Seasonal Job Security

"Mm-hmm." I sighed. "Abigail."

Her blue eyes rolled. "Sick?"

"Sick. Hung over. Dealing with a syphilis flare-up. Who the fuck knows?" I watched as Dave twisted the huge key in the grille lock. "Whatever. I guess I'll just handle the register until a Gold Nametag shows up? You can run the floor?"

She laughed. "Yeah. Floor. All two of the employees." We looked with no confidence at the indifferent Cait and the scared Liz, then looked away. Sales this morning would not set any records, we knew. The grille rolled itself up slowly, majestically, the lights flickering on. I wasn't sure how much time I had to put in the alarm code, but the cops never showed up at the mall anyway. So it barely mattered.

Gritting my teeth, I marched into the store.

* * *

"Come to lunch with me." I looked up at Dave, though not terribly far; he wasn't a tall man. "I'll buy."

He gave a snort of laughter. "Is that how you define 'making it worth my while?'" He didn't use air quotes, I was relieved to see. "A food-court lunch?"

"Well. We work with what we have. I'd take you for the lobster thermidor at Newton's, but sometimes life just ain't fair." It had been an interesting morning: a woman had passed out half-naked in Dressing Room 4 with one of our most expensive babydolls on, and after much consultation Meghan M and I had decided the only thing we could possibly do was ask Dave for help. At first he'd refused to do anything more than call the police, but after awhile he'd come growling back into the fitting area. We'd stood there, the three of us, shaking our heads at the middle-aged woman slumped over the bench, and then Dave had sighed.

"I'm not touching her," he'd said flatly, looking away as we exchanged a glance. "No way."

"Umm." Liz was the entire lingerie department this morning, so she'd have to unstrap the woman and get our babydoll back. She was the lowest on the totem pole, anyhow. I frowned at Meghan M. "This isn't good."

Dave was already turning away. "Just send one of your kids over to the drugstore in the main mall," he shrugged. "Get some smelling salts. Send the little blonde one."

Meghan M blinked. "You mean Liz?"

"I mean the little blonde one," he grunted irritably. Dave had never given any sign he was interested in anyone's name but mine, and I felt a strange little twinge. Pride? Possessiveness? No way. "That's what I'd do. 'Scuse me, ladies."

And now I was asking him out to lunch. Linda had just arrived, looking concerned, both younger and less experienced than I was, but of course she had a degree and I was still working on mine. "Thanks, Chelsea," she squeaked, reaching under the counter for the Shift Supervisor's Handbook. "Go take lunch. A long lunch." She'd brought reinforcements, the afternoon shift gearing up for yet another rush, and right then didn't seem like she needed to hear about the woman we'd gotten out of the dressing room. "We're good here."

"Come on." Taking a gamble, I touched Dave's arm. "I'll let you pick the place." He tensed, but then relaxed. "And?" I moved closer to him, so I could mutter. I was determined to turn my day around, hoping I could make this fun. "Dessert."

"Why would I want to get dessert with you?" I could hear something in his voice, tentative but hopeful? Flirty? Something like that.

"Because I'm cute." I was going off sheer instinct, with no real idea what to do next, thinking only about how much harder it would be for Dave to call the cops on my sister if he liked me a little.

Maybe. He could be a difficult read. But as he ran his eyes absently from my feet up to my face, I thought I read a pause as they crossed my chest. He'd be thinking, maybe, about the nametag I'd given him a few times, still warm from my body, and I had to suppress a very unexpected shiver. But I did it, my chin up, very slowly raising one eyebrow as he thought about it, then nodded.

"Yay," I said laconically as we started out of The Gallery and into the broken-down old food court in the Marketplace. I sneezed as soon as I got past the neon and mirrors, the dust feasting greedily on my allergies. "Thank you for agreeing to grace me with your company, sir."

"Don't forget," he shrugged, "you're paying." We stepped nimbly aside as a roving pack of feral adolescents drifted by, the mayhem rising off them in waves. "You owe me double after that woman in the dressing room."

"Why, David!" I feigned shock as I stared wide-eyed at him. "She was a reasonably attractive woman in a high-end piece of lingerie! Slumped on the floor with her butt in the air. You got a good, long look. I'd have thought that was enough of a reward." I laughed loudly as he scratched at his nose. With his middle finger. "I did mention I'd get you dessert, though."

"Chinese?" We were drifting close to the food court, the mingled smells sticking to our nostrils in a fine coating of sodium. "Italian?"

