An Unlocked Mind (Secrets #2)(17)

Rob’s good mood had even survived the stack of unpaid bills that still lay on the table when he arrived home. He knew the money he’d spent to go to London could have been put to better use, but he’d had a… well, not a good time, and he’d escaped his problems for one night, so that was worth it to him. It had been enough for him to ignore Monday’s gray skies and to get ready for work feeling more positive than when he’d left it.

He went to his locker, grabbed his uniform, took his apron from his bag, and dressed quickly. He passed by the bakery, inhaling the delightful aromas, said hello to Megan and Alicia, the two women who worked the counter, and headed to the front to work on the tills.

“Rob?”

Rob turned and gave Mr. Peterson his best smile. Not going to let him get to me. He’d done everything the manager had thrown at him, not complaining once. It hadn’t kept Mr. Peterson from riding him, though. Maybe with a better attitude, Rob could turn that around and get back to his regular work schedule. Right now, he wasn’t allowed to work the weekends, as Mr. Peterson thought he needed remedial training and didn’t want him in front with the customers. But one look at his schedule for the day had put a smile on Rob’s face. Working the tills, ringing up the purchases—this was something like normal.

It might have been down to the remnants of his weekend, but Rob couldn’t get over the feeling that maybe things were finally getting better.

“Good morning, Mr. Peterson. How are you?”

When Mr. Peterson frowned, Rob knew his good mood was about to take a nosedive.

“I’ve got you cleaning the grease traps in the kitchen today.”

Rob froze. “But… I was scheduled to work on the tills,” he said, trying to control his frustration.

Emptying and cleaning the grease traps was the nastiest job in the place, so nasty that the supermarket hired a company to come in and do it. Rob had been there once when the workmen had suctioned them out, and it had taken everything he’d had not to heave.

Logic took over. “I don’t have anything to wear for that.”

Mr. Peterson waved a hand. “Find something in the storage cupboard. Sorry, but we need to have them done before the inspector arrives, and our cleaning people canceled the appointment.”

Anger surged through Rob. And of course it had to be me, right? He clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at the man.

Mr. Peterson gave him a mild stare. “Well, get on with it, then.”

Rob gave him a terse nod, then stomped to the back of the store where the cupboard was located. He scanned the racks, searching for anything that would be an effective barrier. Eventually he found a pair of overalls that fitted him like a clown suit—all big and floppy—and some tattered rubber gloves. Not the ideal gear for the job, but it was better than getting his uniform dirty. He lugged the clothes to the lockers and changed into them. As he walked through the store toward the kitchens, he ignored the snickers and chuckles from a few members of staff.

Fuck ’em. Don’t lose your temper. It’s not worth it if you lose your job too.

He went into the back area of the kitchen, where he grabbed a large ladle and a white plastic bucket. He lugged them to the employee-only area where the pit was located and opened the grate up. The smell wafted through the air, and Rob’s stomach clenched. Rancid grease from the roasted chickens and other meats—a thick, gelatinous gloopy mess—bubbled in the pit.

Rob’s stomach gurgled as he pushed the ladle into the trap, the smell damn near overpowering. His eyes watered as he scooped the rendered fat into the bucket, moving as quickly as he could, wanting to be done with this job.

Why is he doing this? Rob wondered, not for the first time. Yet again the idea of filing a complaint pushed to the surface of his mind, but considering his and Jamie’s history with the store, it was best not to pursue it. In the last few weeks, he’d scanned the Jobs pages of the local newspaper and applied for anything that he was suitably qualified for, not that there was a lot. Most places wanted someone younger than him—minimum wage was a bitch—and for some, having GCSEs and A-Levels meant he was overqualified, and thus far none of them had panned out. So, for the moment at least, he was stuck here if he wanted to pay his bills.

As he pushed his arm down into the well, he felt the sticky, cold grease seeping into the glove and onto his hand. Rob shuddered. Truly, he’d never felt anything as disgusting as this. And knowing that the putrescence was going to cling to him too? Fuck.

It took him almost three hours before the drains were clean enough that Rob thought they’d pass inspection. He got up off his knees, picked up the bucket, and carried it to the bin to the rear of the supermarket, where he dumped the mess. Then he went back into the shop, stripped off the overalls and gloves, and then tossed them into the dustbin. Once he was in the locker room, he pumped a mound of soap onto his hands and began to scrub at his arms. Slowly the yellow gloop came off, along with a layer of skin. The smell, however, lingered, although Rob couldn’t tell if it was from him or the sink.

The door to the lockers opened, and Mr. Peterson stepped in. After sniffing, his nose wrinkled and he scowled. “Are you done?”

Rob’s stomach plummeted. Would it kill him to smile, just once? “Yes, sir. I’ve emptied the bucket into the bin out back. Now I’m just trying to get this stuff off my hands. There were holes in the gloves and—”