Criminal Dynasties: The Faulkner Syndicate

Chapter Two

Six Years Later

Claire Richter's POV

"Either order or get the fu-"

"Claire!" my boss snapped for the second time of the day. "Don't speak like that to customers!"

I gritted my teeth. "Fine," I snapped then turned my attention back to the guy in front of me. "So have you finally decided what you're going to have?" I asked, emphasizing 'finally.'

He smiled at me. "Sure," he said. "You."

For the love of God. "Look here, mister," I fumed. "I don't have time for you or your nonsense. So like I was trying to say earlier, either order or get the flying fu-"

"Claire, damn it!"

I have never once managed to say that word while working here.

"Your boss is mad," the guy told me. Well, no shit. "Here's my number." So call me maybe. He handed me a post-it with his number written on it.

I sighed and looked down at my hands. "A post-it, huh?" This was my best chance to finally get rid of him with him getting the picture. "So, what's your job?" I leaned in. "I only go for rich guys," I whispered.

 He smiled at me uncertainly. "Well, I'm a...rich businessman."

 "Boring," I remarked and flipped him off. Good thing I could tell when people were lying. Besides, it was boring. "Next!"

"Claire, this is your last warning," my boss told me at the end of my shift. "I can't have cashiers who insult customers."

My eyes narrowed slightly. I couldn't help it if the customers were narcissist jerks who kept trying to pick me up.

"Because of your behavior this afternoon," he continued. "I have to ask you to clean and lock up the stall."

Great. Jim, our usual last person, must be out today. "Jim not here?"

"He's out," my boss confirmed.

I gritted my teeth. I really didn't want to clean and lock up. The last time I did it, I could barely lift the damn metal thing. But I needed this job bad. It was only one of three things paying for our food now. The first was my mother's job as a cosmetologist in a small mom-and-pop salon downtown. But lately she hadn’t been going to work.

The second was my job as a janitress in an office. And the third was this: cashier in a stall in a food court. Great life, huh?

“I’ll do it,” I said, swallowing hard.

My boss smiled. “Great, Claire. Closing time is in fifteen minutes. I’ll be leaving a little while before that to give you space to pack up.”

“Yay,” I said sarcastically when I was finally alone. “I get to play Cinderella without the prince and the happy ending.”

When I was little, we still had a TV. My sister would tell me the ending of the stories as we watched it so that I wasn’t disappointed or anything once the story ended. “I wish you could tell me what happens next, Trista,” I said as if she were there, listening.

I then remembered that she was dead. That she had died from a stab just six years ago in two weeks. My face hardened and I continued working, trying to think about anything but her. I still wanted my revenge though. I just didn’t know how I could get it.

Thirty minutes later, the stall was clean and locked up. I sighed as I remembered the long walk home, maybe an hour later than I was used to. It was about eleven in the evening now.