"Food court Italian is shit," I snapped. "No. Let's go to Charco Grande."

"The little Mexican place?" He made a face. "The only thing good there is the guac."

"Live a little." I elbowed him in the ribs. "Have the taquitos. It's what Jenn always gets." I glanced sideways. "She thinks you're hot."

"Who's Jenn?" He was frowning. Apparently, other than mine, nametags meant nothing to him.

"Jenn Bonavita. My boss." I was lying. She didn't think Dave was hot, or at least she hadn't told me so. But I was buttering this guy up to get him to give Jenn and me a big hand with our extracurricular, burnt-orchid activities, and what man doesn't like hearing a younger chick thinks he's good-looking? I glanced over to see if he'd done anything interesting, like blush. Nope. "She's married, though. Don't go getting any ideas," I added, primly enough to help me forget that Jenn had gotten herself railed by Eric the other night.

"Your boss." He was trying to understand. "The shift supervisor? With the red hair? Older?"

I steered him toward the Mexican place, deftly avoiding trash-piled tables here and there. "No," I replied patiently. "That one's Abigail. Jenn's the Lead Panty Whisperer."

"We should all be so lucky," he shot back. "Lead Panty Whisperer. That kind of job title is a sure sign your life is going places."

I laughed and touched his forearm. "What's that say about me? I'm a mere Assistant Lead Panty Whisperer."

"It says you're destined for better things," he said at once, gruffly, flooring me.

The pause was awkward as we found our spot at the back of the line, three or four complacently obese diners ahead of us waiting for their enchiladas. "I didn't know you cared," I managed at last, making a big show of looking at the garish menu up by the ceiling. I cleared my throat. "The food here is a guilty pleasure for me. My mom grew up in Southern California and is snobby about Mexican food. She won't let me eat here."

"You said you're getting the ta- taquitos?" he stuttered, frowning at the menu. I imagined most of his favorite dishes started with S and ended with TEAK, probably bright red inside. With baked potatoes.

"No, I said Jenn gets the taquitos. I get the tacos." I always sprung for two hard tacos, a la carte, with a side of Fiery Pintito Beans and three antacids out of my locker afterward. "A burrito is probably what you're into." I nodded at him. "Ground beef and onions, with mild cheese."

"The cheese has a temperature?" He wrinkled his nose.

"Yes, snob." The guy behind the counter looked like a junior in high school, his face a solid sheet of acne that he probably hadn't had before he started working here. He always talked to my tits when I ordered. I jerked my head toward the dining area as the woman in front of me cud-chewed her way through her order. "Find us a table, David. I'll order."

He sighed doubtfully. "Don't you dare forget my dessert," he muttered, and then he spun on his heel and strode away. I found him there, over by where the fake potted plant hid him from the main mall floor, and slid into the hard plastic seat across from him. He eyed our food with scant interest. "Gourmet."

"Shut up." I squared the tray on the little chipped table, then started dealing. "You're very welcome, David, by the way," I cooed, sliding his Burrito Gruesa across to him. My tacos and pintitos I kept carefully nearby, with a little paper plate of fat, cocklike churros in between us. "Dig in, sir. Arriba."

"Yeah. Si." He cocked his head dubiously at his foil-wrapped food, but at last he picked it up and tucked a paper napkin into his shirt collar. "Tacos," he remarked, apropos of nothing, nodding at my food.

"Told you." I crunched into the first one, concentrating on keeping the Screamin; Salsa off my shirt. "I love tacos." I grinned as I chewed, then giggled once I'd swallowed.

"What's funny?" He'd at least taken a second bite of his burrito, which I interpreted as a win.

"Nothing." I was shaking my head. "Just sort of a funny joke, is all. About me loving tacos." He had no idea I was bi, clearly, or a man like him probably wouldn't have been seen alone with me. Scandal! "Pretty good, huh? In a 'cheap bad food' sort of way."

"Disgusting." He said it, though, as he bit deeply into his burrito, his chin running with a tiny stream of mole sauce. I fought the urge to lean across the table and wipe it away, but he went ahead and did it himself; a tidy fellow. "Thanks for treating."

"My pleasure," I smiled. He was warming brilliantly, and I was feeling great about that. But it was also unexpectedly nice just to be in his company. "Anytime." I was about to add something flirty, but he was suddenly looking back over my shoulder, his face stricken, looking like he'd just lost his puppy. "What?"

