It's Not About You Read online

  "Grace?"

  "George…are you sure? I mean…friends working for friends? That just seems like a recipe for bad things."

  "P'sh. Grace, I know what your work ethic is. I know you. I know what you've gone through. My ex adores you, and I trust Kyle's opinion on a lot of things. I'll train you myself. It's not a lot of money—but as manager it's a living wage. Not sure how much it'll help with Tanae's school?"

  "Anything would help. She actually stayed at the school over the summer and worked there to save money for this quarter. All I need to do is make tuition payments."

  "Well then," he said and held out his hand. "Welcome to Trade In Beans Miss Murphy."

  A week later…

  "That'll be $4.73," I told the last person in line, took her card, ran it, handed it back, gave her the receipt and watched as she pushed two dollars in the tip jar. Once the line was clear I went back to my tablet and inventory.

  George hadn't been kidding when he said he needed a manager. Apparently after opening their third location, the idea of managing anything turned to vapor. As a freelancer I'd always taken care of my own books, logging receipts, expenditures, keeping up with inventory, what comes in, what goes out…

  When I started at Trade In Beans—there wasn't any of that shit being done.

  Oy.

  "All three stores run off magic!" I told Kyle after the first two days of orientation. I'd come home to find he'd cooked one of the meals we learned that week at school. I was sooo hungry I poured the wine, grabbed the plates, set the table and dug in before I said a single word.

  "Brad has mentioned several times how much help they need. They love the money—"

  "Yeah. But the way they're handling all three stores?" I said around a mouthful of food before I downed it all with a nice swallow of wine. "I'm serious. It's Hogwarts."

  It took a good four days for me to get the process straight, and to do just a bit of retraining of the six employees plus the rotating seven. The store ran on eight hour shifts, with three to five people in the morning between 5:00am and 1:00pm, then a three person crew from 1:00pm to 9:00pm, then just 2 until closing at 11:00pm. The fun thing was each employee knew their schedule and their co-worker's schedules and worked out each week on Sunday afternoon—because some were in college with classes, some were in high school and some had second jobs.

  My new best friend was a young twenty-something named Flower. If she had a last name, I didn't look on her application to check and didn't care. Flower had bright red bottle-dyed hair, freckles and a seriously stunning smile. She was also a whiz at keeping six orders straight at one time. Flower had been a barista for over a year and after she helped me get the ground rules down, I asked George if I could make her assistant manager.

  Once that was passed, she and I worked out our own schedules between the two of us. She had classes and gave me her schedule and times. It all seemed to work.

  And once I had the workings down, straightened the books, had an accurate accounting of what we had vs what we needed, installed a better POS (Point Of Sale) system—it was time for me to learn how to make coffee.

  I'll have to admit—that was the scariest part of all. I could cook a mean lamb chop or slow bake a tender brisket, but coffee I'd always left up to my one-cup coffee maker.

  And after a day at it—I gave them all ten bucks out of my own pocket. This was work!

  I knew after that second day that sticking to the register was a better idea—especially after I soaked my shirt in steamed milk.

  The $4.73 sell posted at nine-seventeen. It was time to start the nightly cleanup and my two closing employees, Sam and Debbie were already wiping down the empty tables, sweeping, mopping, refilling sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg and discussing what they'd be doing after work.

  I was in the back, double checking my counts. Based off the week before's performance, the inventory, debits and credits, it looked like we had everything we needed.

  "Hey Grace?" Sam stepped into the back as she untied her orange apron. "Is it okay if I clock out early? I'm opening up for Flower in the morning—she's got that doctor's appointment, remember? But she'll be in like half an hour later. My ride's here and I'd rather not make him wait."

  "He being a bastard about it?" Yeah. I talked like that to everyone. The employees found it kinda fun. The manager had a potty mouth. I just kept myself and them from saying it to and around customers.

  Sam was a cute girl, with one of those cool bobs that hung short at the back of her neck and then went long below her chin in the front. She was thin and all angles and I hoped she grew into herself before she hit twenty-five.

