“Sure you can. Don’t be foolish.”
Ah, but there’s the problem. “I’d rather not be foolish. But you insist on making me look foolish just to amuse yourself.” It’s been two weeks since he ruined my internship with the Bruisers. During the first week, I was assigned to the janitorial contractor at the stadium. I cleaned the women’s bathrooms during and after a Grateful Dead tribute concert. And last week I sold hotdogs during the hockey team’s preseason events.
I survived. It’s honest labor. No reason to be ashamed. Yet every time I come home on aching feet, smelling like hotdog water and spilled mustard, Dad is waiting here with a smug expression.
Like the one he’s wearing right now. “You can quit anytime, you know,” he says. “You can go back to school if you hate it so much.”
Trying to humiliate me into going back to school won’t work. That’s my father’s idea of parental love. So I’m outie. “Bye, then.” I roll my case a little nearer to the entryway.
“Where are you going?”
“I told you. Brooklyn. A rental.”
His face is full of confusion. It has never occurred to Daddy that I’d actually defy him. But that’s on me. Twenty years of obedience is a habit that’s hard to shake. “Where’d you find this apartment? Are you moving in with friends?”
“Nope. I found it on Craigslist.”
His coffee mug stops halfway to his mouth. “That’s dangerous, Heidi Jo. It’s unregulated.”
“I’m careful,” I argue. I couldn’t afford to use a rental agent, because they charge broker’s fees.
“Is this a ploy to get me to vest your trust fund?”
“You wanted me to learn to be independent,” I snap. “Here’s what that looks like.” I roll my suitcase onto the marble tiles in the entranceway and then march out of there.
It will prove to be my last smug moment for a while, though. My newest assignment from Daddy’s list of jobs starts today, and it’s worse than selling hotdogs. This week I’m working stadium security, and they’ve stationed me at the employees’ entrance.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far about low-paying jobs—they have a million rules and those rules don’t have to make sense. My boss for the week—Mr. Dunston, who has salami breath—has instructed me to spend sixty seconds on everyone who comes through the back door. No more. No less.
“Seventy-seven percent of security breaches in tier-one urban facilities come through the backdoor," Dunston lectures as I inspect the tote bag of a bored-looking ticket-taker.
“Yes, sir.”
It takes me fifteen seconds to establish that she’s got a functioning employee ID, a paperback book, and a salad in Tupperware. No weapons of mass destruction. But I still have thirty seconds to burn. “Please raise your arms?”
She does, with an eye-roll. Not that I blame her. With my face heating, I make a couple of non-invasive, half-hearted pats at the pockets of her cargo pants and then stand up really slowly. “You have a nice shift at work,” I tell her by way of an apology.
“Will do,” she mumbles before grabbing her tote bag and striding away.
“That was only forty-one seconds,” the boss complains.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll do better this next time.” He must have other people to intimidate, right? If he would just go away, everything would be fine.
The door opens, ushering in my next two victims. And as soon as I see Silas’s face, I feel immediately cheered. Unfortunately, it’s quickly followed by the one face I’ve been trying—unsuccessfully—to avoid.
Jason Castro, ladies and gentlemen. The sexiest, most eligible bachelor of hockey is in the building. And he’s staring right at me with those grumpy brown eyes.
“Hello, boys,” I say, lifting my chin. But embarrassment has already set in. And it’s not the navy-blue polyester uniform that’s caused it. Two weeks ago I kissed that man like the world was burning down around the carwash.
Then he rejected me. And I am so not over it. His kisses didn’t just curl my toes. They curled parts of me that I didn’t know were curlable.
But never mind. Another day, another small humiliation.
“Hey there, Heidi,” Silas says cheerily. “New post?”
“Yes, sir.” I glance at Jason, and his eyes darken immediately. He gets that dark look all the time now when he looks at me. It must be irritation. We keep bumping into each other. Last week when I was wearing a smelly brown polyester uniform, I swear I bumped into him a dozen times.
Every time, I get that same unhappy look from him—like he can’t believe he kissed the loser girl whose daddy took away her trust fund until she does ten weeks of manual labor.
And now I get to frisk him.
“Step right up, boys,” I say, patting the security table. “Would you kindly lay your bags on the table, please?”
“Sure thing.” Silas gives me a big grin, drops his duffel on the table, and unzips it for me. “Careful, though,” he says. “Some of these bags will have that hockey stench.”
“Trust me, it’s the scent of my childhood.” Maybe that’s why I have a thing for hockey players; I’m immune to the odor of sweaty pads. Silas’s bag is almost empty. Just a pair of headphones, a bottle of coconut water, and a tablet computer. No trouble here.
Unfortunately the whole inspection takes about five seconds. And Silas is about to step on past me.
Behind me, the boss clears his throat. “Security first!”
“Would you mind unbuttoning your jacket?” I ask Silas as embarrassment creeps up my neck.
“Not at all,” he says as his strong hands take care of the buttons. Players are required to arrive at the stadium in a suit and tie. Silas wears navy gabardine, a white shirt, and a tie in the team color—eggplant.
Just to use up seconds, I come around the table at a geriatric pace. Then I pat each of his suit pockets with all the force of a house fly landing on a windowsill. Because—come on—this is the biggest waste of time in the history of sports.
But logic does not prevail. And it’s not about post-9/11 fears anymore. The head of stadium security has a staff of fifty people, and he needs to keep them all busy so he can look important. I’ve worked here for less than two hours, and I’ve already got his number.
“Have a good game,” I tell Silas.
“Will do!” He winks and walks away.
Ignoring Jason has been easy enough so far. But now I turn and expose myself to the blast furnace of his studliness. Jason Castro in a suit is not a sight for the faint of heart. The jacket and pants are charcoal and cut to show off the perfect taper from his chest to his waist. The white shirt cuffs shine against his copper skin, and his green tie sets off the unusual brown of his eyes.
“C-could you please, um…” I briefly lose my train of thought. Could you please undress me? That’s what I want to ask.
He bails me out. “Here,” he grunts, dropping the bag on the table. “Watch out for the sandwich.”
“Is it ticking?”
“No.” He snorts. “But I don’t want to eat a squished sandwich.”
“It’s peanut butter and strawberry jam,” says another player from the doorway. There’s a line forming now. “Has to be strawberry. This one is superstitious.”
“Good to know,” I say, taking a quick look inside the bag. Aside from the sandwich, there’s a set of rosary beads, and a paperback book. A Tale of Two Cities. Castro has fancy taste in literature.
You could learn a lot about a guy doing this job. What if his bag was full of jock-itch powder? Or GasX?
I close the bag hastily.
“Check the pockets,” grunts Dunston.
“You’re right, sir,” I say grumpily. “Mr. Castro looks like a very dangerous man.”
The players lined up behind Jason all give hoots of laughter, but Castro just frowns down at me. I unzip the outer pocket at one end of his bag, and then immediately wish I hadn’t, because there are a handful of loose condoms in there. The only small mercy is that I don’t pull them out for everyone else to see.
I do, however, look up into Jason’s eyes with an expression approximating that of a kicked puppy.