"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
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"Can I get you dudes anything else?" I ask the table of jocks.
"Uh, no. We're good, thank you," one of Damian's former teammates replies.
"Alright, be back in a jiff." I clumsily place my notepad in the pocket of my apron and relay the order to the kitchen.
Haven eyes me up and down as she wipes the espresso machine. "Layla, are you okay? You seem... off."
If by "off," she means drunk, then yes... I'm very off.
"Everything's copacetic," I answer, giving her a double thumbs up. "Hey, I'll be right back. I have to use the restroom."
Thirty seconds later, I'm standing in front of the sink, splashing cold water on my face. I've worked tipsy before—hell, I worked tipsy most of the summer—but never flat-out wasted. I'm barely keeping it together.
And if Gabby finds out, I'm a goner.
I exit the bathroom and find Haven standing in front of the door, her arms folded over her chest. Her blue eyes meet mine in an icy glare.
"What's up?" I ask, swallowing the egg in my throat.
"Drop something?" She holds up the miniature whiskey that I chugged before my shift. "I found it in the back. I knew I smelled alcohol on your breath."
"Th-that isn't mine," I stutter.
"Really? Because you're the only one here who's drunk."
"Hey, we don't know that."
"Layla! This is serious!"
I giggle. Right now, it's difficult to take anything seriously.
"Oh, my god." She grabs my wrist and drags me outside through the back door. "You need to sober up. You can't be serving customers at my mom's diner while you're shit-faced."
"I'll be fine."
"No, you will not be fine. You're going to embarrass yourself, as well as my mother, and I'm not gonna stand around and let that happen."
"Haven—"
I'm interrupted by a crisp slap to the face. I bring my fingers to my now swollen cheek, touching it gently.
"The hell you just say?"
"Kiss. My. Ass."
Hank grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me down the hall, shoving me to the ground once we reached the kitchen. My shoulder slammed into the hard tile. I knew I'd have a potato-sized bruise tomorrow.
He crouched over me and slapped my face. He did this three times before bringing his clenched fist to my eye.
"Don't touch me," I say, returning to the present. "Don't you ever touch me."