I twisted around, my arm automatically stretching; in my early months working at the Marketplace store, I'd splattered the sauce of many tacos on many really nice outfits of mine, usually when startled during lunch. Not anymore. My eyes searched the busy concourse full of Christmas shoppers, zeroing in on three young women strolling blithely along with glossy shopping bags dangling from nicely-manicured hands. I nodded back toward Dave. "The three bitches coming this way?"

"My daughter's friends." He'd gotten this grim, dour expression, like a man steeling himself after he's heard the jury has come back in to announce a verdict. "Good call, Chelsea. Three bitches."

"They look it." These girls had never struggled, I saw at once; all their bags had Gallery logos. They'd never been unpopular, never worried about being liked. They'd probably never worked, at least not a real job like waitressing or retail. They moved with that entitled sense of purpose I'd always loathed. I tossed my hair back dismissively. "Not a problem."

"Problem," he countered. "The last thing they need to know is that I work here as a security guard." He sucked hard at his Pepsi. "They'll make Marisa ask me to steal stuff." I nodded sagely, hiding my astonishment, filing away this little tidbit for future use.

"Marisa." I set my taco down. "Your daughter?"

He nodded grimly, but in that moment his eyes went narrow in disgust, and I knew without looking that the three marauding young shoppers had spotted him. "Fuck."

"Hi!" The voices were loud, excited, the squeals of early college. "Hi, Mr diPerro!"

He nodded, a chop of his chin, his expression just slightly this side of rude. "Chelsea." I hid a smile. The girl had my name.

"Nice to see you!" I didn't look as the squeals dopplered away into whispers as they discussed him a little bit and me a great deal, and I winked at him as I spooned some beans into my mouth.

"See?" I shrugged. "No problem." The corner of my eye showed the three of them moving the other way, every face turned straight toward mine in frank interest. "They're more worried about who they can beg booze from this evening."

"Bullshit," he said, all morose. "They know I work here. They'll be calling Marisa before they even get to their car." He sighed. "And they'll wonder who you are."

"Of course they will." I found myself surprised and a little weirded out that the thought pleased me. "They'll think you're having an affair with me," I guffawed.

"Fuck." His head plopped into his hands, and I reached across to pat his forearms.

"I'm kidding, David." I thought about backing off, but my instinct told me not to. "They'll probably wonder how many little cuties you're fucking. They'll figure I'm one of three or four." I giggled. "It'll raise your stock."

"Are you kidding me?" he snapped bleakly. "This isn't a joke. They'll tell my wife."

"Tell her what?" I spooned up another heaping bite of pintitos. "That you're eating with a coworker?"

"They don't know you're an employee."

"Come on." This was silly. "Those girls? The kind of attitude they have? They pegged me right away: retail." He'd stopped eating his burrito. "Eat. Or I won't let you have any of the churros."

"Meh." He shoved the burrito away. "I'm not hungry. I should have gotten a taco."

"Why, David!" I grinned. "Want my other one?" I was enjoying this now. I discovered I liked the idea that those bitches would think he was fucking me on the side, all dark and nasty and wicked. I waited until he looked back at me, his head resting sideways on his hand. "Want to eat my taco, David?" I breathed quietly, and he looked completely shocked when I burst out laughing.

His eyes still flickering around seeking Marisa's friends (up on the second floor, perhaps, their cellphone cameras deployed to document Daddy's lunch date with the help?), Dave drew his head back, turtlelike, watchful. "What's funny?"

Why had I said it? No fucking clue, but I was happy and blushing and, frankly, exhilarated. "Taco," I prodded, nodding down at my half-eaten food. "Want to eat mine?"

"No, I heard you," he growled. "I just don't find leftovers hilarious."

I got myself under control, and looking at his bewildered face I began to realize that I was really enjoying his company. That I liked the looks we were getting. That I craved what I was increasingly starting to realize was his constant attempts to avoid staring at my body. Once more, I had to restrain an urge to reach across and touch him. I touched my lunch instead, my finger tracing over the corrugated shell. "David," I began, my voice low, "you should ask your daughter and her friends about modern slang."

He arched an eyebrow. "Like LOL? ROFL?" He scowled as I covered my mouth, my whole face alive with laughter. "Fucking 'hip?' That's not old, Chelsea."

"No." I was still running my hands over the shell. "Taco." He shook his head slowly, a predator confronted by fearless prey, and I smiled slowly. "It's slang for a woman's vagina, David."

His brows deepened, then he looked instinctively down at where my fingers were, and his face went scarlet. "Not funny, Chelsea."

