Strut the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #4)

4. Workin’

4

Workin’

New Year's Eve inspired a sickening slew of ‘inspirational’ posts on my social media feed: quotes, life goals, year-end summaries, weight loss ads, and tributes to various forms of relationships. It was all so boring. Was I supposed to list off what I’d done in the last year? I doubted anyone wanted to hear about selling feet pics or shoes unless I bought something nice with the cash.

I rolled over in my sheets until they cocooned me and kept scrolling. A familiar face popped up in the People You May Know tab: Sparkles–er, Shelby. Not that I knew her, really. I guessed her feed would be smiling selfies with her cute barista and family…family like Zack. I closed the app. Better not go down that rabbit hole.

My phone pinged with a text from Theo.

Theo: What time are you working today, babe?

I’d already told him. Cassandra wouldn’t switch shifts with me because she wanted to celebrate with ‘the kiddos,’ and they went to bed at eight. As if her step-grandkids were going to be any more interesting at dinner than breakfast. This was a big deal for Theo, though. He’d sent me a million outfit pics for my opinion. My schedule must’ve slipped his mind.

Me: I’m closing. I’ll prob get off around nine depending on which manager’s in charge. I’ll text you when I’m on my way to the bar. [peace sign emoji]

Theo: You could call in sick. Just sayin’ ;)

Me: I’ll think about it.

Calling out would give me more time to get ready for his gig. I could rest. Be fresh. Renew my zest for crowded rooms and humans in general.

But despite blocking my boss on social media, fear wriggled in the back of my mind that he would call some other manager to catch me in some party pics. He might demand a doctor’s note. Write me up. Whatever. He’d fired one of my friends–well, ex-coworkers–for less. Odds were, he’d understand it was a holiday. But I didn’t want to lose my health insurance.

I huffed and threw my covers off, then gritted my teeth against the sudden chill. Damn capitalism. Such a double-edged sword. With any luck, my manager would be busy drinking himself into a stupor at the Cake Warehouse, so I could probably go in and do my own thing.

I packed a bag with enough stuff to get ready at work, if need be, and went in for my shift.

The second my footfall got within range of the shoe window, Cassandra poked her head from around the corner. “Ni-ni?”

I sighed and plugged my phone in. “What?” Why couldn’t she call me 'Nicole' or 'Nikki?'

“Do we have any Zeezy’s in size thirteen?” she asked.

I had just walked in. Unless I was psychic, she should know better than me if we’d had any deliveries. “Check the system,” I said.

“Okay.” At least she was trying. Two seconds later, she laughed. “Excuse me, ma’am, I have no idea what I’m doing with this thing.”

How had she worked here for three years and still not learned the system? I placed my phone in a cubby and headed out to help her. “Here, let me.”

A girl with thin lips recoiled. Her face drained of color and her eyes popped wide as if I’d crawled out of the crypt instead of the storage area.

“Hi.” I furrowed my brows. Was there a problem here?

The girl pulled her purple purse string taut across her chest and backed up. “H-hey. It’s okay. I don’t need anything.”

Cassandra waved her closer. “Don’t be silly. Ni-ni knows everything.” Something about her big smile emanated charm and hospitality. She’d spend hours chatting up customers instead of selling. Or stocking. It was annoying closing when she hadn’t cleaned up her sections, but at least she was happy.

I set up the search filters on the shoe station computer. “It’s not a big deal. I’d probably look this up for my boyfriend, anyways. He’s the same size, and he’s obsessed with Zeezy’s.”

I expected a little camaraderie. A smile, maybe? But the girl clung tighter to her purple purse and stared at me.

“Do you know which style?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Any.”

“Okay, give me a minute.” No preference meant I had to go through every single item, then. Great use of our time.

Cassandra propped her fists on the small of her back and raised her eyebrows so her wrinkles touched her hairline. “Her boyfriend’s a cutie. Used to model at…what’s that store? Armando and Ritch?”

Technically, he was a sales associate, a hot guy for hire who’d stand outside and lure customers in on the basis they could look like him. But that was modeling, in most respects.

