else? Why did every other female think he was the Swedish Johnny Depp? It was making Heathen re-think her decision, and she didn’t like that, because, as appealing as Dag was, Heathen didn’t want to want someone who thought the way the Hero of the Teeming Masses thought. If it was even him, which she still didn’t entirely believe. If he wasn’t the Hero, then maybe it was okay to be attracted to him, but now she’d probably missed her chance. And then there was Mohammed. Heathen knew there was something there, if only he would just move on it.
Heathen finished up in the bathroom every bit as conflicted as before.
The next day, they were all on again. At the end of shift, Heathen was still at her locker when Dag and Maria came back to get their jackets. When Maria took off her apron, she was wearing some pretty non-standard blacks—low-rise jeans way below her hipbones and a crop top that couldn’t help but show a significant strip of her belly. Mohammed wouldn’t have allowed it if he’d been in today. Heathen couldn’t help but notice how Maria was loitering around, trying to catch Dag’s eye. She got both of them, and he wasn’t any subtler about noticing Maria’s getup. No hardbody, Maria’s was a soft, squishy middle, probably from a few too many whipped cream indulgences on shift. Dag said something to her that Heathen couldn’t hear. Maria’s eyes widened, and she grabbed her coat and quickly scuttled out of the back area. Heathen was impressed at the abruptness of the brush-off.
She stuffed her own apron in the hamper and put her jacket on, feeling a bit vindicated. So, maybe being a soft girly girl wasn’t everything after all. Turning to leave, she saw Maria, back at Dag’s locker again. Grinning, she was showing him that she’d cached the spare stainless steel whipped cream dispenser under her jacket. “It’s cold,” she said with a giggle.
Dag led her out. “I’ll warm you up.”
Heathen shut her locker with a slam.
Eight
Mohammed was counting on the day, before too long, when he would leave the corporate yoke behind to open an independent coffee shop, Iraqi-style, with a cozy, earthy atmosphere, woven wall hangings muffling outside sounds and the mud-thick, bitter coffee he knew from home. Of all the chains, BlackArts had the reputation for the bitterest beverage, which is why he’d gravitated to it to earn his investment, but it was a pale shadow of what he made himself at home. He had enough money saved now to start his own place, but the political climate wasn’t quite right yet. Another couple of years, after the Olympics, and all the paranoia masquerading as security awareness would be on the wane. For a little while longer, Mohammed would have to be a reluctant slave to the BlackArts oppressors as much as the frontline types he supervised.
Mohammed had talked to Heathen the night before and warned her to be nice to Dag when he came in. He got in himself half an hour after their morning shift had started and called Dag into the back office. Dag followed him in, looking set for trouble, no doubt having rehearsed the “what I do with my own time is my own business” speech. Which was pretty much true. But despite the fact that Heathen had finked on him, Mohammed wasn’t there to play hardball over that. No, Dag was about to be blindsided by something he hadn’t anticipated at all, and it wasn’t going to be easy for Mohammed to crap all over his favourite employee.
“I wanted to tell you myself,” Mohammed said when Dag was sitting. He didn’t mince words. “Heather’s been made a shift supervisor.”
Dag’s face was stunned. “What the fuck? Is this a joke, Mo?”
“We need one. Derek’s quitting.”
“How could you do that?” He sounded really hurt.
“BlackArts doesn’t have to justify its personnel decisions to you,” Mohammed said, hating how it came out. It sucked being the boss when you had to parrot head office drivel.
“If you didn’t think that,” Dag said, “you wouldn’t have had me come in here to break it to me. Why should she be a shift and not me?”
Mohammed sighed, ready with the stock answers. “Heather’s got seniority. She’s been here nearly two years. You’re barely off probation.”
“This is totally bogus, and you know it.”
“No, it’s not,” Mo said, but now he was feeling defensive.
“I do more hours here than anybody,” Dag said. “I do more hours than any two other servers combined, I bet. In fact,” he was on a roll now, “I’ve done more of Heathen’s hours since I started than she has, plus my own. She’s barely ever here.” Mohammed didn’t have a ready reply for that. “And why couldn’t she tell me about this?”
Mohammed knew Dag knew the answer to that already. “Because we thought you might have a problem with it,” he said as gently as he could, “and it looks like we were right.”
“We?” Dag said. “Was Heathen too chicken to tell me herself, because she knows she doesn’t deserve it? Of course I have a problem with it!” he went on. Mohammed had never seen Dag pissed off before. “I’m the best worker you have! I can make the drinks quicker—and I can make them right. Were you aware that a bunch of your other stellar staff got together to give me a fucking intervention a week ago to tell me not to work so hard, because it was showing the rest of them up?”
Mohammed definitely did not know that and made a mental note to look into it. But he had his own counter. “Dag,” he said, “try and look at the big picture. This promotion means a little extra money for Heather. We’re helping to support an amateur athlete. They don’t have it easy, trying to make ends meet.”
Dag just glared for a second. “Oh, man,” he shook his head, “you couldn’t have picked a wronger thing to say, or a wronger guy to say it to.” His voice rose. “Why don’t you just write ‘Loser’ on my fucking apron?” he said. “I think maybe there’s also room for ‘That’s what you get for giving up your sport and daring to find gainful employment.’ Because what you’re saying,” Dag went on slowly and carefully, “is that you know she doesn’t deserve this on merit, but the company wants to throw her a bone based on something else she does—that she already gets separate recognition for—that isn’t even work-related! What the hell kind of rationale is that?” He was just about shouting now. Mohammed knew he had a point and didn’t cut him off. Dag should at least be allowed to get it out of his system. “Heathen’s got sponsorship deals and coaching gigs and prize money and other sources of income the higher she goes up that ladder! She chooses to do something else that takes her out of an hourly wage half the time, and you want to reward her for it? This is my only job! Does it occur to anyone that people like me don’t have it easy, making it on this paycheque!” Dag finished loud, and there was an uncomfortable silence in the little back room when he stopped.
Mohammed let Dag catch his breath before he asked, “Did you leave here last night with a whipped cream dispenser?” It was a low blow, but his only defense.
Dag looked stunned. “Well,” he said after a second’s pause, “I’m glad to see Heathen ratted on me, and not Maria. You see anything missing this morning?” he added.
Mohammed hated doing this. “And did you throw a mug across the store yesterday?” It was like pulling wings off a fly, but he had to address it.
Dag sat back in his chair, like he was loading up ammunition. “Heathen should really know better than to start up a holier-than-thou campaign.” But Mohammed had worked his way up from barista himself—he knew about the free espresso shots the servers took, and the extra-long breaks, but there’d always been an honour-among-junior-staff code in the shop as regards the odd freebie, and slacking off. Having already promoted Heathen, Mohammed couldn’t claw it back now, no matter what Dag said, or how much Mohammed appreciated his work ethic. And, abrasive as she could be, Mohammed liked Heathen, too.
“Did you?” Mohammed asked.
“I tripped,” Dag said, and they both knew how unconvincing it sounded. Dag moved like a cat around the shop, sure and confident