I nod. I won’t be calling. But then, neither is Daisy.
Chapter Five
DAISY
"You sure you want this job, honey?" The elderly man looks at me with more than a little skepticism. "You seem too nice to be working the overnight shift at a gas station, if you don't mind me saying so. Not the safest job for a young girl."
I swallow hard, my hand smoothing the dark blue collar of the company polo I have been given to wear. It's my first day, and Craig—the elderly owner of the gas station—is showing me how to run the register for a few hours before he leaves for the evening and I am all alone until 2:00 a.m., which is when the next shift arrives.
It's not that I truly want this job. I don't. It pays minimum wage. The counters are dirty and everything in the store has a fine layer of dust on it. I feel very young as Craig gives me another skeptical look, but I don't have a choice. I have no money. I have less than two hundred dollars in my savings, and my cupboard is getting barer by the day.
"I want the job," I tell Craig with a smile. "Don't worry about me." This is the only place that has called me. Of course I want the job. I need the job.
"All right," he says reluctantly, and we go behind the counter of the gas station convenience store. There are things I have to learn—how to swipe the lottery tickets in the machine, how to turn off the gas pumps, how to change out the flavor bags in the soda machine. There are a million things to remember, and I make notes on a notepad so I won't forget. Last, he shows me the cameras in the convenience store. He shows me the panic switch if I should be robbed, and the baseball bat that is kept under the counter, and then the Taser that is kept, dismantled, in a compartment behind the time clock in the storage room. They are there "just in case," Craig tells me.
"Has this place ever been robbed?" I ask when he shows me the Taser. I am getting a little uncomfortable with all the safety precautions. It reminds me of being home with my father. Of sitting up nights with weapons in hand, waiting for a strike that never comes.
How bad can a gas station be?
"Twice," he tells me, and my heart stutters. "But only on holidays. We won't make you work those days." He pats my arm. "I live just down the street. You get any troublemakers in here, you call me, okay?"
I nod. Craig's number is at the top of my notepad in big, bold numbers. I won't forget.
It's eventually time for Craig to leave, and I give him an impulsive hug when he does. I like him. He's a sweet old man. He reminds me of my grandfather, who is long dead. Craig seems pleased by my hug and pats my back; then he pushes a knuckle at the notepad still clutched in my hand. "Remember. You call me."
"I'll remember," I say warmly. "I've got this."
He leaves, and I am alone, manning the store. I take a deep breath. I can do this. It's what the new Daisy would do. Old Daisy would be terrified, so I won't be her. It's a case of mind over matter, and if my hands shake when a customer comes in to buy a soda, I ignore it. I ring him up, hand him a receipt, and when he leaves, I exhale. Father would never expect me to be so strong, so independent, but here I am, working my first job like a normal girl. I'm terrified—Father's endless fear of everything and anything out of the normal day to day has left its shadow on me, but I'm stronger than my fear.
I can do this.
It's not so bad after that first customer. Because it's late at night and most people pay at the pump, the gas station isn't all that busy. Regan has let me borrow one of her textbooks, and I read it and go through the homework from time to time so I can be prepared when I can afford classes. I read her textbook in between customers and manage to chat a little with the people that buy cigarettes and lottery tickets and beer. My feet ache from standing on them for so long, but this job isn't so bad. And by the end of an evening shift, I will have sixty-two dollars before taxes. Craig told me we get paid weekly, so I like this job more and more.
It's some time after ten at night when the door chimes, letting me know there is a customer. I look up from the textbook and straighten so I can greet the person at the door.
I recognize the high cheekbones, the slashing brows, the piercing gray eyes and the deep scowl on his face.
Nick.
I freeze. I don't know what to do. I'm hurt that he never bothered to show up the other day, and I'm embarrassed, too. His texts seemed sincere, but it's easy to lie when you're not speaking face to face. But acting like a jealous wife when it was just a coffee date would make me look stupid. Should I play it cool and casual? Do I even know how to do that?
I try to form a "hello," but my throat closes up. Instead of being the confident, carefree woman I should be, I stare at him mutely from across the counter and give a tepid wave, like some sort of idiot mime.
Real smooth, Daisy.
That frowning gaze remains focused on me, and I watch his gray eyes flick back and forth, studying everything. He pauses at the gas station logo on my shirt. Glances around at the empty convenience store. Then back at me. "Why are you here, Daisy?"
My mouth opens for a greeting…and then snaps shut again. Why am I here? That wasn't what I expected him to ask. I make a feeble gesture at my shirt.
"This is not safe," he states. "You should leave."
"I…" I swallow, my words choking in front of his disapproval. I am being such a ninny. Why does it matter if Nick approves of my job or not? "I work here. The next shift doesn't get here until two."
Nick looks upset at this. His mouth flattens into a grim line, and he shifts on his feet, scanning the empty parking lot. "This is not job for woman like you, Daisy. You must quit."
