The smell of high fructose corn syrup and red dye number 4 settled in the air-conditioned office of my hopeful employer. The burly, balding, and brutish ginger man flipped through my resume with grunts and nods.

"Says here you went to Boston University?" Mr. Quincy questioned.

"Yes, sir," I squeaked.

He waved impatiently. "Studied in what?"

"Oh! I studied writing, with a minor in finance and economics. Sir."

"Good with numbers, I see?"

"Very much, sir. Math was my highest grade throughout school, other than English, of course," I assured.

He nodded and continued to flip through my papers.

"I'm garbage with numbers. You'll be a good help, you got the job," Mr. Quincy addressed with his hand out.

I excitedly grabbed his hand and shook it. "Thank you, sir! You won't be let down."

He stood from his chair. "You'll be put on the midnight shift. You can start tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr. Quincy. I'll arrive at 11:50 in case I need to be addressed before my shift begins," I settled.

He showed a tight smile and stepped into the room attached to his office. I took it as my cue to leave his office, back into the slightly warmer convenience store.

I fumbled to dial my mother, making my way through the store.

Pressing dial, I pulled open the main doors, out to the parking area. A tight group of men past me into the store as I heard Mr. Quincy quickly greet them.

"Mylo!"

I snapped back into the present. "Sorry, Mama. I was leaving the store. I got the job!"

"Beautiful, baby! Now stick with this one," she sassed as I unlocked my car door.

"Don't worry. I got assigned the midnight hours, I would need to be dead to the world if I missed my clock-in time when I'm 20 minutes away."

"Querido, be careful. Those are dangerous areas, especially at night."

"I'll be fine, Mama. You raised a strong boy," I consoled.

"Mylo, baby, you aren't the strongest, physically."

"Jeez, thank you," I remarked, even though she was right.

"You missed out on the Scottish brute and you got my compassion and sincerity. I blame myself," she dramatized.

"Mama, I'll be okay. I'll buy some mace before I go to work tomorrow, will that be fine?" I offered.

"Don't forget the rape whistle."

"Ma!"

"It happens to men too and I gave birth to a very beautiful boy with a very nice butt. They can't resist, my love," she explained.

I sighed. "Fine, fine. I'll buy them tomorrow. Now I'm about to drive, so I'll talk to you later. I love you, Mama."

"Te Amo Tambien, Querido."

I ended the call, shaking my head at my mother's antics. Sliding the key into the ignition, I started my car and put it in reverse. Successfully turning into traffic and driving home.

~=~+~=~

"I'm up, I'm up!"

I blindly reached for my phone to shut off the blasted alarm. After victoriously hitting the screen at the right angle, I turned over and spread my arms out.

A growl made me open my eyes to a sleepy Michael staring at the hand that sat on his back.

"Sorry, Mikey," I apologized. The white French bulldog blinked and moved from my reach.

I ran my opposite hand through my bed head and flicked the comforter off. Scratching my back, I shuffled lazily into the bathroom and immediately relieved myself. Flushing, I shifted to the sink and washed my hands and face. I met my mismatched eyes in the mirror, moving the pesky hair that fell in front of them.

I sighed and walked back into my bedroom. Michael waited under my sheets with a bored expression.

"Breakfast or a walk?" I laid out.

He jumped off my bed, trotting determinedly into the hallway. I followed after, pausing to step over an oddly sleeping Lucifer. Michael sat expectantly in front of his bowl, barking lowly.

"Breakfast it is," I cooperated.

I opened his bag of kibble and dished two sizable scoops into his bowl. Fetching the gallon of water in the fridge, I poured a nice amount into his water bowl.

"Eat up."

Michael lapped his tongue in his water before chowing down on his kibble.

"Lucifer!" I called out.

I poked my head out the kitchen to watch the ever so slow black cat flash his green eyes at me in discontent.

"Well, if you don't want food," I teased, shaking a bag of his favorite salmon and chicken mix.

Lucifer blinked slowly and stretched leisurely, padding his way to his bowls like it was a privilege to eat with him.

I repeated the process with Luci's food and water, finally dishing myself a bowl of cereal and plopping down in front of the tv.

Syncing Netflix, I zoned out in front of the screen. Soon, Michael made his home on my lap before Lucifer pushed him off and he settled for laying against my side.

"Alright, time for a walk, Mikey," I reminded.

He wiggled himself off the couch and waited in front of the door. Lucifer eyed him, looked at me, then leaped off my lap and swayed back to bed.

Leashing him and slipping on a pair of shoes, because who cares this early, I opened the door and lead Michael around the block.

~=~+~=~

The overhead bell chimed my return into the sparsely populated store. The on-duty clerk nodded his head, clearly bored behind the counter. I made a b-line to Mr. Quincy's office, knocking confidently on the door.

