by Ivy Asher
It takes a lot of willpower to shove away those wicked thoughts, but I do. I’ve had plenty of practice.
Because he’s right. This is my last night. Which means I only have to put up with this for a few more hours. It’s already eleven PM, so I just need to make it until two, grab my last paycheck—which my utility bill is counting on—and then say fuck off to Sean for good.
I set the beer down on the bar with a sigh. I’m just asking for a fucking new beer. Why does everything always have to be a fight? I’m so sick and tired of this shit. “Look, the customer sent it back; what do you want me to do, Sean?”
“I want you to do your fucking job, Delta,” he growls.
“I’m a bartender.” Not to mention a glorified waitress and janitor, I think bitterly. “My job is to serve people drinkable drinks. That’s all I’m trying to do.”
“Not today, it’s not. Today I need you to wait tables, and that means you grab the drinks I prepare and then sashay your slutty ass over to the customers to serve them. That’s all you do. Fucking simple. But you can’t handle it, I guess. So why don’t you just get your shit and go?”
I rear back. “Excuse me?”
“You fucking heard me. It’s not like you’re important, Delta. Anyone can do your job, and I got Vicky and Sara. They at least had the fucking decency to keep working until we closed.”
That’s what has a fire poker up his narrow ass. He’s pissed that I quit on him before his business quit on me.
“You’re closing,” I say through gritted teeth. “Everyone has to find a new job.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he goes on, like he didn’t even hear me. “You always were a little orphan bitch.”
My eyes go hazy with fury. But instead of my vision turning red like some people claim, mine goes pitch-black when my rage takes over. There’s something inside of me that’s not quite right. There always has been. I usually lock it up nice and tight, but I’m really tempted to let that side of me loose right now.
I hate that he knows exactly where to hit to cause the maximum amount of damage. Those violent urges? Yeah, I don’t know how much longer I can suppress them. I need to get the fuck out of here before I legit attack this dude.
“You know what? Fine,” I say, ripping the order notepad out of my pocket and slamming it on the bar next to the spoiled beer. “Give me my last paycheck, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
He snorts. “Paychecks are for working, and all you’re doing is bitching. Don’t think you’ve earned it.”
My mouth drops open as heat floods over my skin in a furious flush. “You can’t do that.”
He leans in, just to get in my face. “Yeah, I can.”
My hands curl into fists. The festering rage starts to come up my throat and burn the back of my tongue, falling out in venomous words. “I may be an orphan, Sean, but I’m pretty sure you’re a fucking failed abortion.”
My words catch him off guard, and the cocky look leaves his face for a half second.
“Give me my pay, because you know I’ve worked my ass off for every minimum-wage cent,” I tell him, looking him dead in the eye. “You’re a shitty boss, and Ollie would be ashamed of you. I’m glad this is my last night so I can be done with your bullshit.”
Sean gets an even nastier look on his face than before as he puffs out his chest indignantly. “Is that why you’re such a bitch? No old Ollie dick around here for you to suck on during your breaks?”
I gape at him, completely insulted. Not on my behalf, but on Ollie’s. The fact that he has this scum-licking nephew who would even say such a thing about him just goes to show how horrible Sean really is. “You’re such a piece of shit,” I seethe before I shove away from the bar.
“Yeah, yeah, bitch. Get the fuck out,” he drawls, his voice loud enough to cause a scene.
Before I even know what I’m doing, the inky black fury takes over. I whirl around and slap the rotten beer right off the counter. It goes spiraling toward Sean, spilling the putrid contents all over him before he bats the bottle away to keep from getting hit.
It shatters behind him on the liquor shelves, taking several bottles with it. I wince at the noise as customers look over, the volume in the bar dropping as everyone takes in the scene.
Sean and I stare at the damage, stunned into silence for a second before he rounds on me. His face is mottled with color, and he looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him before. But then his eyes glint with a vindictive edge of satisfaction, and he sweeps his hand around the destroyed glass with victory. “There goes your so-called hard earned pay. Your check will cover the damages,” he tells me snidely, making my heart sink right down to my knees. “You’re lucky I don’t file charges against you.”
Hot tears stab the backs of my eyes as reality sinks in that I’m not going to see a dime for this entire week’s pay. All of it gone because I couldn’t hold my temper in for just three more fucking hours. I need that money. I’m not set to get paid for my new job until two weeks from now, and I needed this paycheck to hold me over until then. But even though I feel the walls of regret for my impulsive lash-out closing in on me, I won’t let him see me break.
I spin around on my heel and practically sprint away, while trying to ignore the shit that spews out of Sean’s mouth as I go. “Yeah, go on. Get out of here, you crazy bitch!”
My cheeks burn with fury, humiliation, and shock at what I just did as I make my way to the back room. I hurry across the cramped space and over to the employee shelves, snatching up my sweatshirt, keys, and cell phone. My hands are shaking, making me nearly drop everything before I can get a better handle on it. I need to get out of here. Now. As soon as I walk out the door, I nearly barrel into Vicky.
“Oh, honey, I feel awful!” she says, her eyes wide.
I shake my head. The last thing I want is for her to blame herself. “Don’t worry about it.”
