by Bria Quinlan
Things That Shine
Bria Quinlan
Heidi Hutchinson
Contents
1. Emily
2. Sage
3. Emily
4. Sage
5. Emily
6. Sage
7. Emily
8. Sage
9. Emily
10. Sage
11. Emily
12. Sage
13. Emily
14. Sage
15. Emily
16. Sage
17. Emily
18. Sage
19. Emily
20. Sage
21. Emily
22. Sage
23. Emily
24. Sage
25. Emily
26. Sage
27. Emily
28. Sage
29. Emily
30. Sage
31. Emily
32. Sage
33. Emily
34. Sage
35. Emily
36. Sage
37. Emily
38. Sage
39. Emily
40. Sage
41. Emily
Epilogue
Also by Bria & Heidi
About Bria Quinlan
About Heidi Hutchinson
Copyright
1
Emily
Over the last three hours, it had become disgustingly clear not only why this job was available, but also why it paid so well.
And when I say disgusting, I mean that literally.
There was nothing like being trapped inside a ginormous burrito to make you want to be sick—except being stuck inside a ginormous burrito that smelled like body odor.
Yup. I was living the dream.
As my shift as the Dancing Burrito came to an end, I struggled to reach behind me to get the prison of a suit off. I had exactly twenty minutes to make it across town to the Brew Ha Ha, and I was cutting it pretty darn close.
“Hello?” I called out as I pushed the door to the garage open. “Can someone get me out of this thing?”
The only sound was my muffled voice echoing back at me.
Well, that wasn’t good.
I wobbled into the center of the empty warehouse-turned-garage and glanced around.
Every single food truck was gone.
Even Mama’s Pork-Fried Bananas, which had seemed oddly specific and gastronomically questionable at best.
“Hello?”
This could not be happening.
My job was to get the people coming down the street to buy early-morning coffee, donuts, and breakfast burritos from the trucks before they could legally be on the street.
Apparently it was no one’s job to get me out of the suit before they hit the road.
Which left me with two options.
Option One: Get across town to the Village while dressed as an insane burrito, then live through however long Abby’s mocking would be…if she even helped me out of the suit.
Option Two: Lose my place at The Brew.
The sad thing was, I didn’t even have the luxury of that really being a decision.
I grabbed my backpack, tried to pull it up my faux-salsa-covered arm, and trudged down the alley to catch the green line. This downtown stop luckily had an escalator, since bending my knees wasn’t an option.
I managed to make it across the street without getting hit…which was great, because I could just imagine the headlines. Things were going as smooth as salsa. I was pretty sure everything would right itself in the world fairly soon, when I reached the turnstile.
Luckily I was a pro at this city girl thing, so my T-pass was in the mesh pocket I could just sweep over the scanner…annnnnndddddd.
Yeah. I was dressed as a burrito. A human-size one.
No matter which way I turned, I couldn’t get through the turnstile.
I glanced at the clock in the attendant’s glass booth and knew something had to change. I went over and pounded on the glass, trying to get the girl’s attention.
Now that was a job I wish I had: sitting and reading while ignoring people all day. I wondered what it paid.
“Hey!”
She finally glanced up, and I had a deep feeling that if I were dressed as a human and not a high-calorie food product, she would have just glanced away.
“Can you let me through the gate?”
She just kept staring, and I wondered if she could hear me.
I leaned sideways, since I couldn’t really bend, to shout through my mesh mouthpiece into the booth mic. “Can you let me in through the gate?”
Hopefully she got the main points, at least.
A static sound buzzed before she said, “The gate is for people in wheelchairs.”
“I don’t fit through the stile.”
“But you’re not in a wheelchair.”
This was true. I was pretty rule-abiding, but this seemed special-case worthy.
“What if I were just too heavy to fit?” I shouted back.
She looked really confused by this. With the obesity level of today’s society, I found it likely there were people who came in who were too large to fit through…but maybe all of them had a disability, so they used a special pass.
“Listen, I already paid.” I glanced toward the track as I heard a train coming and saw everyone on my platform start to push forward. “Please? My train is coming.”
The girl just kept looking at me.
I get that a walking, talking, oversized burrito is weird, but not so weird that you can’t help a girl out.
I did not need Abby harassing me for being dressed like food and being late.
The high-pitched screech of metal-on-metal braking sounded and a dim light broke the darkness of the tunnel’s mouth.
As the front of the train came into view, I gave the girl one last look before I did the most desperate of deeds: I jumped the stile.
Okay. I totally didn’t jump it. I more like ran at it, then flipped over it, head over feet, watching the ground go by, and landed on my—luckily—padded rear end.
“Hey!” the booth girl shouted, throwing the door open. “You can’t do that!”
I gave her an are you kidding me look, until I remembered she couldn’t see it, and sprinted for the train, diving between the doors as they closed.
Yes! Happy dance time.
