Page 90 of Devious Roses
He comes wrapped in tattooed skin with a heated stare that burns through me.
The only one who sees me for the liar that I am.
His name’s Mason Cutler, and he’s out to destroy me.
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chapter one - sydney
Iam a lot of things. Human. Woman. Black. Daughter. Granddaughter. College graduate with a Bachelors in Journalism. Proud card-carrying member of the Mile High Club. Habitually single. Forever in debt.
But the one thing I am not, and never will be, is a damn fry cook.
The fire alarm erupts in a sonorous ring that makes ears bleed. Thick gray smoke fills up the kitchen. Grease crackles and pops from the skillet. The pork chop cooking inside blackens into a lump of charcoal.
What a difference a few minutes can make.
The last time I’d checked on it, it was raw and uncooked. Now it’s burned to a crisp, about to set the whole diner on fire if I don’t act fast.
I shriek as hot flames snap up and lick at the hazy air.
“Freddie, get your butt in here right now!”
My call for help isn’t answered fast enough. I swallow down the fear and gather every ounce of courage, rushing toward the burning stove. I grab hold of the skillet and toss it toward the huge farmer’s sink, where I fumble with the extendable hose and blast it with water.
The kitchen door flaps open and in tumbles Freddie, out of breath from his heavy-footed gallop across the diner. The most he’s run in decades.
“What’ve you done now, Syd?”
He swats at the air and wipes sweat off his brow with the same rag he uses to clean tables.
“Can’t leave you alone for nothing. How’d you fuck this up?”
“I told you not to put me on the line!”
“My ten-year-old niece can fry a pork chop.”
“Then maybe you should hire her instead!” I dog his footsteps around the kitchen as he fans the smoky air and twists off the knobs on the stove.
“You ain’t ever cooked before?”
“We’ve been over this. My idea of cooking is warming up a pot pie in the microwave, Freddie. You hired me as a waitress. Not a fry cook.”
He shakes his head and continues grumbling about how hard it is to find good help these days.
I’m let off work early. But I know what it means.
Don’t come back. Thanks. But no thanks.
Ms. Baxter walks out with me into the parking lot. She’s a regular at the Sunny Side Up, stopping by for a daily dose of town gossip and a serving of the blueberry cobbler.
“It’s alright, honey. You’ll find your calling. Just pray it comes sooner than later.”
I give her a polite smile and refrain from mentioning she’s probably the reason Freddie was so distracted. The two fifty-somethings have taken to flirting whenever she comes in—Freddie insists she must be the aunt of Houston native Megan Thee Stallion, with how tall, thick and statuesque she is.
We part ways in the parking lot. Ms. Baxter in her 1978 boat-sized Oldsmobile. Me by way of the city bus, like always.