Vicky yanks me into a hug, and I pat her awkwardly on the back. We’ve always worked well together, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends, and we definitely never hung out outside of work. “It’s fine,” I tell her again before strategically pulling away. I know she’s just being nice, but I really need to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.
“Here,” she says, digging into her back pocket before shoving some wrinkled bills at me. “Take my tips.”
I immediately shake my head and shove her hand away. “I’m not taking your money, Vicky.”
The blonde looks like she’s ready to cry. “Please? It’s my fault he fired you and is being an ass about your pay.”
I give her a small strained smile. “You got kids at home to feed. Really, I’ll be fine,” I lie as I push her hand away once more.
She sighs and stuffs the money back in her pocket. “Take care of yourself, honey,” she tells me.
“You too.”
I sidestep past her and hurry to walk across the bar, keeping my head held up. When Sean gives me another “Get the fuck out” shouted at my back, I flip him off, wishing I could chuck another beer bottle at him.
Trembling with emotions and the hot anger still pumping through me, I shove the door open and walk outside, taking in a shaky breath as I look back at the place I’ve been working for the last seven years. Since I was twenty-one, I’ve been coming in here, serving the same tables and the same drinks, and what do I have to show for it?
Nothing.
No savings, no friends, not even a fucking goodbye cake. Just a “Get the fuck out” from a shithole boss who turned this place into a shitty bar and wouldn’t even give me my last shitty check.
Fuck.
With tears stinging the backs of my gray eyes, I turn and head around the brick building to where my moped is parked in the back lot for employees. As soon as I get to it, the sound of thunder makes me pick up my head, and I see storm clouds rolling in. “Great. Just fucking great,” I grumble as I shove my helmet over my head and get on, an anxious tremble starting in my hands.<
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Revving the engine, I nudge the kickstand back and turn the handlebar, walking my moped forward for a bit before I peel out of the lot. The air changes as I drive down the freeway, filling with the scent of impending rain. I kick the gear up and go faster, weaving through the traffic of Sandpiper, Oregon, as I rush to get home.
My neighborhood is just outside of the city, so even though there’s a commute, it’s not as busy, which I like. The street is simple, lined with outdated houses filled with families and elderly people.
My house was left to me when my parents died. It was supposed to be their dream house. They bought it cheap, and my dad spent his weekends here, slowly fixing the place up bit by bit, which is why I’m still in over my head with needed repairs. It’s still a fixer-upper, even after all these years. Not just because I can’t afford to hire anyone to renovate it, but because this was my dad’s passion project. It just feels wrong to have someone else do it. So I spend most of my off days watching YouTube videos for how to lay tile, scrape a popcorn ceiling, or fix a leaky faucet. It’s slow going because I’m shit at it, but at least it keeps me occupied.
I pull up to my driveway and park my moped beneath the carport. Lightning and thunder clash above me, and I grit my teeth, hurrying to my front door. I slam it behind me, probably a little too hard, but storms always make me edgy.
I leave my helmet, keys, and shoes by the door as I flip on the lights. I go through the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, making sure to close all the heavy blackout curtains to block out the lightning that I know is coming, and then switch on the TV and pull up an app that will play loud rock music to drown out the thunder.
By the time I’m finished, I’m breathing heavy, the scent of rain still somehow filling my nostrils. I grab the lighter that I keep in my kitchen drawer and light some floral scented candles. Only then am I able to take a full deep breath without feeling like there’s a boa constrictor around my chest.
I smell like a bar, but I’ll take that over the storm, and I’m too emotionally exhausted to shower just yet. Slumping onto my thrift store couch, I hold my head in my hands, my fingers digging through my purple tresses as I massage my scalp. My mom used to do this when I was sick or upset. She’d just let me lay my head in her lap while she’d run her fingers deftly through my hair, and it was like she just caressed all the tension away. It didn’t matter what was wrong—a shitty day at school, the stomach flu, or a blow up over my lack of impulse control and violent tendencies. She’d still let me lie right there on her legs while she silently comforted me.
I let out a breath, my hands falling away from my hair, because it’s just not the same. It never will be.
With a sigh, I turn the TV volume up higher, reminding myself that at least I have a new job to look forward to. Maybe this one will bring some needed changes in my life, aside from just the money. It’s a fresh start. Maybe it’s a good thing that Ballpark Brew is closing. I didn’t want to work for a limp prick like Sean for the rest of my life anyway. I’m twenty-eight years old, and clearly, if I’m this fucking miserable and lonely, I could do with some change.
I could also really do with some good luck, but I won’t let myself get my hopes up too high. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since that night nine years ago when a couple of cops showed up on my doorstep and told me my parents died, it’s that life isn’t fair. It usually cuts your legs right out from under you and then charges you for it. But that’s okay. This is my shitty lot in life, and up until now, I’ve accepted it.
Lying flat on the couch, I grab the old T-shirt blanket that my mom made me and wrap myself up in it. People used to tell me all the time that everything happens for a reason. I’ve been looking for my reason ever since. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a peek of it tomorrow.