I entered at the grumble of Quincy's acknowledgment.

"I've arrived for my shift, sir," I announced.

"Oh, Mylo. Let me show you your work station," he insisted.

The burnt-out worker happily clocked out and skated into the night. Quincy shook his head before gesturing to the cash register.

"This is your station, I guess this bit's obvious."

He then went through how to ring up items and the various things behind the counter.

"This is your panic button," he said, gesturing to a red button under the countertop. "In case I'm not in the store. There's also a shotgun that's easily accessible, try to be careful with that."

I nodded. "Got it, sir. I've done enough shooting training."

Which were several shooter games and the few times I've had fun with Nerf guns, but, luckily, he didn't ask.

"Well, I've said my piece. I've got meetings in the morning, I'll be leaving tonight. I assure you'll be fine," Mr. Quincy stated.

"Mama told me to buy protective equipment, so yes, I think I'll be fine," I confided, waving around the mace and whistle.

He let out a deep chuckle. "Your mother sounds like a riot. I'll be off, here are the keys for closing up if you need to step out. See you tomorrow, Mylo."

He slapped on his caddy hat and nodded his head before leaving the store. I looked around at the current space, as Mr. Quincy's car started up in the background, and exhaled heavily.

6 more hours to go.

~=~+~=~

As the night settled in, only a few customers entered, shopped, and exited. Mostly partygoers and druggies who had exact change for munchies. I was left editing the novel I was attempting to write as a way to pass the slow progression of time.

Around 5, the obnoxiously loud rumbles of motorcycles filled the parking lot. Equally loud chatter followed the silence as the same men from yesterday slammed open the doors.

The guys cheered, flooding the aisles. Counting 7 men of various sizes storming the liquors, beers, and other alcoholic drinks. One lanky man stayed by the doors. He turned to me and pointed.

"You're the little blond we saw yesterday. Quincy told me he hired someone new, someone mathematically inclined," The mysterious man concluded, speaking with a non-American accent.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, yeah. That'd be me."

Sarcasm left my mind as he fully faced me. His jaw was polished and chiseled, his posture that of a king, his hair black as night and effortlessly styled, and his eyes looking amused and interested.

"What's your name, Blondie?" He asked.

"First of all, please refrain from addressing me like that. Second of all, my name's Mylo," I responded.

He gave a slight smile and a nod. "Charmed, I'm sure. I like your spunk, Blondie."

He stood there and continued to watch me like prey, eyeing the laptop I pushed to the side. I made an exaggerated hand gesture.

"This is when you also tell me your name, Mr. Mysterious," I jabbed, emphasizing a very weak nickname.

"Arlo. Arlo Mulloy. Happy, Blondie?"

"I'd be much happier if you didn't call me Blondie."

He shrugged. "You fit the name better."

I lifted a few locks of hair. "Obviously, but I prefer not to be called something so generic."

He pretended to think. "How about sweetcheeks?"

"Yeah...no."

He waltzed to the other side of the counter. "Come on, it fits. I can tell from here that you have a nice backside. Wonder how it looks without the tight jeans."

"Keep wondering, because these $20 jeans are staying on my butt," I declined, stepping away from his leaning figure.

"You're cute. I might have to drop by more often, maybe you can crunch my numbers. Be my little assistant," he proposed.

"Last I checked, I'm not on your payroll."

He furrowed his brow. "Quincy didn't tell you?"

The men clambered to the front, all holding a case of beer and dark-colored liquor.

"Uh, having a party?" I inquired.

One of the younger guys pulled out a bottle and popped the cap on the edge of the counter.

"We're Irish, kid. We are the party," he drolled.

"Well, I hope you can pay for your party. Because I'm looking at $200, at least, of booze."

He shrugged and took a long swig.

I glared at him and looked at Arlo. "What did Quincy not tell me?"

He reached up to touch my cheek, but I slapped it away. "You are on my payroll, sweetheart. I own this place, this neighborhood. So I'd watch that pretty tongue of yours before you lose it. Which would be a shame, I bet you could do wonderful things with it."

He reached for a jug marked, Bailey's Alcoholic Irish Cream.

"Irish cream, cute."

Arlo smiled faintly. "One day, you'll taste the real deal."

I rolled my eyes as he whistled for his crew to run off.

"Goodnight, Blondie," he teased with a tip of his hat.

I glared and kept quiet. Arlo yelled a chant then joined his brethren for an early morning bike ride.

The motors in the distance trailed off. To think, only I could pick a job where I'm being paid by the Irish mob and the leader thinks he can bang me.

Not today, Satan. Not today.