Junkyard Dog(4)

I study Hayes and find him quite attractive. His sleepy eyes even make him appear soft and a little bit vulnerable. His jaw remains tight, and I realize he wants me to respond to his coffee detail.

“Most men do,” I say, stepping back. “Do you want some now?”

“Yes. Make it f*cking strong.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Answer the f*cking phone.”

“What about the office mess?” I ask, washing out the pot in a small sink.

“Don’t f*cking touch anything.”

“Why?”

Hayes walks away but hollers from his office door. “Because I f*cking said so.”

His voice is so loud it rattles my bones. I assume the big sound is a result of his giant lungs, and he can’t really be blamed for his weird anatomy.

“Was your father a giant man?” I ask when bringing him coffee.

“Don’t f*cking talk to me right now,” he says without looking up from his paperwork.

“When is my lunch period? Do I get thirty minutes or an hour? Also what about breaks?”

Hayes lifts his head and glares at me. I know he’s accustomed to people running in terror from this devil mean expression. I’ve seen worse from the twins.

“Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone,” he growls when I don’t back down.

“Okay, but I’m taking your non-answers as meaning I can choose my lunch and break times.”

Before he can complain, I walk out of the room. The front desk is nearly as bad as Hayes’s office in regards to post-it notes. On the computer monitor, I find a password for logging in. I take the post-it and crumble it up. Once I log into the account, I change the password. I don’t plan on going anywhere soon.

By the time my first break comes along, I’ve organized the front desk, brought Hayes five cups of coffee, and brewed a second pot.

After eating a snack and calling Honey to check on the kids, I decide to explore the office.

One door opens to a closet filled with weapons. I look over the shotguns and semi-automatic rifles. Glancing at Hayes’s office, I hear him bitching at someone for being a brain dead f*ck-twat.

Leaving the closet, I find another room with a door labeled “meeting room.” There are no chairs inside, and the folding table is against the wall. I assume Hayes doesn’t schedule many meetings.

Outside, I spot a few bullet holes in the building’s front wall. Running my fingers over them, I can’t imagine anyone taking a shot at Hayes’s place. Then again, suicidal tendencies happen to everyone occasionally.

The office sits between a Waffle House and an old Victorian house. I laugh at the thought of Hayes living in the house. Back in the office, I hear him still bitching at someone, but I sense it’s a different person.

Behind the building is a large, muddy yard. At some point long ago, this office was a house. Hayes turned the house into a bunker-style office, and the front yard into a wide gravel covered parking lot. He left the backyard to turn to mush. Not a single blade of grass remains.

I’m bored out of my mind by the time Hayes appears from his office.

“I’m going to lunch. Come with me and bring something to write on.”

Eager to do something, I grab my purse and a pad of paper. Hayes doesn’t wait for me, and his long strides put a lot of distance between us as we walk next door to the Waffle House. He’s already sitting at the counter when I enter.

“Get what you want on my dime but don’t annoy me with how you feel about food.”

“What about how the food feels about me?”

Hayes refuses to acknowledge my comment. He stares at our middle-aged waitress wearing a lot of experience on her worn face.

“This is Candy,” Hayes says to Donna.

The waitress sizes me up. “I knew a Candy when I was growing up. She was a diseased whore.”

“You know what’s funny?” I say, taking the menu. “I knew a Donna growing up, and she collected used panties to sniff while masturbating.”

“How is that funny?” she asks.

“Well, your name is Donna.”

Frowning at me, she turns away to get me a cup of coffee.

“Don’t piss off Donna,” Hayes says without looking at me. “She will spit in your f*cking food.”

“Does she own a car?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’ll slash her tires. I think that’s worse than a loogie in my food.”

Hayes grins. “You sure have a f*cking mouth on you.”

“Said the guy who referred to someone an ‘* stuffed with twat peanuts’ today.”

“Well, he is.”

“Is there anyone you do like?”

“Donna brings me coffee and knows how I like my hash browns,” Hayes says to the returning waitress.

“Wants them almost burned just like he did the first time he came in here fifteen years ago.”

“Ugh, get a room you two,” I mutter.

Donna glares at me, but I ignore her and order a chicken sandwich.

“Don’t burn my hash browns. I like mine normal like normal people.”

After Donna walks away, Hayes studies me. “You seem to forget how I’m your employer and so acting like a mouthy bitch isn’t a smart way to keep your job.”