Free Not His Type by Lisa Crane Page B

man.
     
    “Mr. Schmidt,
I’ve come to ask if I still have a job,” she said.  “I realize I missed a
couple of shifts, but I was in the hospital.”
     
    “So I heard,” he
said, leaning back in his chair.  His eyes slithered over her from the top of
her head to her toes, with a few pauses along the journey.  “You look just
fine to me.”  He chuckled at his little joke.
     
    “Well, I – it’s
my leg,” Brooke said.  “Lots of staples.”
     
    “Maybe I should
make you show me, just so I know you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me.”
     
    “Um…uh…” Brooke
stammered.  She gave him an awkward smile.  “So do I still have a job?”
     
    Schmidt frowned
thoughtfully.  He ran his hand over his oily comb-over, eyeing Brooke the whole
time.
     
    “I’m
short-handed tonight,” he said finally.  “Can you work right now?”
     
    Brooke just
managed to keep her shoulders from drooping in exhaustion.  Instead, she felt
her smile stretch a little wider, almost a grimace.
     
    “Absolutely, Mr.
Schmidt!” she said as if working at Hot Diggity’s was the most exciting thing
she could possibly think of at the moment.
     
    “You’ll have to
have a tee shirt,” he said.  “And I’ll have to take it out of your next check.”
     
    “Of – of course.”
     
    The man rummaged
in a box.  He pulled out a red shirt and tossed it to Brooke.  She glanced at
it and frowned.
     
    “Mr. Schmidt,
this is a small,” she said.  “I really need at least a medium.”
     
    “Sorry, that’s
all I got.  Unless you want extra small?”
     
    “Oh.”  Brooke
sighed.  “No, this will do.  I’ll just run to the restroom and put this on. 
I’ll be right back.”
     
    When Brooke
returned from the ladies’ room with the red tee shirt on, Bryan gaped at her. 
He cleared his throat as if he wanted to say something, but remained silent.
     
    “I know, I
know,” Brooke muttered.  “It’s too tight.  This was all he had.”
     
    “No it’s not!” Bryan snorted.  “He just got a shipment of shirts yesterday!  I guarantee you he has some
mediums.”
     
    “I just want to
get through this evening, then I can wear one of my shirts that fits for my
next shift!  Hey, at least he let me keep my job!”
     
    For the rest of
the evening, Mike Schmidt found reason after reason to be out front with his
employees; this was an unusual occurrence, and Brooke quickly realized it was
all about her tight tee shirt.  The knowledge made her even more uncomfortable,
but she did her best to ignore him.
     
    After three
hours of ogling by her manager and customers alike, Brooke was ready to leave. 
And after three hours of standing, she was aching – literally – to get home and
put some heat on her leg.  She walked out of the mall to her car, limping even
more heavily.  Rain had begun falling sometime during her shift at the hot dog
stand, and Brooke hurried as much as she could to avoid getting completely
soaked by the cold downpour.
     
    When she reached
her car, she quickly slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. 
She turned the key.  Nothing happened.  Not the sluggish sound of the engine
turning over, not even that annoying clicking sound cars sometimes made when
they refused to start.  Nothing at all happened when she turned the key. 
Brooke leaned her head on the steering wheel.  She just wanted to go home, take
a warm bath and go to bed.

Chapter 11
     
    Brooke started
when she heard a loud rapping at the window next to her head.  She turned to
see the leering face of Mike Schmidt.  He gestured for her to roll the window
down.  Brooke cranked the window down a couple of inches.
     
    “Car trouble,
Brooke?” he asked.
     
    “Um, I think
it’s the battery,” she answered.
     
    “I can give you
a lift.”
     
    “No, I’m good.”
     
    Mike looked
pointedly around the parking lot.  The few cars left belonged to other mall
employees and those were quickly driving