For The Plot

Shell Bell & Chill

Friday, October 12th

I'm at my trash job—Shell Bell. A bootleg taco joint that wishes it could compete with that place with the bell in the logo. Baby, we're not even in the same dimension.
It's closing time, and I'm cooked. Eight hours of non-stop orders. Feet screaming, back aching, edges frizzing. I'm standing behind the register in my crusty non-slip shoes, counting the drawer and mentally revisiting every life choice that led me here.
Side note: I should not have majored in Communications.
I went to Sutgers University, and you couldn't tell me nothing back then. I thought I was gonna have a cute little office job, making real money, maybe with a title like "Strategic Media Liaison" or "Digital Comms Director." Now? I'm out here in Elizabeth, New Jersey, pushing tacos under flickering fluorescent lights with a degree that can't get me anything but vibes and debt.
Sal Rae's—the loan company I owe my soul to—calls me every other week talking about "new repayment options." Girl, I don't have old repayment options. The only thing I'm paying off right now is stress.
It was either this job or working at Forestzon, and let me tell you right now—I'm not hauling boxes for 12 hours in steel-toe boots just so a robot can tell me I'm inefficient. Not today. Not ever.

Anyway, I'm closing the register when I hear a loud-ass car pull up outside. Like VROOOOM shotgun-rumble loud. Shaking-the-windows loud.
But I ignore it. Because my coworker Jayden was supposed to lock the doors twenty minutes ago.
Jayden is seventeen, still in high school, lanky as hell with a big-ass afro he refuses to tame. He wears anime hoodies and dirty white Crocs with no socks, and he constantly smells like weed, Axe, and teen decisions. But he's like my little brother. Annoying? Yes. Lovable? Unfortunately, also yes.

Suddenly—the door opens.
I look up—and boom.
The most disgustingly fine man I have ever seen in real life walks in.
Olive-tan skin, piercing blue eyes that look like they come with trauma, and thick lashes that belong on a mascara commercial. He's got that popular curly taper haircut—thick chestnut curls perfectly defined, faded on the sides, and a lineup so sharp I almost flinched.
He's tall—like TV drama male lead tall—at least 6'4". Lean, muscular, dressed in a black button-up with three buttons undone (God bless), black designer jeans, shiny leather shoes, and a gold chain that rests against his perfect collarbones. His diamond-studded watch and the single diamond stud in his ear glint like they know they're expensive.
I blink twice. Because what is that doing in here?
This man looked like he belonged in a magazine, or a GQ mafia edition, not in Shell Bell—where the floors are sticky, the nacho cheese is suspicious, and our ice machine hasn't worked since February.

He walks toward the counter.
"We're closed," I say flatly. I don't care how fine you are. Closed is closed.
He just smiles. And Lord help me, those teeth were white, straight, and clearly insured.
He doesn't say anything at first.
My face is straight.
I open my mouth to tell him to get gone, but then he finally speaks.
"I know you're closed," he says, voice deep and velvety smooth, with just the right amount of accent.
I tell him again, I fold my arms. "Look, mister, we're closed. It's over. Go home."
He tilts his head, amused. "You're funny. I like that."
He takes a step closer, his voice dropping low and confident. I glance down, feeling the heat from those piercing blue eyes. My stomach does a weird flip, but I keep it together.
He smiles—that kind of smile that makes me question my entire life. "A night out. Dinner. My treat. You deserve a break—and I'm a man who always delivers."
I want to say no. I want to tell him to get lost. But damn, there's something about the way he stands—the confidence in his every move, like he's used to getting exactly what he wants. It's not just charm. It's... a little terrifying.
I catch a whiff of cedarwood mixed with something a lot more dangerous. My nerves are starting to rattle, but I keep my face as neutral as I can.
He leans in just a little closer, his voice softer now, like the whole world is watching. "Tell me your name."
I blink, and I'm this close to saying something stupid. But then it hits me. "Grace." Fake name. Obviously. Thank God I don't have my name tag on.
He raises a brow, like he knows something's off, but he doesn't press it. "Grace, huh? Nice to meet you." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, handing it over like I'm supposed to be honored by this. "Give me your number."
I hesitate for a moment, and then—well, no way am I giving him my real number. I fish out my phone and plug in the number I've set up for shady situations like this—Poodle Voice, a disposable number I can toss if needed.
He punches it in quickly, nodding like he's impressed. "Smart."
"By the way," he says, sliding his phone back toward me, "I'm Sergio."
I glance at the screen, and his name flashes in bold letters. It feels... like I should probably not be here, like I'm in over my head. But I can't exactly back out now, can I?
I take a breath, trying to sound as cool as possible, which is a challenge when your heart is trying to escape your chest. "Fine," I say, keeping my voice steady, "but this doesn't mean I'm interested."