Decisions We Make After Midnight Read online

  Decisions We Make After Midnight

  Rachel Higginson

  Contents

  Follow Me

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Dear reader

  Dear Blogger

  To Everyone Else

  About the Author

  Trailer Park Heart Preview

  Prologue

  Ch.1 Diners, Donuts and Dives

  Copyright@ Rachel Higginson 2021

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights: you are not allowed to give, copy, scan, distribute or sell this book to anyone else.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  Any people or places are strictly fictional and not based on anything else, fictional or non-fictional.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts

  Line Editing by Editing4Indies

  Proofreading by The Proof is in the Reading

  Cover Design by Zach Higginson

  Formatting by Zach Higginson

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  Or join her on TIKTOK @ Rachel_higginson

  To Zach again,

  For never giving up on my dreams,

  And for always knowing everything,

  But especially beer.

  1

  Staring at myself in the dingy bathroom light, I tugged at the flowy trapeze summer dress I’d thrown on before I ran out the door and questioned my life choices. It was hotter than hell outside, but approximately the temperature of an arctic glacier in here. I was freezing and also still kind of sweaty—basically all the emotions simultaneously. Goose bumps pushed my arm hair into standing, and a thin line of sweat dotted my upper lip.

  I was a freaking mess. And ninety-nine percent confident I was going to puke.

  No. No, I wasn’t. I could do this. I could handle a job interview. Despite all the skin I was showing, which was a total accident and completely unprofessional when it came to job hunting, I could survive one interview.

  Maybe.

  No, for real. I could. I had to.

  It was sink or swim time. And since I was already drowning in a mountain of bad decisions and failure, how much worse could it get?

  I shouldn’t have asked that question.

  Wishing for a cardigan to cover my bare arms—and back and legs and shoulders and everything but the important bits, which were already, thankfully, clothed—I left the safety of the bathroom and stepped into the main part of the bar, where I had expected to simply drop off my application . . . and hope they lost it. The pretty and super intimidating manager waited patiently for me at a small table near the impressive blue double front doors sandwiched between two massive garage door windows, where natural light streamed through and gave the real wood floor a golden glow.

  Her badass, platinum-blond pixie-cut and full sleeves of tattoos made my knees knock together nervously, but her smile was gentle enough that I managed to wobble my way to the chair across from her. She was the kind of intimidating that mixed Queen B and Rebel Without a Cause into one whole, small-but-scary person.

  She kept her smile, but her blue eyes squinted with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Nervous,” I wheezed. “I’m terrible at interviews, and I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”

  “You’re serious?” I nodded. Her head tipped back as she let out a musical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

  I swallowed down the urge to puke again. “I am.”

  She must have noticed the green tinge to my skin because she stopped laughing long enough to pat my hand from across the table. “What’s your name again?”

  “Lo,” I told her, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. “Er, Lola Ellis. But everyone calls me Lo.”

  “I’m Ada Kelly,” she responded smoothly. “And you genuinely have nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t call this an interview so much as when can you start?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “The job,” she repeated slower. “When can you start?”

  “What job?”

  “What do you mean, what job? You dropped off an application, right?” She looked at the paper in question, her eyes quickly scanning over the penciled-in blanks. “You handed this in because you want to work here, right?”

  “Sorry, yeah, I mean, there were several open positions. Which job are you hiring me for?”

  Her gaze dropped to the blank boxes. “You can cook?”

  “Uh, no.”

  She mumbled through the other responses, “Have you waitressed before?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “How about hostess?”

  I shook my head and pressed my lips together.

  Her eyes flicked back to mine. “What about bartending?”

  “Not, um, professionally.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve just, you know, dabbled in my own kitchen.” I pretended not to notice her grimace at my bold claim. “Mostly, I can open a bottle of wine.”

  She managed to compose her expression into stunned confusion. “So, wait, you’ve never worked in a bar before?”

  Her amusement with my application jangled my nerves, making nausea roil through me. Sweat broke out along my hairline, and I brushed at it with the back of my hand, pretending to smooth my flyaway curly honey-blond hair. But just beneath the anxiety was something stronger—that sickly feeling of not getting the job. Of having to face the hole I’d dug myself into. What was worse than getting a minimum wage bartending gig that I didn’t even want?

  Not getting it.

