to leave, I turn over a couple of tables to Cheryl and make sure my area is clean, ready for the next customers.
“You did a great job today, sugar,” Marge says, startling me.
She presses a wad of cash into my hand—tips that were added via credit card. There’s more than expected, and I exhale with gratitude.
“Now get on home and get some rest. You look dead on your feet.”
I am. But my night is far from over. “Thanks.”
Marge—and this job—are a lifesaver.
The parking lot is eerily quiet as I make my way to my car, keys clutched between my fingers. The flickering streetlight casts long shadows, and every rustle of leaves sends my heart racing.
I practically dive into my beat-up Honda, locking the doors before I even start the engine.
As I pull out of the lot, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. But a quick glance in the rearview mirror shows only empty darkness.
I’m far too jumpy.
Leaning back against the worn fabric seatback, I turn up the radio and sing along to the eighties tune.
By the time I climb the rusty exterior stairs to my second-floor unit, my eyes are ready to close.
But as I push open the door, the smell of home-cooked food makes my mouth water. “Nat?” I call out, kicking off my shoes.
With a smile, she pokes her head out of our tiny kitchen. “Hey, girl!” Her mismatched earrings glint in the fluorescent light. “I made enchiladas.”
The quick meal is one of our go-tos. We make them out of cheese, and if one of us has a particularly good week, we splurge by stirring in some ground beef. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”
“Go sit down.”
“I can help,” I protest.
“You’ll be in my way.”
The galley kitchen is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
“You can handle it another time. You have to babysit tonight, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Again. Grateful for Natalie, I make my way into the living room and collapse on the threadbare couch.
We grab every opportunity to catch up that we can. I watch Miguel when his mom works the night shift at the hospital. Nat also recently picked up a second job, cleaning office buildings after hours. And since we’re not scheduled together at the Rusty Nail very often, we cherish our time together.
I’ve barely had a chance to roll some tension from my shoulders when she places our dishes and silverware on the coffee table. Then she plonks down next to me.
“Anything interesting happen this evening?”
“It’s the Rusty Nail.” I shrug, and we both laugh.
That’s become one of our favorite sayings.
There’s always something going on at the Rusty Nail, from hookups to breakups, arguments, people belting out terrible songs on karaoke night, occasional fights, people breaking pool cues because they lost, customers needing to be poured into rideshares because they’re too drunk to stand up, and well, Link Merritt threatening someone’s life.