"Funny, David," I sang, laughing fully now, and in the face of my obvious joy, what choice did he have? Even a curmudgeon has to smile every now and then, and he slowly did. "See? You think so, too."

He shook his head, the smile growing, and had some more Pepsi. "You're incorrigible."

"I am," I nodded, "but you'll never think of tacos the same way again." I picked mine up, stuffing the remaining half into my mouth, and ate it deliberately while, amazingly, he chuckled slightly. I chewed and swallowed and palmed sauce off my lips. "I think you're starting to like working at Secret Whispers," I told him calmly, "but you'll never admit it."

"I hate working at Secret Whispers," he snapped, but he did it perfunctorily. I nodded.

"Your secret is safe with me." I smiled. "I won't even ask you to eat my taco again."

"You're something else," he admitted, picking once more at his burrito.

"Thank you," and I felt a surge of... warmth? Triumph? Satisfaction? Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with my suddenly enhanced prospects of moving twenty (no. More, now) pair of burnt orchid panties out, and quickly. "You're okay." I began to unwrap my second taco. "Ask me nicely, and I might gnaw on your churro later."

He rolled his eyes, but at least he laughed a little.

* * *

I wasn't even out of the parking lot that evening, my feet screeching after another long day of holiday sales, before I had my phone out. It rang a gratifyingly few times. "'Allo?"

I had Fathi meet me at my place, no delays, no excuses, no bullshit, and because she was on her period I got all the pleasure for none of the work, though I'm sure Fathia would have disagreed: the look on her face as she used both arms to twist the dildo deeply into my pussy almost got me off in itself, her pointy little teeth gritted as she cursed at me in Arabic or French or something. She always enjoyed reaming me.

At some point, early in the evening as she slurped at my cunt, I was vaguely aware of my roommate Katja watching briefly from my bedroom door before she shut it and disappeared for the night, but at that point I didn't really care; I was still laughing, then, at the look on Fathi's face when I'd demanded she eat my taco.

* * *

"So." Jenn's look was veiled, and not just by the smoke of her joint. She was still grimacing from Steph's flask, the tequila burning its way down as it always did during our mid-shift unwinding session. I wondered why I hadn't insisted on staying indoors; I could see my breath. "Time's a-wasting, Chelsea."

"No shit," Steph burped.

"I'm trying." I was edgy. "You know him. He's not an easy nut to crack."

"Try harder." Jenn had her detached voice on, the remote manner she got when she was pissed and wanted you to know it without her having to lose her shit. I just stared, and she sighed. "I know," she went on, a little smoother. "I know you know. But I already took a meaningless dick for this deal, no condom, and I'd love it if it didn't fall through. Right?" She'd been nervy afterward, until her period popped. The last thing she needed was her husband asking why she was pregnant again; she'd told us he'd had the ol' snippity-snip.

"I'll get it done," I insisted with more confidence than I felt. "Every day that passes lowers the percentage we have to spot him. I'm thinking twelve." Dave wasn't working that day, his place taken by some randomly anonymous Criterium temp incapable of keeping his eyes off the lingerie bar. Something had seemed off all morning as I manned my station; it had taken me a moment to realize I wasn't catching the smell of Dave's aftershave. It made me feel weird that I even noticed.

"Every day that passes," Jenn hissed, "reduces our take. Right? Those bitches at the Concordia store are already selling." She swigged back more Cuervo. "So here's the deal." She glanced at Steph; I knew immediately that they'd been talking about me. Steph looked away. "Every passing day, you lose a percent. Just so you keep your focus."

"Fuck you," I snarled automatically. I liked Jenn a lot, but this was a bitch move. "My focus is fine."

"Make it finer," she snapped. "We need to get our shit together. Meaning you need to get your shit together."

"I'm not taking over," Steph added unhelpfully. "This is your problem, and I don't feel like a bailout. Especially if it involves Dave." I glared at her, thinking of my extra-thick strapon, thinking about how Steph would wail if I bent her over and took her in the ass. The thought made me salivate; she had a lovely butt. "I'm not fucking him."

"Me neither." I fanned my face ostentatiously against the smoke. "Look, whatever. Take a point a day. Hell, take two. It's my sister I'm trying to keep from getting busted."

"Yeah, real altruistic." Jenn was a born cynic. She threw her butt into the little conical ashtray thing, then sighed out the smoke. "Let's get this shit done, girls. Right?" We were working a double, the holiday crowds insane, and the three of us passed back into the store, feeling like firefighters going into a blaze.