Those bossy words drain all of my awkwardness away. A woman like me? Someone who should be sheltered and locked away from the world? Now he sounds like my father. My mouth works into a mutinous scowl. "Are you buying something? Because if not, I think you should leave."
For a moment, he looks astonished that I am talking back to him. Like, completely, flat out astonished, as if I've just cussed him a blue streak instead of disagreed with him. And instead of getting upset, a smile curves his hard mouth.
That smile makes me all flustered again, but I'm still mad. I remember why I'm mad, too. He stood me up. Didn't even have the decency to show up in person and tell me why he couldn't be there. No, he let me sit at the cafe for hours and make a fool of myself. Everyone there thought I'd been stood up for a date. And then he tries to make it better by sending a few texts.
And I feel even stupider, because I'm clearly making more out of our friendship than it is. If I meant something to Nick, he wouldn't have humiliated me like that.
Like I was nothing. Like I didn't matter.
He puts a hand on the counter, and I stare at the letters, which I now know are Cyrillic, tattooed on his knuckles. "Daisy," he murmurs, his voice that achingly delicious thrum that I hate myself for liking. "You are not answering my texts, and I must explain myself."
"There's nothing to explain," I say. "We had a coffee date." Oh no, I used the word date! "And you didn't show up." Now I feel my face flushing at my choice of words. I shift on my feet and step backward since he's moved closer, and I scan the parking lot. Someone has pulled up in a beat-up PT Cruiser. A boy my age, wearing a knit cap, long hair sticking out underneath and in skinny jeans. He's walking in, which means Nick needs to get away from the counter.
But Nick isn't moving. His fingers drum on the counter once, and still he studies me. "I must apologize," he says. "Something came up and I had to leave town. I tried to send you message."
I look at him in surprise, my expression softening. "You left town? Family emergency?" A family emergency will make everything okay. It's awful, but I hope for distressing health for an aunt or uncle, and then hate myself for thinking it.
"Nyet."
I know that is "no" from hearing him speak previously. I wait for him to explain more, but he says nothing. After a moment, he types something into his phone. Mine dings, and he's sent me a photo. The attachment has a little broken picture and asks me to download.
"I…can't get your picture. I'm maxed out on my data." I'd have to buy a new phone or add more money to this one, and I can't until I get paid.
"Then it is likely you are not receiving many of my messages."
I stare down at my phone, chagrined. I'm still mad at him, but now I'm feeling slightly stupid about it. Like I'm the one being unreasonable. I don't know what to do. I look at Nick, but he's simply giving me an enigmatic smile, as if that will explain everything.
For some reason, that smile makes me angry all over again. It's like he's saying, "You see? It's not my fault your things are cheap."
The customer enters the station and comes immediately to the counter, giving Nick a wary look. He halts in his tracks, his gaze flicking from me to Nick and back to me again, as if he isn't sure whether to flee or remain.
"Are you purchasing something?" I ask Nick again. "If not, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The customer's eyes widen. He takes a step backward.
Nick simply grins at my sassy tone. He taps the glass counter and points at a scratch-off ticket. "I will take lottery ticket."
I calmly pull one off the roll and ring him up. After he pays, he steps away.
And my heart sinks with disappointment, just a little.
But he doesn't leave the store. Instead, he loiters by an end-cap of motor oil, holding that lottery ticket. He's not scratching it. He's still watching me.
The other guy steps up to the counter. "Clove cigarettes, please." He looks exceedingly nervous, as if Nick's presence bothers him. When I hand him the cigarettes, he practically snatches them off the counter and throws his money at me, eager to leave.
Then I'm alone with Nick again.
I'm not nervous like the other guy was. Nick doesn't scare me. He fills me with hurt and embarrassment, but he doesn't scare me. I think of the other day, when I sat in the coffee house for too long, everyone staring at me with pity in their eyes. I'd worn my new favorite bra and panties, just so I could feel pretty for him.
Not that it mattered.
He approaches the counter once more, still holding that lottery ticket in his hand.
"Do…do you need to cash that?" I can't think of another logical reason why he would still be here.
"Is for you. Present." He slides it across to me.
I shake my head. "I can't take it. I actually need to give you some money back. The other day, you spent too much—"
He raises a hand, silencing me. "You must let me apologize to you, Daisy." His voice is a silky caress, his gray gaze intense. "If I had any other way, I would have been there to meet with you. I promise you this."
The intensity of his words makes me feel heated, my pulse throbbing low. Strangely enough, I believe him. "You should have come and talked to me. You know where I live. A text is so…meaningless. Like I don't matter to you."
"You matter." His gaze is suddenly so piercing that I feel pinned to the wall with the intensity of it. "Never doubt that you matter to me."
I feel warm, flushed. Uncertain. "You should have come and told me in person, though. I wouldn't have missed that, and you know my phone is junk." I'm whining. I know it. I wanted to see his face when he apologized. It's mostly just an excuse to see him again. But he's here now, and I'm being a baby about my feelings being hurt.