It took me a couple bars of self-sung music and happy dancing to realize the entire train was looking at me. Darn commuters.
“Do you have coupons?” The voice came from my right, a little old woman clutching a purse that had to be older than me.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m not actually working.”
“You just walk around like this?”
Fair question.
“Not by choice.”
The woman stared at me as if what I said didn’t make sense, before stating, “This generation makes even less sense every time I leave the house.”
We rode in silence, the stares as obvious as the guacamole on my head. Once the train was aboveground, I had to ignore everyone sneaking pics for Twitter or Facebook or whatever, until my stop.
Without the indoor platform, I had to hop down the stairs to the street amid applause and laughter. It was nice that this outfit was good for something. Laughter is often in short supply, and I bet even the grumpiest people had a better start to their day after that commute.
I hurried down the sidewalk, ignoring the atypical hoots and hollers, took a deep breath, and pushed through The Brew’s front door. The last of the morning crowd was just heading out. All the regulars still in line turned when they noted the glare Abby sent my way.
Most of them were used to her by now, but even the uncaffeinated m
orning brewer could tell there was something different about the look she was sending over their shoulders.
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve burritos here.” Abby’s voice was as full of snark as usual.
“Abby, it’s me.” I waved my hand…well, I waved what I could of it since I couldn’t bend my elbow. “Emily.”
The whole café had turned now to look at me. Oddly, no one was laughing. They were just kind of staring, as if I were a vision of mass hysteria.
I don’t know what I anticipated, but I guess I should have expected her to remain her ever-pragmatic self.
“You can’t work like that.” She crossed her arms across her chest, glaring her typical welcoming morning glare. “We don’t even serve burritos here.”
“I know.” Like I was going to argue with her on that point. “I’m stuck.”
“You’re stuck?”
“Yup.”
And then, a miracle happened.
Abby laughed. Just leaned against the counter and laughed until her face turned pink.
“You’re stuck,” she repeated. “In a burrito.”
“Yes.” If only she could see that I was glaring at her this time.
Talk about role reversals.
“There you are. In a burrito.”
“We’ve covered that.”
“Stuck.”
“Yes.”
“In a burrito.”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“It’s worth repeating.”
“Or you could get me out.”
“Out of the burrito you’re in?”
“That was the plan.”
“The burrito plan?”
“If that helps you get through the day.”
I tapped my foot, but since I was wearing huge, oversized “shoes” over my sneakers, it just made a faint thud instead of the tap-tap-tap I’d expected.
The woman at the end of the line started giggling.
I don’t know why I thought this would go better. I’d assumed Abby would make some quick, biting remark and then complain the entire time about me causing more work while she liberated me from the felt and wool hell I was in.
Laughter had not really played into the scheme of things.
“Abby.” I all but begged with that one word.
“Well, Emily. You see, we have a problem.” She pushed away from the counter and wiped her hands on the little apron around her waist. And now we’d get to the mocking. “I have all these customers waiting for their coffee. Usually this is when the new girl comes in to help our rush time…but apparently she was eaten by a burrito. I’m kind of disappointed in her…”
I was about to apologize when she finished.
“…because everyone knows you’re supposed to eat the burrito—not the other way around.”
We had a stare down—or what would have been a stare down, if Abby could’ve seen my face—before she finally came around the counter and twirled her finger in the universal sign for turn around.
I felt a hard tug on the zipper, but no give. After three tries—and ripping a chunk of my hair from the monster of a uniform—Abby finally got me free and pulled the smelly guacamole hat off my head.
“Oh. Wow. This thing is heavy.” She sniffed it. “And, seriously, how are you not dead from being trapped inside this smell?”
I was too busy pushing the costume off me to answer, just glad to be free. I felt like raising my arms over my head and shouting “It will never take my FRRRREEEEEEDOOOOMMMM!” but figured I’d caused enough of a scene for one day.
“Please tell me you don’t smell like this thing?” Abby put the guacamole head down and stepped back.
I tried to casually sniff myself, but was afraid I’d built up a tolerance to the inside of the suit in a bid to live through the experience.
“Don’t worry.” I put my hands up to ward off any further snark. “I have a change of clothes. Give me three minutes to get clean, and I’ll be right back.”
I rushed through getting cleaned up and changed, before stowing the costume at the far end of the kitchen where we had a little table and chairs by the back door, then headed out front to a smattering of applause.
I glanced at the clock as I rounded the counter—only four minutes late. And, to be honest, I think we could blame that on Abby and her Burrito Plan chatter.
“Good morning, Emily.” Mr. Watson stood there, his umbrella under his arm just like every morning, no matter the weather.
“Hey there, Mr. Watson. Nice day to be out and about.” I gave him my best smile.
Mr. Watson was a retired widower who came in every morning for his coffee and paper, to get out of the house. He didn’t stay. It was as if he still needed a routine to start his day.