“That’s actually how we met,” I said.

“Is it? How sweet.” Cassandra beamed.

I chuckled, warmth blooming on my cheeks. If only she knew the salacious things he’d said to me while I was shopping. “Anyways, it looks like the only store with any size thirteen Zeezy’s in stock is downtown.” That location was at least an hour away. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” Miss Purple Purse scurried out the building.

Cassandra moved shoes from one section of the counter to another as if that organized anything. “That's funny. Usually it’s guys who are embarrassed to buy their girlfriends things.”

“You think she was shopping for a guy?” Not that she couldn’t have one, even if her choice of purse clashed with the rest of her outfit.

Cassandra leaned so low onto the counter that her chest touched her forearms. “You don’t?”

I didn’t want to say I got reseller vibes. I didn’t know that weird lady, and half our warehouse was guilty of trying to upsell our stuff online anyway. “Maybe she has big feet,” I offered.

Cassandra cackled and pushed my arm. “You are too funny.”

Yeah. And maybe a little bit mean.

Andre’s ‘managerial’ voice cut through the back room. “Cassandra?”

We both flinched. Cassandra scrambled to stand straight as I snatched the shoes off the counter. “Yes, sir,” she said.

He slipped out of the shadows of the stock room, redoing his tie for no-doubt the dozenth time this morning. Managers didn’t have to wear the hideous green shirts. Most did, to show solidarity. Andre wore button-downs and blazers. He probably liked to pretend he had a different job than managing the shoe department at Fancee’s. Delusions fueled his day drinking.

His nostrils flared. “I told you, you have to wear a belt or…keep things covered. When you lean–”

“Whoops. Is my derriere peeking out again?” Cassandra laughed and tugged the waistband of her slacks. “Sorry about that.”

I rolled my lip between my teeth to stop myself from giggling. Underwear wasn’t her favorite thing. We’d all gotten more than a peek of her backside, especially since our job involved a lot of bending.

Andre sucked in his beer gut. “Nicole, you’re on the floor. Cassandra, clean up the window.”

“Yes, sir.” Cassandra saluted him. I had no idea how she dealt with a thirty-year-old has-been on a power trip. He was her stepson’s age. Like she needed another ungrateful, pompous loser to suck up to on a regular basis.

I tilted my chin at him. “Hey, Andre, I was wondering–”

“No one will be leaving early for New Year’s parties. Half our warehouse already called off ‘sick’ today,” he said as he slipped into the stock room.

I started after him and slid the shoes into the sorting rack. “I know, but my boyfriend’s–”

“We’ll be out plenty of time before midnight, especially if we stay on-task.” He uncapped a marker, then wrote our break schedule on the white board mounted to the wall above our shoe repair table.

“My boyfriend has a gig,” I said. The least he could do was let me finish my sentence.

He held the marker over a zero. “And?”

“And it’s a big night. I want to be there for him.” Who knew the next time he’d get a gig like that?

“You can be there. After closing. We all want to go home at a reasonable hour, Nicole.” He plucked his damp white button-down away from his chest. “By the way, if you worked on your positive mental attitude, your sales would reflect that. We need to provide quality service. Part of that is happily helping our customers through all posted hours, even if it’s a holiday, and even if we’re understaffed.”

I crossed my arms and turned so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. He didn’t know jack about my finances. Or my attitude. Would he rather I prance around like Cassandra?

I power-walked to the shoe window and shoved a bunch of tissue paper into a ball. I packed it tighter until the crinkles thundered in my ears.

“You okay?” Cassandra whispered.

I clenched my jaw and nodded. It wasn’t her fault, really. I threw the ball into a recycling bin, then dragged a few boxes closer. “You clean the floor. I’ll sort. Then, we can run these back to stock together.”

“Sounds good.” She gave me a thumbs-up and wandered around our section. Every time she bent over to scoop discarded shoes, she mooned me.

I shielded my eyes and shook my head, trying not to laugh. What a way to end the year. At least it was going to start better.