An Unlocked Mind (Secrets #2)(18)
Mr. Peterson gave an impatient wave. “It doesn’t matter. Punch out and go home.”
Rob blinked. “What? But why?”
There was that wrinkled nose again. “There’s no way you can be out around our customers smelling like that.”
Rob wanted to rage. He’d been told to clean, and that was what he did. He made a supreme effort to keep his cool. “But… I can’t afford to lose the hours. I need them to pay my bills.”
“Come back tomorrow. Just make sure you’ve showered.” Without another word, Mr. Peterson turned and pushed the door as he exited.
Rob couldn’t believe it. He was numb as he went to his locker and pulled out his clothes. If he expected to pay his bills now, he was going to have to dip into his computer money again. He’d been saving up for almost two years to buy a new one, all whistles and bells, and now he’d have to wait even longer. He dressed quickly, got up, and exited the building.
The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is have a shower. He could smell the vile odor that clung to his hair, and he resisted the urge to run his fingers through it, as was his habit. But as he neared the bus stop, a sign caught his attention—the swirling red, white, and blue stripes of a barber’s pole.
Vic’s words were there, at the forefront of his mind. So my hair’s too long, is it? Rob pulled his wallet from his pocket and peered inside. A lonely ten-pound note sat there.
Enough for a haircut. He could always walk home. His mind made up, Rob walked up to the barber’s shop, but when he placed his hand upon the glass door, he paused. I can’t go in like this. I stink. He turned to walk away, but halted yet again. And if not now, when? Strike while the iron is hot. You know if you leave it, you’ll only make excuses.
His heart pounding, Rob pushed open the door to the shop and went inside.
The barber turned out to be an older man with a lot more understanding and tact than a younger one might have shown. He washed Rob’s hair thoroughly, until all Rob could smell was the pleasant scent of the shampoo. And when the electric razor buzzed against his skull, Rob took a deep breath and told his stroppy inner voice what it could do with itself.
One thing about having less hair? His head felt the cold more quickly, especially during the long walk home. It also gave him way too much time to think about his finances. By the time he got into the flat, the shower was forgotten. He sat down with a notepad and pen, and figured out all his bills for the month. Reluctantly he took the envelope that contained all the bank notes he’d put aside for the laptop from his drawer. He counted out the amount he’d need to cover the bills, shoved them into a bank envelope with a paying-in slip, and then left his flat to walk to the bank. Once he’d deposited the envelope in the slot of the ATM machine, he trudged back to his flat at a brisk pace, trying not to think about the sum he had left. Four hundred pounds. Enough for a crappy computer, not even close to the one he’d been hoping to buy. He’d put aside everything he could afford, and for a time, the computer had been tantalizingly close. Now? He sighed. Maybe some dreams aren’t meant to be.
Then he shook himself. Okay, so he was weary to his bones, but he knew he’d get through this. He had to. One thing was certain: it wasn’t in him to give up. Rob Daniels never gave up.
HOLY SHIT, they weren’t kidding when they said Thank God for Fridays.
Rob had come to the conclusion long ago that when he wanted a week to fly by, somehow it knew and decided to be bloody-minded and crawl…. This week had proved to be no exception. He couldn’t remember ever thinking of his tiny flat as a home, but right now he was happy to be heading toward it. He got off the bus and walked along the narrow streets, feeling so fucking good to be off for a weekend.
Why did Mr. Peterson have to turn into a right bastard, just like every other manager I’ve worked with before? Because if there was a way to fuck with someone, Mr. Peterson found it. The grease traps on Monday had only been the start. Tuesday, it was stripping the floor overnight, waxing it, and having everything put back together before the store opened, then coming in eight hours later to work a shift. The only saving grace was Wednesday when Cassidy, one of the stock boys, called off and they needed someone to cover. Rob was grateful for the extra hours, so he jumped at the chance to work a double shift. Thursday, he’d had to rearrange the stockroom, dusting the shelves, washing the floors, and doing stock checks as he worked. But Friday…. Fuck, Mr. Peterson had him doing three jobs at once. He was expected to bag groceries, while simultaneously getting shopping trolleys from the car park.
Why didn’t he have me shove a broom up my arse and sweep the floor while I was at it? It would have been funny, but for the fact that Rob had then been given the task of sweeping up the debris that had gotten strewn everywhere by careless shoppers.
What pleased Rob was the way he’d handled it with aplomb. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t refuse, and said yes sir and no sir when needed. He was the model employee, and it seemed to annoy his boss, not what Rob had set out to do, but by then he was taking a certain satisfaction from it. At long last the weekend had arrived, he’d worked his arse off, and tonight he deserved a break. He checked his wallet, hoping that there would be some money in there, but all he found were a few pieces of lint. The thought of his envelope of computer cash rose in his mind, and he shoved it aside.