“Saw you there in that big wrap thing. Got another job, huh?”
“Yup. But, I think this was a one-day gig. I’m not sure they could pay me enough to get back in that thing.”
“What’s that make it, six?”
“Five. Well, back down to four since I won’t be going back to the Dancing Burrito gig.”
Nothing could get me to risk my personal sanity in that suit...well, short of a full ride with room and board.
I handed Mr. Watson his regular coffee and waved him out the door.
The morning rush was starting to wear thin, the last of the commuters rushing off late to work. Time to restock, then reassess.
I was just thinking I should go make myself more presentable—maybe bathe in the sink or something—when the door pushed open again. I glanced over my shoulder, halfway up from a crouch where’d I’d gone to reach a bunch of cups to restock, when…
Oh no.
He’s here. Mr. Floppy Hair and Gorgeous Hands.
Gorgeous hands.
He’d come in a couple times, starting about two weeks ago, and every time I was just…dumb. I mean, a complete idiot.
Which was the last thing I needed. Boys were off the table for now. Honestly, it wasn’t even about the fact that I had five—no, four—jobs, or that I couldn’t pay my rent or that I was saving to take another course this summer at UMass.
It was more that guys had never been a positive in my life.
Understatement.
No. Guys were…not safe. They derailed and controlled and threatened and needed to be avoided until they were all old enough to have molted and grown into men.
Which, at my ripe age of twenty-three, I knew was not right now.
“This one’s all yours.” Abby the Obvious gave me a smirk. “I’ll be in the kitchen doing…stuff.”
Mr. Floppy Hair wove through the café to the table he always grabbed in the window, pulled out whatever was in that sketchbook of his, and pocketed his phone.
I took a deep breath. He’s just a guy. Just a guy. I had no interest in guys. No matter how scruffily hot they were.
I reached back, grabbing for Abby, hoping we could switch places, when the door opened again and two cops strode right up to the counter, cutting off He of the Gorgeous Hands.
“Hello, Officer. What can I get you?” We had a couple cops come in each day. Mostly with Max—Officer of Cuteness—on their shifts.
“Are you Emily Tavest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss, you’re going to have to come with us.”
“I am?” I wiped my hands on my apron, my stomach turning over with fear.
Cops weren’t high on my To Be Trusted list. Poor Max had worked hard to win me over. I’ll admit, the viral picture of him rescuing a kitten hadn’t hurt.
“We have a report that you stole a two-hundred dollar character costume.”
“Stole?” I echoed. “No. No.”
Abby stepped up behind me, looked at the two cops, and shook her head.
“I really thought we weren’t going to go through any more frivolous arrests with you people. But, I was wrong.” She shrugged. “It happens.”
And, without a word of help, she wandered off, pulling out her cell phone and
turning her back on me.
I tried not to panic, but my history with the police wasn’t exactly a panic-free zone.
“I didn’t steal anything,” I assured them. “I called them. Told them they left me there trapped in the suit and I’d return it tonight when they got back after their dinner shift.”
“Miss, he reported you left the premises with it without permission.”
“I couldn’t get out of it. They left me there, and…” Wait a second. “How did you know where to find me?”
The cop pulled out his little notebook and flipped through some pages. “A Mr. Burgess gave us this address.”
“He only had it because I called him to tell him I had the suit, I was here, and I’d return it after my shift.”
The cop looked at me with a Law & Order squint that said, “Sure, that’s what happened.”
“I have the suit.” I pointed toward the kitchen as if they could see through the wall. “I’ll just give it to you now.”
They glanced at one another, doing some type of covert communication thing I can only imagine they teach you in Advance Copness Class.
“We’ll have to check if that’s acceptable with Mr. Burgess.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I couldn’t help but wonder what the point of not getting his suit back would be.
The cop cleared his throat and gave me A Look. “Clarification: We’ll have to make sure Mr. Burgess doesn’t wish to press charges anymore.”
“What?”
The officer who seemed to be in charge of this train wreck pulled out his little notebook again and dialed a number he had written there.
“Mr. Burgess? This is Officer McIntyre. We have the girl and your suit.”
I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard them—loud and fast—mumbling out of the receiver of the phone.
Officer McIntyre nodded as he listened. When there was finally a slight pause, he jumped in. “I understand, sir.”
Unfortunately for us, that didn’t slow Mr. Burgess down. He just kept ranting. I stood there, waiting, while out of the corner of my eye I watched Mr. Floppy Hair and Gorgeous Hands head back to his table and sit, watching the show but not getting in the way to get his coffee.
Great.
“Mr. Burgess,” Officer McIntyre finally broke in. “I have some questions for you as well… Yes, sir. I understand you’re a busy man… No, sir. The city has absolutely nothing against small business men. That’s kind of what we’re built on, actually…uh-huh. Yes. I hear you.”