Dad's voice preceded his entrance. "You still have Meade." I scoffed at his reference to Kieran. "Excuse me. I need to get to work." "Whatever you need, we'll support you," Mom said to Jake. When Dad nodded, I rolled my eyes at the 'family solidarity for Jake' and made my way outside to another grease-filled work shift. Time to grease up. Birds chirped a symphony from our crabapple tree, and then rustled the leaves with their takeoff. The front door banged behind me, where Jake's large frame was freakishly large on the small cement front porch. "Ellie, I'll take you." "Hurry up." I hopped into his passenger seat. Once he sat behind the wheel, I frowned at his grin. "Whatever you need the car for, use Lysol and Febreeze after." Jake shrugged and backed out of our driveway and into the cul-de-sac. "Nah, rookie babysitting. I gotta pick up a couple of guys for their first film session." "No hazing." I jabbed his shoulder, not that Jake listened to me. "Pick me up at the closing time." "No hazing," he parroted with a high-pitched imitation. "Pepperoni tits." "More driving, less insulting please." I closed my eyes during the short, peaceful drive. Only the sound of radio music and Jake's finger taps filled my ears. When he turned into the parking lot, I rolled my lower lip under my teeth and bit down. "Care to explain what happened at the beach?" If Jake had any feelings about threatening Logan, he masked them with an indifferent shrug. "Not really. I've forgotten about it already." "I haven't." I narrowed my eyes at his profile. "What did he do?" His eyes shifted to me, in a look best described as he thought I was stupid. But he wrenched the steering wheel. "The tool put his hands on you." I replayed that moment a few times, looking for clues as to why he made Jake so unhinged. It had nothing to do with the tingles I got when I remembered Logan's lips near my ear. Nope. "To see if I was okay after getting sick." Jake frowned and his knuckles turned white. "Drop it, Ellie." "I'll drop it when you drop your temper." With a crank of the wheel, he pulled up to Pizza Palace and sighed. The same guilt appeared in his eyes whenever I attempted this conversation. "Ellie-" "Jake," I interrupted his autopilot 'I wasn't there' self-sabotaging excuse. "I don't need you getting in trouble for beating up random guys for me." "I hate him," Jake muttered, clenching his teeth and staring ahead with anger burning his eyes. "Since the first moment that I saw him take the field two years ago. He's so fucking arrogant, conceited, showboating -" "Because that doesn't sound like you at all," I teased. "He's worse than me." Jake clenched his teeth harder until a tiny dent appeared in his jawline. "Look, Ellie… There are shit rumors about that team. Ones about playing with girls and tossing them aside for points. I don't want you anywhere near that shit." "If they're true." I frowned because, as a personal victim myself, Jake should know better than to form opinions on gossip-based perception. "I have a feeling there's truth in this one," he mumbled and shifted his eyes to the restaurant. "You'd better go. See you tonight." Knowing I wouldn't get any more answers, I nodded and waved goodbye. "Welcome to Pizza Palace," I relayed in a monotone and tired voice. "Your pizza is our palace pleasure." Yes, I had to say that. Word for embarrassing word. My forced narrative was mandatory not only because I was paid to say those awkward as fuck words, but Derrick sat about fifteen feet from me. With a lift of his unruly red curls, he gave me a 'Next time be more genuine' frown. The back of my neck burned from the food lamps between the counters and the kitchen. Aches throbbed in my feet and I shifted them on the tiled floors, perpetually covered with a fine layer of flour and cornstarch. "Large pizza on gluten-free cauliflower crust with the works, four salads, and four sodas," a teasing, female, monotonous tone replied. A familiar pair of blue-gray eyes glimmered at me. My stomach clenched. I hated when kids from school came here. And this one was the queen. She'd better not be here for Jake. "Camille." I clenched my fists under the counter at her manicured appearance and, thankfully, clothed appearance. "That'll be twenty-six fifty." "How's Jake?" A smug smile spread across her stupid, model-perfect, heart-shaped face with stupid porcelain-smooth skin, thick lashes, crystal blue eyes with a gray overcast, and pouty lips that reminded me of a Botox bee sting. False sympathy coated her syrupy voice. "He didn't look so hot at the party." And whose fault was that? Hers, based on that perma-smug. My teeth ground as I resisted the urge to fling myself over the counter and strangle her. Instead, I tapped the credit card reader. What had Jake ever seen in her? The two giant melons that flounced over her chest? Nevermind. "You want to know the best part?" Her eyes flashed again like she revealed a deep secret. "I don't even like Kieran." Of course, she didn't. Not that I did either, but playing with Jake's feelings was a game to her. Pitting him against his best friend was a new low for her, but Kieran had no complaints as he massaged her funbags. "Good for you." Tap, tap, tap clicked my nail. "Twenty-six fifty." "He wouldn't stop gushing over you. Elle this, Elle that." She hammered her pointless effort home, as if… whatever she and Kieran were mattered to me. "But I made sure you were the last thing on his mind." "Twenty-six fifty, please." My irritation rose with each word, not from her attempts to irritate me but from her vanilla perfume overwhelming the kitchen smells. Satisfied with her digs into me, she ran her card. It printed a receipt, which I handed to her. "No thanks." She flicked her nails in a dismissive gesture, followed by a smirk. I'd never associated vanilla with self-satisfaction because Harper used a similarly scented shampoo, but Camille reeked of both. With a silent turn, I balled up the receipt and prepared a clean plastic tray with utensils and napkins. "Twenty minutes." I shoved the tray across the counter. Too bad the corner missed her right ovary. Her baby pink nails flashed as she flipped her hair. Tray in hand, she rolled her hips in an exaggerated sway and giggled with each click of her four-inch heels. Reaching her corner table, she sat with an identical group of manicured bimbos. Why were they even here? A smile tugged across my lips as I assembled their salads and mentally sprinkled our house specialty ghost pepper dust over them. The job was quintessential shitty teenager hourly wage work. Fortunately, not many kids came here since the pizzas had a very processed taste. The cardboard to-go boxes tasted better. College savings, Ellie. One shitty shift at a time. My accumulated savings money made me smell like mass-produced ingredients and watered-down tomato sauce and my skin being coated with a greasy film was worth the ick factor. It wasn't for my ten percent discount. I worked here forty hours a week all summer and twenty hours a week during school. While other kids took their breaks and vacations, I worked here.