I shook it off, shed the feeling. I would not back down on this, not even against Gram. "I-I-I-I'm s-s-s-s-sorry it c-c-c-came out that that way. I'm not u-u-u-ungrateful. B-b-b-but I'm k-k-k-keeping the j-job."
The stutter did her in. Her hard expression went soft, and she let out a soft, "Oh, my darling girl. Oh, I'm sorry. I lost my temper. You see now where Dante gets it. I won't stop you from having this job, if you really think it will make you happier. I just worry about you."
I wasn't sure if I was relieved or completely humiliated that I'd won because of pity.
But I took it all the same.
Gram was one obstacle, Dante another.
Over the years, we'd learned to pick our battles with each other. What that meant was basically whoever cared more won, whoever cared less compromised.
I just assumed I'd be winning this one. I didn't count on him freaking out, his hellish temper coming out to play.
"No," he said to me first thing as he came back from his run. He was sweaty and agitated. He looked good enough to eat.
But it was the wrong approach.
"I already have the job. I was hired to wait tables. You're just going to have to get used the idea."
"No. I'm putting my foot down about this one."
A fight it was. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Hello, temper. It's me, Scarlett. What are we going to do about this bossy son of a bitch?
Likely nothing productive. Still, we'd try.
"What the hell is your problem? And when did you get the idea you could tell me what to do?"
"Why the hell do you want a job? If you need something, just tell Gram."
I rolled my eyes, making sure he saw it. "Spoken like a true trust fund baby. I need to start making my own money."
"Why?"
"Why do you care?"
He was right in my face, leaning down to me.
I met him glare for glare.
"Why do you always have to push it? I don't sleep at night, worrying about you since the attack. And now you want to go off on your own, for hours a day, and for what?"
That softened me a bit. "He's dead, Dante. He can't bother me or anyone else ever again."
"And what about that fucking cop? If he gets wind of you working as a waitress, he'll bother you every day."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Now there he had a point. "I'm sorry you're worried, but I'm not quitting. I can't live my life in fear of what ifs, and I can't be a Durant charity case for the rest of it either. I need to be more independent."
"What? What the hell is that supposed mean?"
"It means I'm a loser. I don't do anything. I don't contribute. I'm living here, in a mansion, and I've done nothing to earn it."
"That's bullshit. You're a high school student. That's your job right now."
That was laughable. I was a C student on a good day, when I was actually trying.
Most days I didn't even try. My mind tended to wander as soon as a teacher started talking.
"I don't deserve any of this, Dante. I don't deserve to be here."
"Deserve? What does that even mean? And if you don't deserve to be here, I don't either."
It was so outrageous I almost felt slighted by it. Insulted. "Please. Look at you, with your perfect GPA, your scholarships, your college applications, your SAT scores, your popularity, your football, your perfect everything. You belong here, in a house like this, in a life like this. The only thing about you that doesn't fit in here is that, for some reason, you want to be with me."
That got to him. I'd been bringing up a sore spot of mine, but I saw I'd rubbed us both wrong. His voice when he spoke was derisive. Offended. "None of that's for me. You think I enjoy any of it? And do you think I have a choice? Those things are the bare minimum that's expected of me, the Durant heir, and even that is not enough. And you're not a fucking Durant charity case. You might as well be a Durant. You will be someday, because you're never leaving me. Not happening."
That did something to me, played havoc with my heartstrings, made me become more agitated and go soft. It was nothing so much as a hostile, backhanded proposal of marriage, but sucker that I was, it still made me melt.
I was flushing as I tried to get back on topic. "I'm keeping the job."
His lips curled. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. "Fine," he bit out. "But I'll drive you to and from."
I didn't argue the logistics of it with him. I'd won. It was enough. I didn't need to rub it in his face.
All that fussing aside, talking about having a job and the reality of it were two different things. After four days waiting tables, I wanted to quit. Pure stubbornness was all that kept me from it.
People were rude, men were gross, and the manager was a lech.
It was an old-fashioned diner with a pretty simple menu, but it seemed like I did nothing but screw orders up for at least the first week.
And worse, much worse than any of that, five days into the job Harris found me.
He didn't do anything I could take real exception to at first. He just occupied a booth in the corner, ordered cup after cup of coffee, pretended to work on a laptop, and watched me.
For hours.