Muffled rock music and dangerous hope lull me to sleep, and oddly, I spend the whole night dreaming about playing in a sandbox. There are other little girls there with me—I can tell by their clothes, but I can’t ever seem to focus on their faces. The more I try, the sadder I become until I wake up with tears streaming down my face.
I sit up, my back shouting at me for falling asleep on the rock hard couch. I scrub at my face and try to breathe through the echo of emotions still coursing through me from the fading dream.
Fuck, even my dreams are pointing out my lonely loser status these days. No friends to play in the sandbox with me. No one to call anytime there’s a storm that reminds me of the night my parents died.
“At least I have you, Fern,” I say to the poor plant that got saddled with me.
Getting up, I pull back a curtain, letting soft early morning light spill into the living room. That’s enough feeling sorry for myself. Today is a new day, and fingers crossed, the start of a new everything. This job can’t be worse than dealing with Sean, right?
3
When I pull up to the driveway, I gawk at the palatial house. Who knew there was a fucking castle out here on the spacious land bordering the outskirts of Sandpiper City? I never saw this shit on my maps app, I can tell you that much, and it definitely doesn’t fit with Sandpiper, Oregon’s dynamic.
Sandpiper is a weird combo of big city meets rural, old-fashioned farms. The farms that border the city are comprised of people whose great-great-great-great-granddaddy lived their whole life on that land, and now their generational offspring don’t want to leave. Meanwhile, the highrises and other cityscape popped up out of nowhere and, if you believe the farmers, claim more of God’s green earth for their wicked city ways every year.
There, of course, are the more prominent neighborhoods in Sandpiper that are filled with mansions that are built way too close together for my liking. But I’ve never seen anything like this. Susan Atwood mentioned that I’d be working for the Perdition Estate, but I hadn’t given much thought to what that would mean. However, as I make my way down an insanely long driveway that’s surrounded by rolling hills of well watered and manicured landscaping, toward a house that could rival Buckingham Palace, the word estate suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.
Feeling out of place, I park my moped at the end of the drive. This hunk of metal clearly does not belong here amidst the trimmed hedges and squeaky-clean pavement, so I tuck it away as much as I can beneath a few large trees near an old wrought iron gate. I put out the kickstand and take off my helmet, hanging it on the handlebar before I straighten my clothing.
Missy told me that my uniform and everything I’d need would be here, so I’m wearing the same jacket, tank top, and fake-slacks I wore for the interview. I figured if it was good enough for the interview, it should be a safe bet in case I come across someone important, like whoever the hell owns this place.
I tried to do some sleuthing about the Perdition Estate, but I quickly learned that was a dead end. It seems privacy is one of the many things money can buy, and I didn’t find anything other than the address, which Missy had already supplied.
I wish I had thought to ask Missy more specific questions about everything, but I was busy picturing all the ways my life was going to change for the better and distractedly filling out all the new-hire forms. When I was done, Missy said she’d email me copies of everything and then handed me a thick expensive piece of paper—which was clearly the estate’s letterhead—with the address written on it in a smooth feminine scroll and told me to arrive before dusk.
I didn’t think it was weird that she hadn’t given me a specific time until later. For some reason, her mention of “before dusk”—as if I knew what that meant—didn’t register as unusual until I was looking up when exactly dusk is so that I could make sure I got over here early.
I tentatively walk up the stone steps of the damn palace and knock on the door before wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon, and the light is dimming fast. I peer at it worriedly; I don’t want to be late.
Just when I raise my hand to knock again on the massive wooden door, it swings open, and an elderly man wearing a f
ull butler uniform looks down at me. “You must be Miss Gates.”
“Yes,” I say with a smile, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Nice to meet you.”
He gives me a bored look, making it known that it’s not at all nice to meet me. “This is the main entry, Miss Gates. You are supposed to enter through the side gate,” he says with a sigh. “Go past the patio, to the left of the gardens, take a right at the fountain, and head for the iron gate where the graveyard grounds are. You’ll see the small groundskeeper building there. It will have everything you need inside.” Without another word, he shuts the door in my face.
I blink at the wood, not even an inch from my nose. “Oookay then, Grumpy Lurch.”
Turning, I head back down the steps, feeling like I just got smacked down to my third-class place. I really need to learn the Jack Dawson spit technique, dammit.
I walk across the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet as I head for the side gate. It swings open easily with a little squeak, and then I find myself in the grassy side yard. I follow the butler’s instructions as I pass by the enormous, posh patio that’s equipped with a gazebo, inground pool and jacuzzi, and even a damn hedge maze. This place is so extra, I don’t even think there’s a size for it.
It takes me ten minutes to walk through the garden. Ten. Fucking. Minutes.
My own outside “garden” consists of the marijuana plants that Mrs. Lee grows on her windowsill in the house beside mine.
When I finally make it to what must be the groundskeeper building, dusk is here, and I know I need to hurry up, or I’ll be late for my first shift. This place feels like it’s miles from the main house. I’ll need to get here earlier so I don’t have to rush next time.
I approach the small wood and stone structure and yank open the door. It’s nothing but a mostly empty cabin that looks like it was handmade a hundred years ago. I walk inside, my steps thudding on the wooden floor as I flip on a single, really old electrical light that hangs in the middle of the room.
