“Jules, do you have a minute?” My boss, Jack DeShane, motioned for me to come into his office when I got to work the following day. My stomach dipped as I strode toward his office, my gaze catching Mike’s picture under the Employee of the Month plaque. God, I hoped he was okay. Hopefully Jack hadn’t heard about the epic fail of a 911 call. A wave of panic zipped through my veins, my heart shifting into overdrive. The last thing I needed was to be jobless the second week of summer.
If things had gone according to plan, I would be at my hot-guy-mecca of a job selling protein powder and muscle aids, not heckling people about buying ink and printers. But that plan backfired when my old boss, Josh, went from best boss ever to a douche canoe when I’d asked for four weeks of personal time off. Instead of asking why I’d needed the time, he booted me out faster than a drunk passed out at a bar. I learned quickly that when life gave you lemons, it squeezed them in your eye and rubbed some salt in there for good measure.
With a two-year lease on my apartment and no more financial backing from my parents, keeping this job was imperative. And unless I wanted to spend the next couple months working at Uncle Clint’s auto body shop, getting hit on by Creeper Sam With The Neck Tat for the sixth summer in a row, paying my half of the rent from a thousand miles away, I needed to put my best foot forward.
I sat down in the chair across from Jack and relished a few minutes of being off my feet, scanning his office. Service and community awards hung along the walls along with pictures of him shaking hands with the mayor. A photograph of him and another guy his age on a yacht, holding fishing rods, was on the wall behind his desk.
He scribbled something on a pad of paper and looked up at me. “Mike will be out for a few weeks. He had a minor heart attack and needs some time to rest.”
I cracked my knuckles, a habit I never kicked from when I was a teen, and peeled my gaze from the pic of the dream boat. My throat tightened, but I squeezed out the question that had clouded my thoughts for the past day, ever since the taillights of the ambulance disappeared on Cornell Boulevard. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes, but in the meantime, we’re getting a new employee. My son, Ryan, is back for break and will be filling in while Mike is out on leave.”
Jack squinted at his Rolex on his fake-and-bake crisped skin. Dang. I never knew office supply stores were lucrative. “He should be here any minute. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”
“Thanks, Mr. DeShane.”
He nodded, the skin around his baby blues crinkling when he smiled. “Call me Jack. And, no problem, but let’s make sure no one else ends up in the hospital this week.”
A nervous laugh escaped my lips that sounded like an old man wheezing his way through the nursing home to get to Bingo Night. “Yes, sir.” He was kidding, right? I checked again, a small smile still on his lips. Okay, he was, but I couldn’t help feeling a little responsible.
“Have a good day.” He went back to typing on his computer, and I took that as the cue to leave.
I stepped out of the office and into the main store, already missing the refuge of the chair. Blisters be damned, I always wore heels to work because, no matter how you cut it, work pants didn’t look the same with flats. After a six hour shift, my feet blazed like Satan himself had taken a torch to my toes, but at least I did my pants justice. One thing in my life I had firm control over.
With a quick scan of the store, this Ryan person proved to be an elusive creature. I already knew the other employees, so it shouldn’t have been too hard to spot someone new and most likely close to my age in an ugly lime green shirt that made anyone wearing it look jaundiced.
As I walked around the counter to my spot at Customer Service, a deep thumping bass vibrated outside the store, the beat rattling my chest. I looked out the window as a silver Honda Civic rolled into a spot in the parking lot, and the driver cut the engine.
The door swung open, and out poured a guy who looked like he should be on Greek Row making the walk of shame rather than going to work. I assumed this was Ryan, because a) in the two weeks I’d worked here I had yet to see a guy under twenty-five come in before nine a.m. and b) he had an Office Jax shirt draped over his shoulder—always a good sign. His wrinkled gray T-shirt hung loose on his chest, and his jeans were a little baggy. The guy looked like shit. He kicked his door shut and sauntered toward the warehouse, staring at his phone the entire time.
Once he got through the sliding doors, I called out, “Morning.”