  "Yeah…he hates waiting."

  "You know, I can always take you home. You don't live that far from me and then he wouldn't have to wait."

  "Oh no. No. Its okay. He wants to do it." She gave me a half smile and grabbed her time card.

  "Oh…leave it. I'll clock you out."

  "Thanks Grace!" She finished putting her stuff away, grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

  I counted to five before Debbie came and said what she said every night. "I don't like her boyfriend. He's an asshole."

  "Yeah well," I said as I nodded and put the books in the desk and locked the drawer. "We know that. But we can't actually do an intervention until she wants one."

  Debbie Hollinger was a super model. Well…she looked like one. Brunette, all shapely curves and heavy lips. Deep brown eyes stared at me from impossibly pale skin. She was a freshman in college and was having a hard time balancing work with studying and boys. Her problem was boys. Lots of them. And they all liked to hang out at Trade In Beans. "Well, if she ever comes in here with bruises, I'm going to call the cops and report abuse."

  "You and me, both," I said and smiled as she winked. We both heard the bell over the door jingle and she headed head back to the front.

  Bruises and abuse. It wasn't the first time she'd declared that to me. She was looking out for her friend. But how could I tell her that abuse came in many forms, and sometimes the bruises were on the inside?

  I was finishing up with the POS system when Debbie came to the door. "Hey, this guy wants to buy what's left over in the case. But he wants it at a discount."

  "Really?" I logged and stood, brushing my apron off. "What's left?"

  "Not much. Just a few scones, a brownie and one of those cheese cakes. I was taking them out for the donation box."

  George and Bradford had an arrangement with Feed Atlanta Charities. Since it was bad business to sell stale, old goods, and it was wasteful to throw them out, we boxed them up and stuck them in the refrigerator for the next morning when someone from FAC picked them up.

  I proceeded her back into the main room, ready to give the customer the spiel about paying for them at full price or they're donated—

  —and came face to face with Pretty Eyes.

  A full week in the shop and I hadn't seen him, though I had thought of him occasionally. But since he didn't seem to be a regular—which I thought he was seeing as how George knew his name—I'd sort of brushed him to the back of the deck.

  I paused for a second, causing Debbie to plow into my back—spectacularly. I glanced behind me before I continued to the counter. "Well, hello."

  Recognition caught him off guard. He narrowed his eyes at me for a long second before his very attractive mouth pulled to the side and he pointed at me. "You were in line that day."

  "Yes. I'm the old lady in line ahead of you."

  He was still half shaven, longish hair, and wearing a teeshirt, denim jacket and jeans. He looked…damn hot.

  "I never called you an old lady. I believe I said, older women. And I was giving you a compliment."

  I don't know if I was just not in the mood, or I was frustrated because I knew someone my age would never know what it was like to have something like him hammering me. "Let me give you some words of wisdom. Never refer to any woman, be they maiden, mother or crone, as an older woman."

 
; His eyebrows arched high on his forehead and he slowly nodded. "Advice heard and accepted—" he looked at my name tag. "Grace."

  Oh no. What was his name again? I knew George had told me, but I couldn't remember it.

  Eh…what did it matter? I pointed to the box of treats on the counter and gave him the same details of our arrangement with FAC worked while Debbie made his coffee.

  "So," he held out his hand with his card in it. "I could still buy them at full price."

  "Yes." I took his card but didn't run it through. "Did you want them?"

  "How much total?"

  I glanced at the treats. Added it up in my head. "Twenty-six —" and then I looked at the coffee in Debbie's hand. "No make that thirty-one and some odd change."

  He leaned his head back as his brows knitted over his dazzling eyes. "You figured that up in your head?"

  "What? Older women can't add?"

  "Okay." He leaned forward and braced himself against the counter with both hands and nodded to Debbie. "She totals all this up and if it's within five dollars, give or take, I buy all of it."

  "And if it's not?"

  He smiled. "I get it half price."

