“Then how do I know he's my cousin?” he snaps. “You know damn well I got the police up my ass. And the first one goin' under the bus is you, little girl.”
And there's the threat.
“I'll go ask,” I mumble.
He mutters an insult beneath his breath while I trudge back toward the creep. He's fiddling with the car scents, taking one off the rack, sniffing it, and deliberately returning it to the wrong row, all the while wearing a smart-ass smirk on his ugly face. I clench my teeth, anger flaring. Brent’s yelled at me several times for not having the scents arranged correctly when customers do exactly that.
“What's your name?” I ask, attempting to keep my expression neutral. Last thing I want him to know is that his endeavor to piss me off is working.
His answering grin is evil, and I hate the way that makes me want to retreat in on myself. I've seen that very face far too often. And what comes after.
“You need my social security card, too? Just get my fucking cousin.”
It takes effort to refrain from spitting on him the way he just spit on me. Keeping the saliva in his mouth with that gap must be impossible.
“He wants your name first,” I insist.
“I ain't doing shit— Brent! Brent, get the fuck out here!” he yells loudly.
Fuck .
My heart speeds as I hear my boss's door slam shut behind him, followed by his angry footfalls. Panic unleashes, and I'm assaulted by the memories of Rocco charging at me with the same heavy steps.
Brent stomps up to the cash register, fire in his brown eyes. Sweat gathers along my hairline while I fight to stay in the present. Except, I don't know that reality is much better.
“The fuck you yellin’ for?” he snaps, glaring at the man for a beat, before turning it onto me. This time, I do shrink away.
My boss is a big man. And he's mean.
Distantly, I hear the chime of another customer entering the shop, though none of us acknowledge them.
“This little bitch refused to get you after I asked nicely. She's fucking disrespectful!”
Being called a bitch is certainly nothing new and certainly doesn’t hurt my feelings, but him risking my job is absolutely uncalled for.
My mouth falls open, a protest building on my tongue. However, it instantly dissipates when Brent's accusing stare swings onto me.
“That true?”
“I-I was just trying to get his name like you asked,” I defend myself weakly.
“Bullshit. She was fucking grilling me, man!”
“Shut up, Bud,” Brent barks, though he keeps his fiery gaze on mine.
The familiarity between the two is apparent. Guess that means he is Brent's cousin, which only makes my situation worse.
“Go into my office and wait for me,” he orders darkly .
The intention in his eyes is unmistakable. If I do as he says, I'll be walking out with one less piece of myself intact.
I nod, the movement jerky, as I turn toward his office. There's also an exit this way, and if I want to save myself, then it's imperative I take it.
Another job bites the dust, and I still have little money to show for it.
Devastation mingles with my growing anxiety. I'll have to find another town and beg for an illegal job, yet again. And the likelihood of finding a boss who's a decent human being is low. I haven't had one thus far and have gone through four jobs now.
I'm exhausted. So fucking exhausted.
“The dumb bitch can't even arrange these right,” his cousin—Bud—snaps. “The strawberry is mixed with the…”
I don't hear the rest of what he says, and I don't need to. He only cemented the necessity to get the fuck out of here.
I speed-walk directly toward the exit and charge out of there without a backward glance. Sunlight pierces my eyes, though I hardly register the sharp pain. I have tunnel vision, and the only thing on my mind is getting as far away from Engines & Oil as possible.
By the time I reach the bus stop, I've no idea how much time has passed. I don't remember a single second of it, nor the entire ride to the women's shelter I've been staying at.
With clouded thoughts, I eventually make it to the shelter. There aren't many women boarded here, thankfully, but I am required to have group therapy sessions with them to stay.
It's incredibly uncomfortable. At least they’re like me here, traumatized, and just want to be left alone. And it helps I get my own little apartment, though I am required to pay a small fee to keep it. The shelter’s meant to give survivors a form of independence away from their abusers, and it’s considerably cheaper than renting regular apartments around the area.