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  CARRYING HOPE

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Red Lily Publishing

  Copyright © 2014 by Sennah Tate

  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 to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents:

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon from Sennah Tate…

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  My hands shook as I dialed the number. A fresh wave of nausea came over me and I clutched my stomach, dashing to the bathroom. The phone rang and rang with no answer. My insides churned and I expelled the remnants of my breakfast into the toilet. The phone rang again.

  “Sal’s Diner,” a gruff old man answered, sounding distracted.

  “Sal, it’s me, Marcie,” I croaked, trying to sound less pathetic than I felt.

  “Where the hell are you? You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

  I cringed. My boss Sal Martucci was known for many things, but lenience wasn’t one of them. My auburn hair was plastered to my damp forehead and my stomach gurgled again.

  “I know. Look, I think I have food poisoning or something, I don’t think I can make it in.” I’d dreaded making the call. It wouldn’t matter to Sal if I was on my deathbed. There were no excused absences from the diner.

  “I don’t want to hear it. You either come in or I’ll give your job to someone else.”

  The line went dead and I realized there was no hope of arguing my case. I felt horrible and I didn’t know if I would be able to make it through an entire shift, but I had to try.

  I stood up slowly, hoping to tamp down the rising tide of bile. I’d never felt this awful in my entire life. The mirror painted a grim picture: a grayish pallor to my skin, dark circles under my eyes and a fine sheen of sweat to top it all off. I looked like I belonged in a quarantine ward, not serving people food in the diner.

  Regardless, I had to go to work. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. My boyfriend Kevin and I barely made ends meet as it was. Missing a day of work would hurt, but losing my job entirely would be a disaster. I just needed to suck it up, push through it and baby myself when I got home.

  I splashed cold water on my face in hopes of bringing some life back to my complexion. My skin felt feverish and I wanted to just dunk my head in the sink.

  My phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID: Sal.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said after answering the call. I grabbed my purse and my keys and headed toward the door.

  “You have ten minutes,” he answered, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

  “I’m heading out the door right now.”

  Being employed at Sal’s certainly wasn’t my ideal situation. Working under a sixty-five year old Italian’s dictatorship isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy. Sal pushed his employees; we worked long hard hours for minimum pay and zero thanks. If I had another option, I would’ve taken it years ago.

  I cursed my luck as I flew through the back door to the kitchen and peeked out front: in three years I’d never seen the dining room so full. Of course that would happen on the day that I felt like death warmed over.

  Bernie, the cook, took one look at me and frowned.

  “You don’t look so good, chica,” he said in his thick Cuban accent.

  “Believe me, I feel worse than I look,” I griped, tying my apron strings around my waist.

  He made the sign of the cross at me.

  “Whatever plague you have, keep it away from me.” He meant it playfully, but I didn’t have the energy to play along today.

  I rolled my eyes, giving him a half-hearted smile.

  “If Fidel couldn’t get you, I don’t think a stomach bug will.”

  I heard his laughter echoing in the kitchen as I hurried out to the front counter.

  “I’m here, Sal!”

  The balding man eyed me up and down with a scowl.

  “You look terrible.”

  “I told you I didn’t feel…”

  “Who’s going to want to eat when you’re bringing them their food?”

  I frowned, not knowing what the right words were to get me out of this awkward situation.

  “I’m sorry… I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

  He threw his hands up in exasperation.

  “Just go take that table’s order.”

  Frustration gnawed at me. He acted like I was the most useless employee. How was it my fault that I was sick? It didn’t matter; I was good at my job and I’d still be good at it feeling like shit.

  I plastered my best fake smile on my face and pulled out my ticket book as I approached the table.

  “Hi, welcome to Sal’s. My name’s Marcie, can I start you off with some coffee or juice?”

  The morning went by in a blur. I was here and there and everywhere. Taking orders, busing tables, delivering food and cashing customers out; I did it all. As the day wore on, I started to feel better, though Sal kept getting on my case about stupid little things.

  It was near the end of my shift and I only had forty dollars to show for all of my hard work. I realized one of my tables had been waiting for their food for nearly twenty minutes and went back to the kitchen to check on it.

  “Hey Bernie, do you have that chicken a la king and Salisbury steak for me?”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have a ticket for those.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. Surely he was pulling my leg. I distinctly remembered punching the order into the computer right after taking it.

  Then again, our computers weren’t exactly reliable. Sal was a cheap old bastard and never bothered to upgrade our systems. When I first started, we didn’t even have computers. A few months later, Sal bought a few from a restaurant that was going out of business. Someone convinced him that bringing the diner into the 21st century was going to save him money. If there’s one thing Sal loved, it was saving money.

