Ortega groaned—now behind a cash register in a dilapidated thrift store, wearing a silly apron and regretting every life choice that led him here.
Well—except his new boss. Damn, was she stunning.
She was the only thing exciting about this place. Ortega thought back to how they met.
He had stumbled upon the thrift store during an evening walk and saw the vacancy sign.
He'd pushed open the glass doors, coming early because he was desperate and hadn't eaten breakfast. He wore a bland black shirt and jeans—simple, but on his frame and with the way he carried himself, he might as well have been wearing designer.
He saw a golden-haired woman in an apron. Her phone was horizontal in her hand—she was watching a movie, it seemed. From her constant joy and laughter, comedy.
He walked closer, heartbeat quickening.
She had soft, plump features and a round face. Her makeup was modest—not extravagant like Laura's or posh like Velvet's. She had a natural beauty, a glow that screamed, 'I'm not rich, but I take good care of myself.'
"Hi," he said as he came near. For some reason, his voice always turned deep and dark when he spoke to attractive women.
She paused her movie and looked up at him.
God, her lips. That gloss. And her eyes—so soft.
"How can I help you?"
"I'm—uh, I saw the vacancy," he said, suddenly nervous.
At that, her eyebrows shot up. Then came genuine anticipation. She slowly eyed him, and Ortega felt ridiculously self-conscious, so he eyed her back. Her apron hugged her large chest. She had a nose ring. She was thick. Curvy.
"Okay," she nodded. "You're hired."
Ortega blinked. "What? Like—now? I can start now?"
More than that, however…
"Wait, you own this place?"
She shrugged like it was obvious.
She owned a whole motherfucking store? Ortega couldn't believe it. It was modest, sure—but still far better than him in financial standing. That tripled his impression of her.
She pushed back against the counter, already pointing him around. "Grab an apron. Any minute now, customers are gonna start pouring in."
Ortega was starting to feel the pressure.
"Wait—just like that? No orientation?"
At that, she chuckled like it was the funniest thing in the world.
She spread her arms. "It's a junk store. Staying behind the counter's about as much orientation you'll get. But you do know how to work a cash register, right?"
"Yeah," Ortega said, lost for words but filled with a sudden surge. He'd do his best.
"If you need anything—" she paused, rethinking. "Actually, don't need anything. God knows how much I need a break from all… this. Anyway, have fun."
With that, she sauntered off. And that was that.
***
"That'll be seventeen dollars," he said dully as he packaged a middle-aged woman's goods. Then he picked up the bag and handed it to her, not even bothering to smile. "Thanks for shopping with us. Come next—"
The woman was already out the door before he could finish. He sighed, shoulders slumping. The ceiling fan hummed. Alarmingly boring, this shit was.
He shook his head. Doesn't matter—the endgame's getting paid.
By the end of the day, Ortega was thankful he'd endured. His boss counted the day's takings and handed him his cut—meager, but sustainable. He branched into a grocery store before heading home and bought actual meat.
It sizzled on the stove as he perused the system interface. He'd missed some notifications at work and now read through them:
{Exp gained. Handling chaotic customers was shit, but you pulled through.}
Supper was burnt meat and rice. He ate with a heavy heart. Picked up his phone after. Scrolled TikTok—though that only made it worse. His FYP flooded with alpha men in Lambos with baddies, making stupid success quotes or just flexing.
'Shit is toxic,' he told himself for the thousandth time—but he couldn't stop scrolling till after midnight. Even then, he only stopped because his phone died.
***
His alarm clock blared the next day, and Ortega swore, wondering why he hadn't destroyed the damn thing already. That, and his ringing phone—his boss's number flashing.
'Shit.' He was late.
He met his mirror—eyes darker than usual—then washed up. Same clothes as yesterday? Doesn't matter. There was the apron.
When he got to work, he quickly apologized and made his way to his post. Soon, he was fighting to stay awake, attending to orders. The world didn't let him rest. The bastards surged in more than usual, and he worked nonstop.
Greet. Calculate. Package. Smile. Repeat.
Okay, he ignored smile—but the routine was draining still.
Customers paid for good service and pleasantries, but Ortega only had energy to be efficient. Nothing else was necessary.
That's what he told himself—until he came along.
***
"What do you mean you don't take refunds?"
The man before him wasn't just fat—he was P-H-A-T fat. His face held the look of someone ready to throw hands.
"I mean, you could've told me that before selling me a torn package."
He was lying. There was no way the pack was torn. Ortega had double-checked. Did he? He pinched his nose and yawned.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
"Sorry, sir, but… store policies. I can't."
"You're shitting me! This a scam operation?" The man leveled Ortega with a glare. "I KNOW your manager."
Ortega just blinked. Seriously?
Then he turned toward the back. "Ma'am!"
"What is it?"
"There's a sir here wanting a refund."
The reply came lightning fast:
"No refunds!"
Ortega regarded the man with a told-you-so look, hoping that sealed it. It did. Fatass hissed and powered off. Ortega shook his head, wondering why the idiot hadn't just brought the bag of chips back if he wanted a refund. Probably ate it. Or was lying. Yup—definitely lying.
The beaded curtain rattled, and golden-haired Miss Mae poked her head out.
"Any issues?"
"No issues."