Celeste Peters

"Table thirteen needs another! He said he wanted rare!" Paula flings the plate of hamburger and fries on the metal counter beside me before running back out the swinging door.

Another wave of heat fills my veins and I wipe my brow with the bottom of my stained white apron. "Can someone turn the fuckin' fan on?" I yell over my shoulder to whoever is behind me. I'm not sure if my words travel above the sounds of banging pots, the exhaust hood, and sizzling meat, but if they do, I'm sure my coworkers are choosing to ignore me. I haven't exactly been my most pleasant self today.

Or any other day, really.

I slam another patty on the grill before grabbing the rejected hamburger and ripping it apart to inspect it.

Perfectly pink. It is fucking rare.

Keep it together. Be calm. You need this job.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I flip the browning patty on the grill over to sear the other side for about a minute. I fix up the plate again, wondering if I'm melting on this grill along with the too-perfect-it-can't-be-real orange cheese I toss on the patty, which probably has cardboard in it.

I must be melting.

And I'm not talking about the mushy, smiling emoji rippling away into a puddle of cuteness type of melt. I'm talking ugly distortion. A pile of congealed material that sticks to surfaces and never comes off. It's like accidentally leaving a pot with a plastic handle in the oven, which as it preheats, wafts a disgusting smell of burnt plastic through the air. Even though you can run to turn off the oven, it's now fucked with cancerous molecules.

This is my life—probably a dream candidate for a powerful scrub brand that wants to use me for advertising, but truly a nightmare when they find out I'm unscrubbable. I'm stuck to the walls of this oven, unable to be useful to anyone around me, no matter how much I try.

But I cannot afford to give up. My family needs me to keep scrubbing. Even if my hands start to bleed out or my back threatens scoliosis, I will be bent over, putting everything I have into cleaning up the mess.

Paula swings in, grabs the new burger plate from beside me, and dips out without a word. I throw a couple of more patties on the grill to start on the incoming orders before taking a large swig of water.

Today these kitchen appliances feel like they're over four hundred degrees, melting away any remaining shred of level headedness I might have. I blink at the crackling foods that close arteries for a living and feel like I'm back on the phone, hearing the poor connection sounds from the call with the courthouse this morning.

My brother Noah's hearing at the courthouse next door got postponed. Again. Apparently, some stupid lawyer forgot a piece of paperwork and the judge ruled to meet in thirty days instead. The dumb fuck lawyer was probably busy swimming in a vault full of gold coins cartoon duck style, or using a hundred dollar bill to wipe his ass while counting the rest of his money.

Meanwhile, for thirty more days Noah has to sit in a prison cell. For thirty more days my nephew Theo can't see his dad. For thirty more days my sister-in-law Louisa has to work over time to care for her son. And for thirty more days, I won't be able to take care of my family like I'm supposed to be doing. Nausea fills me as I think back to the promise I made.

Once I save up enough money from this job, I'll hire a lawyer (a good one) to take on my brother's case and get him out of prison. Then, I'll help Louisa pay for Theo's daycare and whatever else she needs. And then, Lou and I will do things like get our hair and nails done while the boys do boy things. Or whatever. I want us to be doing anything but fighting a broken system, tooth and unpolished nail.

I need a strong drink.

But first, I need to get through work before drowning myself in booze and pleasure tonight.

Paula swings back in with a scowl on her face and the burger plate in hand. "Table thirteen said it's still not rare enough."

I slam the spatula down and grab the plate from her. The burger is practically moo-ing. "What the fuck!"

Red clouds my vision. Before I can think about what I'm doing, I grab a completely raw burger patty from the counter and slam it on the plate. A frantic Paula says something but I can't hear her over the pounding in my ears. I storm out of the kitchen, laser focused on table thirteen.

Fucking figures.

This man is rich. He has designer shades on top of his white, barely-there, slimy gelled hair, perfectly trimmed nails he probably got done with his best friend, and an air of entitlement reserved for people who have multiple commas in their bank account.

I march over to him, hoping the red laser beam I feel pulsing from my eyes will do its damage, and slam the plate against his table. It cracks on impact. "Here is your raw burger, Sir!"

"What the fuck?" His hands are up and his eyes are wide.

"I know you'd rather have a live cow to chew on, but here, try it! I think you'll like it!" I grab the burger and move it towards his mouth, about to force feed him his order like the hands-on cook that I am. He flings my hand back and shoots out of his seat. The burger is sent flying and the patty lands with a splat against the edge of the table.

"You fucking psycho!" he yells and the restaurant quiets instantly.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" I ask sweetly.

He grabs his suit jacket and looks around. His face is bright red and for a moment I wonder if he's going to cry. "You'll be hearing from my lawyers!" he stammers before running toward the diner's exit.

"Best of luck growing a set of balls!" I yell back just as he leaves.

Before I'm able to register what else is going on around me, my manager George yells, "Celeste! In my office! Now!"

Wait, fuck! What did I just do?

Reality is falling back on me like a bad hangover. Trying to catch my breath and adjust my vision, I follow after him.

"You're done," George says as soon as I step through the frame.

Nothing like those words to sober a girl up. They're like ice water thrown over me. Steam must be lifting on impact. "What do you mean, done? Like just for the day, right?"

"No, Celeste. You're fired. Get out," he says surprisingly calmly, like he can't be bothered to fight.

I'm not worth a fight.

My chest constricts, and breathing starts to become very difficult. "It was one small mistake, George. I didn't mean to do it!"

He shakes his hairless head and his nostrils flare.