  So we had these terrible old computers that froze at least twice a day and our printers only worked about fifty percent of the time. Typically, Bernie was on top of it all. During the breakfast rush, I normally just called orders out to him and then put them in the computer for the customer’s check.

  Today, Sal had an extra stick up his ass, so he got on to me about shouting orders out (”If I wanted to listen to a woman scream in my ear all day I’d be at home with my wife!”) and I was forced to rely on our ancient computers.

  Surprisingly, the antiquated machine had been cooperative
all day, so I hadn’t even thought to verify that my order made it to the kitchen.

  I glanced back to my table and noticed that they were getting restless. I sighed, knowing there was no way that I was going to get a tip after this.

  “Okay, Bernie, I need you to do me a solid and get those out ASAP. They’ve already been waiting for twenty minutes.”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows at me and clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

  “I’ll do it for you Marcie, but you know if Il Duce finds out…” he drew his thumb across his throat menacingly.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I groaned, trying to figure a way out of this mess. With a massive sigh, I decided it was best to just come clean with the customers and hope that they’d understand.

  Hearing a death march in my head I walked over to the table.

  “Hi guys. I’m really sorry about the wait. There was a little mix-up in the kitchen, but the cook is putting a rush on your food to get it out right away. Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”

  I was met with blank stares. They were a younger couple, probably around my age: mid-twenties or so. They both had an “alternative” look, tattoos, piercings, leather and spiky hair. Working as a waitress taught me to both ignore and embrace stereotypes. There was always someone to prove the stereotype, but there was also always someone to disprove it. I really hoped these two would be the latter.

  The girl turned her heavily lined eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

  “Can’t you like, give us a discount or something?”

  My heart dropped; that would mean getting the override from Sal. I would have to tell him what happened.

  The man reached out to grab her hand; his knuckles were emblazoned with the word PAIN in big bold letters.

  “No, that’s all right. We don’t want to get the nice lady in trouble.”

  I almost couldn’t believe my ears. There was no way I could be this lucky.

  “A-are you sure?” I stammered, wondering if I was pushing my luck. The couple exchanged a look; she obviously didn’t agree with his choice, but his answering glare made her hold her tongue.

  “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you,” he finally responded.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and went back to pester Bernie again.

  “That was the coolest customer ever,” I gushed with a grin. My day definitely started off rocky, but I was glad it seemed to be improving.

  “He looks pretty scary to me,” he replied, crossing himself.

  “Well, that just goes to show you, you can’t judge a book by its cover,” I teased, my mood lifting.

  A few minutes later I served their food and left the check with them to finish up my duties before the next shift took over. I spent about ten minutes rolling silverware before I went to check on them again. I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw the table was empty.

  Maybe they left the money on the table and didn’t need change. Customers did that all the time. As I got closer, I could tell there was no money on the table.

  “Hey, Sal? Did that couple cash out with you?” The old man was wiping the counter down. He looked at me like he was surprised I was still there and then scowled.

  “What couple?”

  “Shit. I think my table just walked out on me.” I started picking up their dishes, cursing myself for not watching them more closely.

  “Their check is coming out of your tips,” he growled.

  “The hell it is! They only walked out because your crappy computer system didn’t get their order to the kitchen,” I felt my face flush with anger. My heart beat wildly in my ears; I’d been stepped on too often for too long by Sal. I was not going to lose half of my day’s wages over an honest mistake.

  “And how long did you wait to check on it? You should know if the bread doesn’t come out in four or five minutes that you need to check on the kitchen.”

  “That’s so not the point,” I felt my resolve slipping. He’d somehow turned this around to make it my fault.

  “No, the point is that you’ve demonstrated today that you can’t do this job. Go home and don’t come back.”

  I stared at him wide-eyed in shock. Sal was a jerk to everyone. Everyone just took it. Things got heated in restaurants all the time; tempers flared in high temperatures and most restaurant people had short fuses to begin with. It wasn’t unheard of for employees and bosses to fight, but I couldn’t believe he’d really just fired me.

  “Are you serious?” My voice was barely a whisper. I felt nauseous again. I thought about how I would tell Kevin that I’d lost my job. He already complained that I didn’t bring in as much as his construction job.

  “Get out. You’re fired.”

  Bernie dipped his head down to the window to lock gazes with me. I understood his silent plea: I’m sorry, but I can’t lose my job too. I nodded at him, letting him know it was okay.

