Page 1 of Sassy Little Thing (Iron Fury MC 4)
PROLOGUE
You do what you have to in life.
That’s how I see it, anyway.
You can either choose to do what makes other people happy, or you can flip them the bird and do what makes you happy. People, in my opinion, don’t take happiness seriously enough. They’re forever trying to please someone else, no matter who it might be. A family member, a partner, a boss, a friend, hell, even their children. Everyone puts everyone else first.
Not me.
Call me selfish—hell, I probably am.
But that’s a choice I made a long time ago.
I decided I was the most important thing in my life, and I do whatever I have to do to make sure it stays that way.
Of course, with a name like Saskia, little to no money, an ex-boyfriend in prison—who, mind you, I still love—and a shitty ass job, it isn’t always easy to find inner happiness.
But here I am, giving it a red hot go.
I’ve never felt pity for myself, and I rarely take pity on others. You choose your life, do you not? Sure, don’t get me wrong, you might have a bad start, a horrific story to tell, and shit go down that is far from pleasant, but you still choose how you walk your path. Do you drag your feet, feeling sorry for yourself and living in misery, or do you pick your damned feet up and skip down that path, refusing to let anyone knock you down?
Yeah.
Like I said.
A choice.
I’ve had many choices. I’ve done some things I regret. In fact, I’ve done a lot of things I regret, including putting my boyfriend behind bars, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
Even if it means you pay the price for it.
No doubt that’s coming for me.
Sometime soon.
But, for now, I’m going to keep on rocking.
Because I’ll be damned if anyone is dimming my shine.
~1~
SASKIA
“Yo!”
I look up from waiting for a customer’s order and glance at my friend Chantelle. Not Chantelle with an S, but Chantelle with a C. She makes sure you know it, too. Because, somehow, she thinks it makes a difference. She’s waving, newspaper in hand, face flushed, blond hair bouncing almost as much as her fake boobs. I hold up my finger, indicating I’ll be one minute, and then glance back at my customer, wondering if he’s decided what he’s going to eat yet.
He’s asked me more than once what’s in every item on the menu.
I’ve never been known for being overly polite, I mean, I shut my mouth when I have to, I smile, I get tips, I do my job, but sometimes people really just … piss me off. And, unfortunately, my mouth has gotten me into trouble because of it.
More than once.
“The scrambled eggs,” he goes on, giving Chantelle a foul look for interrupting him before glancing back up at me. He doesn’t hide the fact that his eyes stop on my breasts before he focuses back on my face. Jerk. And he wants me to professional? He didn’t even make it a quick glance, that was a slow, drawn-out, perve on my breasts!
Not cool.
“Do they have any form of dairy in them?”
Last time I checked, scrambled eggs were loaded with the good stuff, including dairy. Usually, at the very least, cheese. Everyone knows this.
It’s common sense.
Has he never made scrambled eggs before?
Now he’s just pushing my buttons, wasting my time, and eyeing my bosom.
“Well,” I say, rubbing my chin as if thinking about it, “I’m not entirely sure, I mean, I don’t go out the back often, because, well—” I lean down close, and his eyes once more drop to my breasts “—I once caught two waitresses, you know, getting it on out in the kitchen.”
His eyes widen.
I wave a hand and snort, standing up straight again.
“But that wasn’t your question, was it? Don’t worry, I’m like, mostly sure it’s sanitary out there. To answer your question, we use a lot of cheese in our food. The chef just cuts off the old spots, it’s perfectly fine if you do that. I could ask him, if you like, if he uses that cheese in the scrambled eggs? Or are you allergic to dairy?”
He blinks up at me and murmurs, “No, thank you. I’ll have a black coffee.”
“That’s it?” I ask, acting as if I’m shocked. “No food?”
“No,” he grumbles.
“Oh, well, that’s a shame.” I flash him a beaming smile. “The chef really does put his all into his work, you know?”
He stares at me.
I flash him another killer smile and spin on my heel, strutting toward the kitchen to grab a coffee pot. My boss, Hertez, a big scary Mexican guy, glares at me as I fill the pot with fresh coffee. He loves me, secretly. Or maybe he doesn’t and I just like to think he does. Positive and all that.