  I pushed forward and grappled for confidence. “Not exactly. But I’ve been to bars. Like a lot of bars. So, I know how they work . . . kind of. I’m a hard worker. I arrive on time. I can follow directions. I do well under pressure.” Unless I was being interviewed . . . “I’m a quick learner. And I—”

  “And you clearly need this job.” At my confused look, she explained, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Nobody wants this job. But especially someone with other options.”

  “Oh, I don’t have other options—" That wasn’t exactly true, and I could tell Ada didn’t believe me.

  Slam.

  Shouting burst through the quiet, mostly empty bar, from the hallway where I’d gone to the bathroom earlier. Ada groaned and tucked my application under the table. She was so smooth I wouldn’t have noticed if
my adrenaline hadn’t already been at Level Ten and pumping awareness through every vein in my body with the tenderness of a fire hose at full strength.

  “Then you can go to hell!” a man’s deep voice boomed over the commotion. He stepped into the light, and I was surprised to find a good-looking hipster maybe a few years older than me. He wore dark denim jeans, a white short-sleeved button-up shirt that hugged his lean frame thanks to striped suspenders, and black-rimmed glasses. His hair was shaved on the sides and swooped purposely on top. His high cheekbones were tinged with color, and his eyebrows scrunched together in fury. He was unfairly handsome for how angry he was. And totally focused with his rage because he didn’t seem to notice us at all.

  A woman chased him into the bar proper. She wore super wide-legged white trousers and a cropped emerald ruffled blouse revealing a sliver of abs I only dreamed about and tragically tried to magically manifest with tacos and margaritas. Her wavy black hair hit the middle of her back, dancing over her shoulders, and tangling in her clanking wrist bangles when she tried to brush it away from her stunning face. “Real nice, Charlie. Why don’t you just throw our money into a trash can and light it on fire?”

  I was so stunned by the argument, by their sharp vehemence of each other, that all I could do was turn in my chair and watch it unfold. I’d been raised with better manners than that, but I couldn’t look away. Maybe it was because I was equally surprised to be sitting in a bar in Durham, North Carolina, when I was supposed to be on my way to Florida that very moment. Or maybe because the bar was totally empty at nine in the morning, so I felt like I was a very captive audience of one. Or maybe just because these people were shockingly beautiful and so very angry.

  Ada had dropped her face into her hands because she couldn’t bear to watch. I could hear her muttering to herself, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. It was obvious these people were just seconds from ripping each other’s throats out. And I had a front-row seat to the carnage.

  Charlie snarled back, switching his approach from righteous indignation to annoyed disdain. “Don’t be so dramatic, Eliza. It wasn’t anything as bad as that. She didn’t do any lasting damage. We barely noticed. If it wasn’t for—”

  “Both of you need to chill out,” a new man growled, notching up the tension in the room by at least twenty degrees.

  He walked into the room, and I thought my mouth might have dropped open for a second. He was clearly related to the first man. Their features were too similar not to be connected by blood. Although he was taller than the one called Charlie and more muscular. Distractingly so. Which I only knew because his loose black T-shirt was tight over his chiseled biceps. Maybe too tight. Maybe unfairly tight. But maybe he’d just come from working out? If his loose athletic shorts and running shoes were any indication.

  But seriously, who had biceps that chiseled?

  Apparently, he wasn’t as into tacos and margaritas as I was.

  Poor man.

  “Yelling at each other isn’t going to get us anywhere.” The new guy shot a murderous glare at Charlie. “It’s certainly not going to get our money back.”

  The other two rolled their eyes in unison. “I guess you would know all about that, Will,” Charlie snarled. “Yelling is what got us into this mess in the first place.”

  “You’re the one who hired her!” Will—losing that careful control half a second later—shouted, forsaking his own advice.

  “And you fired her!” Charlie shouted back.

  Eliza jumped in, punching Charlie in the shoulder. Hard. “She was stealing from us, you idiot!”

  Charlie took a step back and wagged a finger between Eliza and Will. “You can’t prove that.” He swallowed thickly, and I wondered if it was to grab some courage before he added, “It could still be an accounting error. Greg said he’d double-check for us.”

  Will crossed his arms in challenge. “You really are an idiot.”

  It was at this moment the three of them decided to notice Ada and me. Their gazes moved in unison to the table we occupied. Me, wide-eyed and transfixed on their squabble while Ada cursed into her hands.

  “Ada,” Will snapped, her name clipped and precise, “your friend needs to get out.”

  “Not my friend.” She slammed the application onto the table. “But I’m sure she’d love to get out after that freak show.”