  I ripped my apron off and slammed it and my ticket book on the counter. I didn’t have the words to tell Sal how much I loathed him. I could think of a few choice four-letter words, but I decided to keep my dignity.

  I left the diner in a daze. I lost my job. How was I going to tell my boyfriend? I thought about the forty dollars in my pocket and I pushed back the urge to fall into old bad habits. I knew I could turn that forty into four thousand if given the chance. But I promised my grandmother I would stop gambling.

  In high school, I was awkward, overweight and nerdy. It was a bad combination for a teenage girl who only ever wanted to be accepted. When my dad lost his job and my mom left, we were struggling to even eat every day. I can remember going to school in dirty ripped clothes, wearing my dad’s oversized flannel shirts and beat up sneakers that were too big for me. It wasn’t a look that made me popular with boys and other girls only made snarky remarks behind my back.

  As time wore on, the comments that were once snide whispers as I passed became outright taunts. I was teased about being poor, about being fat, about my mom abandoning us and about my dad’s growing problem with alcohol. Desperate for a way to make money, I started to hang out with a bad crowd.

  At first I was doing any kind of job they’d toss my way, mostly I was a lookout for their illicit activities. Sometimes I would make a delivery, sometimes I only delivered a message, but as the weeks went by I wanted to do more. Plenty of the guys I associated with told me how much money I would make selling my body, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There were times when my stomach was grumbling and I was shivering because our gas had been turned off that I considered it. I’m not ashamed to admit that. I’m very glad that I never fell that far.

  I realized that I could use my nerdiness to my advantage if I could trick people out of their money. It started off small; alley games of three card Monte led to alley games of dice, which in turn led me into a dark seedy bar tucked away in a bad neighborhood.

  In the basement of that bar, behind the cooler where they kept the kegs, was a secret room. Entrance to this secret room wasn’t granted easily. Someone had to vouch for you or you had to have five thousand dollars in cash. For some people, you had to have both.

  The men that played poker in that secret room were not the kind of men that you wanted to mess around with. Drug dealers, human traffickers and gangsters were only the tip of the iceberg. I wasn’t scared though, I knew I could win.

  I only had to get in.

  So I got my very first job waitressing at that bar. While I tried to ingratiate myself with the patrons and staff, I spent my nights learning how to count cards. I got very good at it.

  By that time, my dad was so far into the bottle that he didn’t notice the report cards stopped coming and the calls from school never made it to him. I took the little bit of money I’d stashed away from my job and tried to get into that back room.

  Of course, no one wanted to let a seventeen year old girl into their exclusive criminal gambling ring. The owner of the place laughed in my face and told me that I’d have to follow the same rules
as anyone else: have someone vouch for me or pay up.

  Vouching for someone was a big deal. If you spoke for someone to get in and they ran up a debt and couldn’t pay, the club was going to come after you. I tried to plead my case to anyone that would listen, but those people were few and far between and no one took my bait.

  Then, I did something stupid.

  I approached the owner with my plan. I told him that I would win, guaranteed. I offered him a cut of my winnings if he let me in. Being a business man, he accepted my offer and the next thing I knew I was sitting at the table surrounded by a group of men that all had rap sheets longer than my arm.

  With a lump in my throat and hands shaking with nerves, I bought in to the table. For the next three hours I managed to hustle every last one of them out of their money. Though I was very good at counting the cards, I wasn’t very good at hiding my technique. Eventually they caught on and complained to the owner, not knowing he was in on the scheme. He made a big show of kicking me out and confiscated all of my winnings.

  He later gave me a cut, though it was smaller than what we’d agreed on, and told me to scram. That cut was enough to buy my way into a different gambling hall where I honed my skills to near perfection.

  I didn’t have any kind of malicious intent for the money. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to live in a house that wasn’t infested with vermin. I just wanted a normal life. But winning was addictive. I felt powerful and in control. I’d never felt like that any other time in my life.

  Somehow or another, my grandmother learned about what I was doing and confronted me. She was the only family that I had left really, and I loved her dearly. Still, I didn’t take kindly to my Nana butting into my business. I’d made tens of thousands of dollars in only a couple of months. I was sure that I had control over everything.

  In another six months I was broke. Even worse than that, I’d racked up a debt of over forty thousand dollars and my creditors were coming to collect. I pleaded with my Nana to loan me some money. Just enough to buy in. I swore I could win enough to cover my debts. Eventually, she caved and gave me five thousand dollars from her savings, making me promise that I would never gamble again after that.