  I smiled back at him. "We don't bet here, Mr—"

  "Oliver. Michael Oliver."

  "Mr. Oliver. So will the coffee be all?" I rang it up and then looked at him.

  I really didn't care how damn pretty he was. Not at that moment. I was tired. My back ached and my dawgs was a bark'n! I needed a bath and real food! I was just glad Flower was opening in the morning. I wanted to sleep in.

  "I'll take it. All of it." He pointed to the box.

  I rang it all up and after tax, his bill was thirty-two dollars and seven cents. He gave me the biggest grin and it looked adorable on his face. I ran his card, it cleared and I handed it back to him just as he stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. "Oh… uh uh. No, Mr. Oliver—"

  "No. It's okay." He held up his hand and took the box. Debbie had his coffee ready and he took it with his free hand. "It's my pleasure." Mr. Oliver turned and headed to the door which gave me a great shot of his butt.

  Nice.

  He turned and backed the door open and held up his coffee. "You have a good night, Grace."

  When he was gone I opened the register and started counting the money. I'd done it twice when I realized Debbie was staring at me. I looked over at her. "What?"

  "Garnish. I've never been garnish before."

  I decided at that minute she had inhaled too many of the bolder coffee fumes. Grows hair in your nose. "Debbie—let's get finished and go home."

  "You didn't see that, did you?"

  "See what?"

  "That guy! Pretty Eyes has been coming in here for like a year. George always flirts with him—swears his gaydar says straight—and no one ever sees him with a girl. Do you know him?"

  "Ah," I said as I scribbled down the day's take-in after tallying three times, then slipped it into the deposit bag. I zipped it closed. "We met in line before I was hired. Called me an older woman."

  "Maybe that's it." Debbie snapped her fingers. "Maybe he likes older women."

  I laughed. Actually I snorted. It was a nice dream, but that kind of stuff only comes true in soap operas. But here in reality land—no. And given my profile in the polished chrome of the coffee makers…it didn't happen to me.

  Who ever invented phones should die.

  I just wanted to get that out there. Really. Because when they ring at seven 'effing thirty in the morning, all I want to do is choke the life out of the person using it.

  So began my Tuesday morning with a call on my one to ten shift. I picked the phone up and looked at the face. With a groan I answered it. "Yeah?"

  "Grace?" George sounded a bit irritated. "Why isn't the store open?"

  Okay that woke me up. I sat up in bed. "I don't know—is Sam not there?"

  "No. And I can't get her on the phone either."

  "Do you have your key?"

  "Yes." He snapped a bit and I just chalked it up to him being mad. "I knew this was going to happen…"

  Well, I'm glad someone did. "George, I'll be there soon as I can. And keep trying to reach Sam." I disconnected and immediately dialed Sam's number. It went straight to voice mail. That was never a good sign because that meant it was either off or the battery was dead.

  After a quick shower to wake up, I called the local precinct and asked for Lt. Kevin Taylor .

  "You mean Sergeant Taylor?"

  Sergeant? Wow. Geez. Moving up in the world. "Yeah. Is he in?"

  "Just a moment. I need to tell him who's calling."

  "Grace Murphy."

  I counted to six before he picked up. "Grace? What is it?" He knew if I called him at work it was because of a problem.

  "It's Samantha Browning. Her boyfriend's been beating her up again. Coming to work with bruises, and she mentioned last night how he hated having to wait on her."

  "Grace you know I can't—"

  "Kevin, she's not at work. She was supposed to open up the coffee shop this morning and she's a no show. You know how much she loves that place."

  There was a pause. "Grace, how come you know this? Did George call you instead of me?"

  Oh. That's right. Kevin didn't know I had a job. I never did make it over to the station to fill out that order—which was another thing I needed to do. "I'm managing the Trade In Beans location by my house. Anyway," I continued before he could say anything. "I'm heading over to Sam's house—"

  "Grace, don't. Not if it is Eddie beating up on her."

  "She's only a few blocks away. I just took a shower. Meet me there?"