  Will’s eyes slid to me, narrowed, skeptical. “Why are you here then?”

  It wasn’t just Will’s attention, but everyone’s eyes, all on me. Their argument hung in the air, choking the atmosphere, and stifling the gentle summer breeze floating in from outside. Ada was right. I did want to leave. I wanted to grab the application from her hand and sprint out the front door. I’d burn it in effigy as soon as I cleared the corner—for thinking I could make it on my own, for trying something different for once, for thinking I deserved a five-minute break from the bullshit . . . But I had better manners than to flee at the first sign of awkwardness. So I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and explained meekly, “I-I just dropped off my application. This morning. Er, like ten minutes ago. Ada was . . . interviewing me for . . . a position.”

  Charlie snorted a derisive sound. “Why the hell would you want to work here? Obviously, this is a shit show.”

  Clearly, his question was facetious, but everyone remained quiet, waiting for my answer. “I . . . ” Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed the words out between clenched teeth, “Need a job.” An answer they could have reached by themselves. But I couldn’t stop myself now. “I really need a job.”

  Will raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever stolen anything before?”

  My mouth went dry—not from guilt but from fear. This guy was seriously terrifying. His broad shoulders bunched up around his sharp jawline, his toned arms crossed over his chest. He glared at me like I was the reason he was so pissed off, and I reacted to his shade in the most normal way ever—sweating palms, roiling nausea, clocking the nearest exit. “A handful of hard candies at a checkout,” I admitted honestly, “when I was like seven. My mom made me take them back to the store and apologize to the cashier. The experience was so traumatizing I’ve never repeated it.”

  Will’s jaw tightened as if he was thinking about calling the cops on me anyway. “What about your bosses? Do you tend to sleep with them?”

  Eliza and Charlie burst to my defense. Even Ada jumped to her feet, waving her arms and shouting back at him. Their outrage on my behalf was so overwhelming I forgot to be angry too.

  “Come on, Will, you can’t be serious!” Eliza shouted at him.

  “One time!” Charlie was saying. “One time and nobody is ever going to let me live it down!”

  “That’s enough!” Ada shouted at all three of them. “You three are a MESS. And the reason we can’t ever hire anyone normal.” She thrust her arm toward the hallway. “Go away!”

  Charlie cracked a smile for the first time. The mischievous look on his face happened so fast, my neck hurt from his sudden shift in demeanor. “Did you just tell us to go away, Ada?”

  “Yes,” she hissed. “It’s hard to do my job when y’all are screaming at each other and throwing around insane accusations. Don’t you also find it hard to do your jobs when you’re acting like complete assholes?”

  Eliza threw her hands up in the air and emphatically agreed, “Yes.”

  Charlie, apparently over his anger altogether now, grinned at Eliza. “You were shopping. That’s not working.”

  “For new bathroom paper towel dispensers. Ugh, you’re so annoying.” Eliza stomped off toward the dark hallway again. Charlie hurried after her.

  “But you love me anyway!” he called. Neither of them waited for Will.

  Will didn’t follow them, though, because his focus was still totally on me. “When can you start?”

  As if I was going to work here after all that. I was totally intimidated by the bad vibes he was throwing my way. I was generally a nice person. People didn’t usually have issues wi
th me because I didn’t cause problems. I fixed problems. I had done nothing to this guy, and he’d already accused me of being a thief and a slut. I was already over him. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “Will English,” he clipped out in that same tone he’d used with Ada.

  “He’s the owner,” Ada filled in.

  “Along with my siblings,” he added, jerking his chin toward the hallway.

  My mouth formed an O. The three of them were siblings. That explained the yelling, punching, and name-calling. “I-I don’t know,” I stammered for the second time. “I have to check my schedule.” It was a lie and a lame excuse, but I didn’t want him to yell at me when I told him I would rather work anywhere else but here. Well, almost anywhere else. These people were crazy. “I wasn’t actually expecting an interview today. I just stopped by to drop off my application.”

  He nodded at Ada, an understanding passing between them. “You can start tomorrow,” he said decisively. “Wear black.” He turned around but then seemed to think better of it. “Something that covers”—he gestured to his upper body—“more of you.”

  My cheeks flamed red at his insinuation, and it was all I could do not to run after him and kick him in the shins.

  Ada’s voice took on a sympathetic tone as soon as he disappeared. “He’s an asshole. I’m so sorry.”

  The chair scraped across the floor as I pushed away from the table. “Obviously.”