"For fucks sake, the guy sent the burger back twice! He wanted rare, I gave him rare!" My body starts to vibrate. I can't believe this is happening again. Shit, I cannot lose this job. It took me months to find as the demand for young cooks with home-only cooking experience is non-existent. And I don't really have much other experience unless you count watching Bluey with Theo or making fun of Miss Rachel until my voice gives out. Or sex. I have no in between besides cooking.

"Listen, kid. You're a damn good cook, but we can't have you here with that temper of yours. You need to leave."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me! You're letting that asshole win if you fire me!" My face and body are heating up again and I take a sharp breath in to try to cool myself down. I smack my hands together in a praying motion. "George, please! I'm so sorry. I really need this job. I'll do anything to make it up to you. Please, please, please! I can't afford to lose this job!"

"Well, you should've thought of that before you came outta that kitchen. You can hand in your apron to Paula on your way out."

"Please George! I don't fucking have a temper problem!" I yell.

George scoffs and I instantly know there's no going back from this.

I storm out of the room, grab my things, fling my apron at whoever is near the entrance, and exit into the blinding sun and Atlanta summer heat.

Once I reach the parking lot, I scream.

A couple of people walking by jump back, but I ignore them and head straight to my car. God, why am I such a fuck up?

I jump into my little beat-up car, yelling any expletive that comes to mind. Sitting in the lot for what feels like an hour, I swing between hyperventilation, sobbing hysteria, and exploding anger.

Finally, I manage to start the car and pull out of the lot, trying to keep myself together as best I can with my breathing. In, one two. Out, one two. Maybe I can find another job before I break the news to Lou? Or wait a day to cool down and go back to George, groveling like the pathetic person I am.

My phone lights up with a message from Lou. Stomach clenching, I turn the corner onto the busy street and grab my cell.

Louisa: I have some fun and exciting news! Come over after work?

Oh my God, I'm going to poop on her party parade with my news. As soon as I look back up, my phone has a mind of its own and slips through the crack between my seat and the center console. I dig around, keeping the steering wheel level, but can't get a feel for it. It must be tucked toward the back. I glance down searching for it, and as soon as I track it, I shift my gaze back to the road.

But I'm too late.

My body jerks forward against my seatbelt with the impact and I slam on the brakes. Red lights on the jet black BMW paint my vision and my heart rate skyrockets through the roof.

Fuuuuuck!

Okay, I'm okay. Everything's okay. That was a minor bump. I take a deep breath and try to steady my shaking hands, but end up vomiting on the passenger chair beside me. The acid burns my throat and the taste is what I wish were a condiment on table thirteen. Oh my God, am I dying?

A hand signal through the glass of the car in front of me is pointing to the side of the road. Shit, what are the chances this person will let this slide? I wipe the residue on my mouth against my sleeve and try to ignore the mess beside me. Maybe I can just drive away and hope for the best?

I start following the very expensive looking car toward the side of the road, despite my thoughts zooming faster than Theo with sugar. How can I get out of this impending payment when I can't even get out of a grocery store without my card overdrafting? Do I need to donate a limb for this? Or maybe running away is the best option? While I try to plan out a 007 type of escape, I pull over behind Richie McRich Rich. Ugh, I just can't think of a way to hide my license plate number fast enough!

Don't throw up again!

I roll down the windows to let the stench fly out. My heart is still hammering in my chest as I think about ways to sweet talk my way out of this. Stepping out of my car, I turn to find...

Holy fucking hotness!

The most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life is getting out of his car looking like he's stepping off of a GQ photoshoot. My head, heart, and stomach all pound in unison as if they're doing some sort of mating call and my sanity is the sacrificial lamb. This broad-shoulder specimen before me is in a dark gray suit that is so crisp and clean, I'm scared I'll get it dirty just by looking at it.

Immediately my stomach flutters. Dark stubble on his sharp jaw matches dark, short hair on his head. His lips are perfectly curved in that I'm-So-Smooth-I-Don't-Need-Chapstick sort of way. I bet his meal of choice is Wagyu beef from virgin cows in Matsusaka City. I need to stop inspecting him. This is the type of guy I wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with - rich jerks who own the planet.

Damn. He's tall though - a tree I would still very much like to climb and grab a juicy apple from.

He approaches the back of his car to check the damage and sighs. The sigh snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts of riding this man's face while eating watery fruit.

Right. The car accident. I rush over and catch sight of a small dent in the bumper of his car. No, no, no, no, no! My stomach drops and then gurgles.

"Alright, it doesn't look that serious. Let's exchange car insurance information." His deep voice travels straight into my bones and swims with the marrow like they're lovers in a pool. Sweat lines my palms, trying to join the festivities.

This can't be happening! I need to get out of this and honesty may be the best policy here. "Hey, I'm really sorry about this. I don't have car insurance, and I don't have any money. I don't have any parents to bail me out. And as of an hour ago, I don't have a job."

I run my hands through my hair, praying I don't break down into tears. The bubble in my throat is growing but I press on. "I don't even have any prospect of a job lined up, and have to lie on my resume to even get any interviews!"

I'm rambling. Stop rambling and think of something!

"Not sure when I'd even be able to pay you back for the damage...I don't have much else of anything to offer to fix your car, but I promise you, I have a great rack. So, how about I show you my tits, and then we can call it a day and go our separate ways?"

I'm quite proud of myself for thinking about that offer on the spot. He's a guy. They all want the same thing even if they don't admit it. Yet, what I truly don't expect are the next words that come out of this man's mouth.

***

I'm so excited the first chapter is officially out! What did we think? Hit the vote button and drop a comment if you're interested to read more.