  "This is so not regular, Grace. But I'll be there. Just don't go in before then, understand?"

  By the time I was dressed ten minutes had gone by. I left Kyle a note—he was up and working out—and headed to Sam's.

  I knew Sam before I started working at Trade In Beans. She was Tanae's age and they'd gone to school together. Sort of. That is when Sam was in school. Her dad was pretty much out of the picture and her mother had terminal cancer. So Sam worked and lived to take care of her younger sister and visited her mother regularly.

  What I didn't know was how bad it really was until I pulled up just as Kevin did. The yard was nearly bald with little to no grass in front. And what there was looked more like weeds than anything else. The half-started flower beds were overgrown with more of that weird looking weed and the curtains were all closed.

  Kevin got out of his car and held up a hand. I was used to seeing him in his uniform, but he was dressed in a suit and the car was his own. He looked good. But Kevin had always looked good, from the first day we met when I was still married. The Prick always accused me of having an affair, and the truth was I never did. But if I was ever going to—it would've been with Lt. Kevin Taylor.

  He held up a hand which was an indication for me to hang back. He went up the porch steps and knocked. "Hey Sam? You home? It's Detective Kevin Taylor."

  Detective?

  Kevin made detective?!

  Well damn…I didn't even know that. I knew he'd been studying to take the exams and he was close to passing, but no one told me he'd actually pulled it off. Well, Detective Hottie!

  When no one answered he pulled a radio from his belt and said something into it. Then he moved around the back of the house. He was gone for a while and I stood outside of my car like an idiot because I wasn't leaving till I knew what was up with Sam.

  He came back around with the radio to his ear. He motioned me to come and the two of us wadded into knee high grass. There might not any in the front but the back was choking in it. Sam lay on the back porch, on her front.

  "I just radioed an ambulance. She's beat up, just like you said. And I'm going to put out an APB on her boyfriend. You got a last name? All I ever knew was Eddie."

  "No." I sat on the porch beside her and rubbed her back with my hand. "But Debbie might. Or Flower. The girls I work with."

  "Good then get th
em to come to the station if you can and I can get more information." He sighed. "Looks like he beat her and then left her out here to sleep last night. Good thing it was a warmer night than usual."

  The idea that someone could be this cruel to another human being was beyond me. I mean…really? She's dating that big of a dick?

  "You look good, Grace."

  That was a comment out of left field. An appreciated comment and I'll take all I can get. But left field. I gave him my best shy smile. "Uh…thanks? You look good yourself. And detective?"

  He nodded and showed me his gold badge. "Two months ago. Had a little party." He paused. "I didn't think you'd come so I didn't invite you."

  "Obviously." The insult kinda hurt. "Why not?"

  "Well you know—the way you were always worried about Burt and him showing up—"

  "I'm divorced, Kevin."

  That statement got a seriously strange reaction. Kevin sort of smiled and frowned at the same time. I heard a distant siren.

  "Wow. So…he actually signed the papers."

  I made a rude noise. "Not that easy."

  "Oh. What'd he do?"

  The ambulance arrived at the front. Kevin ran around the house and directed them to the back. I stood with him as the EMTs did their thing. I knew one of them. Zach Kingston, the father of one of Tanae's school friends. We nodded to each other but nothing beyond that. He was working and I didn't want to interfere.

  "You going to look for her boyfriend?"

  "Not yet. We don't know for sure he did this. And if he did, she has to press charges."

  My heart sank. Sam wasn't going to do that. That much I knew. She was going to keep letting him hit her until he killed her.

  Kevin was looking at me. "I'm sorry Grace. But that's the law. And….I work homicide now."

  I was learning all kinds of new things about this man I tried to date. "Damn Kevin. A lot happened since I last talked to you."

  "Yeah. I'd say that was true for both of us."

  I watched as they loaded Sam on a stretcher. They had a brace on her neck and had her wrapped in a warm blanket. I texted George with what I knew and asked him if he needed me to come in.