Page 10 of Blades Out
"You spilled boiling coffee on Rhys Ackerman." Jenna's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, each word sharp enough to cut. She yanked me away from the counter, out of the line of sight of the few customers still watching. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"
My throat closed completely.
No. No, no, no.
Heat flooded my face—humiliation so complete it burned hotter than the coffee I'd dumped all over him. My hands shook. Wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed them against my apron but they trembled anyway, visible proof of how badly I'd screwed up.
This job was supposed to be simple. Make coffee. Smile. Don't draw attention. Three basic rules, and I'd already shattered every single one.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean?—"
Jenna glanced over her shoulder, checking the café before leaning closer. Her grip loosened slightly but her expression stayed razor-sharp. "That could get you fired. Or worse. With him, you never know."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Fired.
I couldn't get fired. Couldn't lose this job three hours into my first shift. Couldn't go back to sleeping on someone else's couch; couldn't return to the suffocating weight of dependence; couldn't face the knowing looks when I showed up again with nothing but apologies and failure.
My apartment. The locks I checked twice every night. The independence I'd fought so hard to claim. All of it balanced on this minimum-wage position that barely covered rent.
And I'd just dumped coffee all over the one person I couldn't afford to piss off.
Fury replaced fear—hot, vicious anger directed entirely at myself. How could I be so stupid? I'd spent years learning to control my reactions, to mask the fear, to function like a normal person who didn't flinch at sudden movements or freeze when someone looked at me too long.
One glance from him and I'd fallen apart completely.
Weak. Pathetic.
The names circled my brain in an endless loop. I wanted to scream. Wanted to rewind five minutes and do it over, get it right this time, prove I could handle one simple interaction without my past crawling up my spine.
But time didn't rewind. And the damage was already done.
"Take five." Jenna released my arm, stepping back to create space between us. Her voice softened slightly—not kind, but less cutting. "Go to the back room. Clean yourself up. Pull yourself together."
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice.
My feet carried me toward the storage room on autopilot. The door swung shut behind me, muffling the café noise to a dull hum. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I hit the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
But my eyes burned anyway. Hot pressure built behind them, threatening to spill over into tears I'd sworn I'd stopped shedding years ago.
I'd recognized him. Known him the second our eyes met. And worse—far worse—I'd seen the recognition reflected back.
He remembered.
The storage room smelled like cardboard and industrial cleaner. Dim fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting weak shadows across towers of napkin boxes and syrup crates. A refrigerator hummed in the corner—steady, rhythmic, almost soothing.
I crouched behind a stack of coffee filters, knees pressed to my chest, and concentrated on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
You're not weak.
The thought came fierce, desperate. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sting cleared some of the fog from my brain. I'd survived worse than spilling coffee. Survived things that would've broken most people. Left home with nothing but a backpack and determination, found this apartment, landed this job.
