Butterflies Don't Lie

Chapter Four

Buy Butterflies Don't Lie now! http://www.amazon.com/Butterflies-Dont-Lie-B-R-Myers/dp/1771081627/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1462882976&sr=8-1&keywords=amazon+com+br+myers+butterflies+dont+lie+books

GIRL on the RUN is the companion novel to Butterflies Don't lie. Have you added it to your wattpad library yet? http://www.wattpad.com/story/4327404-just-jesse

When faced with the guy you'd like to kill, you...

A. waste no time and throttle him like he deserves.

B. point a finger and rat him out so he can get fired.

C. play it cool and attack him later when there are no witnesses.

In my mind I circled C, play it cool and attack him later when there are no witnesses.

I stood frozen. Loretta's voice echoed from far away, prompting Clyde to at least look at her.

Clyde, proud owner of the perfectly straight, thin moustache, pushed down his shoulders and waved a hand at the mess of ice chunks and little blobs of pink. "He wants shrimp ready for appetizers for his private party tonight!"

Loretta stared at the sink, then wiped a hand over her red face. "Don't get your 'stache in a knot," she told him. "The four of us will have them thawed in no time. Are you steaming or pan frying?"

I scanned the room and my heart dropped—even I could do the math. "Um..." I started, "I'm not kitchen staff. I'm a busgirl." Then I added to clarify any further confusion, "And I don't start until tomorrow." This made sense in my head but it came out in a shaky voice, like I wasn't even sure.

Loretta snorted. I'm certain she could smell my fear. "Listen babycakes, around here everyone is kitchen staff. The new owner is having a cocktail reception in the bar tonight, and if he doesn't have his shrimp appetizer the first to get fired is the uppity new busgirl."

Uppity new busgirl?

How about the ready-to-pee-her-pants-because-she's-so-angry-and-scared-busgirl?

My Kipling bag still over my shoulder, Loretta pushed me in front of the stainless steel sink. Her big red hands worked the taps, and soon I was elbow deep in ice and beady-eyed shrimp.

Clyde put a hand on one hip. "Each summer it's the same thing," he began. "A new owner waltzes in thinking he knows how to run this place and ignores all my suggestions." In his other hand, the knife made sweeping motions in the air.

"Then by the end of the summer, he realizes how clueless he really is, and sells it." Clyde paused and looked up at the ceiling. "No one ever listens to the chef." 

Loretta was nodding thoughtfully through Clyde's speech. Her fingers worked to separate a shrimp from the bed of ice. She brought it to her face, staring down her nose at its pathetic little face. Then she twisted off its head and threw the body into a huge bowl on the counter.

Everyone craned their necks and looked at the lonely headless thing at the bottom of the bowl.

Clyde's moustache stayed in a hard, straight line. "One," he counted, in a deadpan voice.

Loretta flicked the water from her hands, then began bustling around the kitchen, clanking pans on the stove, grabbing a block of butter from the industrial fridge, and asking Clyde about produce deliveries. Soon Clyde was by

her side, babbling about sauce and a new recipe he picked up last fall in California.

I stared down at my sink of lifeless shrimp and began to decapitate those poor little suckers. It took me a whole minute to snap apart the first one. I tossed it into Loretta's bowl.

Plop.

My fingers were already numb. I glanced at my watch. Somewhere in the harbour, Blaine was feeling the warm sun on his face. Did he miss Regan? They'd only dated for a few months, but to ease my conscience I'd checked his Facebook page the night before and been thrilled to see he changed his relationship status to 'single'.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

I glanced at How Hole. He'd already gone through most of his pile of shrimp. Show-off. His chin turned toward me and I snapped my gaze back into my sink. He shuffled closer, the tip of his Converse inching closer to my flip-flop. His laces were undone and tucked inside. I snorted. That was so elementary school.

"Hey," he said. I ignored him, instead choosing to take an immense new interest in the fascinating practice of shrimp thawing. I twisted off a head.

Plop.

"Okay, Kelsey." He cleared his throat like my name choked him up or something. "I'm sorry I scared your brother. He's your brother, right?"

Twist. Rip. Plop. Repeat.

I stayed quiet, continuing my assault on the shrimp.

Twist. Rip. Plop. Repeat.

Clyde and Loretta's voices floated over from the stove, totally ignorant of my turmoil across the room.

"Look," he tried again. "If we're going to be working together all summer..." He left the sentence hanging. Then to my horror he reached into my sink and started to work on MY shrimp.

Who did this How-Hole this he was?

A ball of heat rose up my chest. My fingers came to life.

TWIST. RIP. PLOP.

I was in hyper mode now, determined to show him up.

Shrimp heads were flying across the sink like I was a Las Vegas blackjack dealer.

"You can't ignore me the whole summer." There was a long pause. "Kelsey?" Then he sighed. I stopped mid-rip. He sounded just like my mom.

That did it. I turned and gave him my best dagger-eyeball glare. The last time we had a staring contest, he was wearing sunglasses and all I could see was my reflection. But this time, a pair of blue eyes blinked back at me. Piercing blue eyes.

Just like a tropical ocean. Ocean. Water.

Gulp.

A cold flush ran down my spine.

He leaned back a bit, and his blue eyes grew even wider.

"Looks like Luke's got the hang of it." Loretta's head suddenly poked between us. She noticed his empty sink.

I waved toward my bowl, fishing for a compliment.

Loretta's face fell. She tilted up the bowl and showed glossy pile of shrimp heads. My insides crumpled a bit.

"We're not serving the heads," she said. Then she slid a tall bucket across the floor with her foot. "Put all those heads in here," she ordered. "The finish your sink."

She looked at Luke and motioned to a workstation in the corner. "You come with me. You'll be expected to help with salads and desserts." He tried to catch my eyes, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. I had a plan: play it cool, then attack him when there were no witnesses.

Still, this was hardly the beginning I had been envisioning for Operation Tongue. Francine had none of this on her spreadsheet. I couldn't exactly check off "decapitate shrimp" when I got home. My hand wen to the Kipling bag, searching for my fuzzy yellow gorilla. I went to put the little plastic thumb in his mouth, then stopped—my gorilla was covered in shrimp slime.