Heather's One-Chapter Bits

Tick-Tock (Countdown Part II)

I press my back to the door and slide down the wood until I'm sitting on the ground. I don't understand. Out of all the people on this earth that could have been the one my clock referred to, it had to be a celebrity. Not a very modest one, at that.

I play with the fabric of my work pants. I'm still wearing my apron, I realize. I slowly untie it and fling it across the room. I ease the elastic out of my hair and let it fall across my forehead in a sweaty mess. I'm not usually drenched in sweat after work, but then, I don't usually sprint the three miles home.

Blake pushed me behind him. "What are you doing?" I asked incredulously. I craned my neck to see around him.

A light flashed at the window of the restaurant. "What was that? It's the middle of the day!" I exclaim, furrowing my brow.

He pushed my head back behind him. "That would be a camera," he sighed. He pulled me into the kitchen. "How quickly can you get home?"

I slipped my wrist out of his grip and crossed my arms. "It usually takes me about twenty minutes to walk."

Blake nodded thoughtfully. "Can you run?"

I scoffed. "Can I run, he says." He looked at me expectantly. "Yes! Yes, I can run."

"Run home. I'll meet you there," he ordered.

I narrow my eyes. "You don't even know where I live," I point out.

He raised one eyebrow. "Fine. Give me your address and save me the five minutes it would take to Google you." He shoved his phone at me.

I scowled and typed in my address and number. "You couldn't find me on Google."

"I can find anyone on Google," he argued. The clamor from outside grew louder. He pulled the black scarf I'd been using to cover my clock from his back pocket. I glanced down at my wrist. The little digital countdown clock had already fallen off- and somehow, I hadn't even noticed.

He tied it where the clock used to be. "Don't tell anyone yet," he said. "I'll talk to your parents with you tonight."

"I'm 19, not 9," I snapped. "I got it."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll see you later. I have to deal with this."

And just like that, he'd run out of the kitchen and left me standing in the middle of the floor, still processing what was going on.

One of the younger prep cooks stared at me in amazement. "That was-"

"Yep," I deadpanned.

"And he-"

"Uh huh."

"And you-"

"That's right."

He composed himself. "Alright then, you've got to get out of here. Take the back entrance." He grinned at me. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't come to work next week."

I sighed and searched my brain for his name. "Thanks, Rowan. I'll see you as soon as His Majesty lets me come back to work."

He whistled, still smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "Controlling, huh?"

"So far," I said. "Bye, Rowan. I've got to run home like I've got the cops on my tail."

He laughed and waved, and I started to run.

Sighing again, I scan my bedroom. On the wall, amidst the rest of the posters that cover the blue paint, are the two offending posters. Movie posters, of course; they were free, a gift from a friend who works at a theater. Both of them have the same unfortunately familiar face right in the center.