Chapter 4: Calling the Shots

“Fine, I agree. You should pay—after all, you’ve gotten more than this from me.” I shook off Jason’s hand.

I felt a cold satisfaction at the look on his face. We both knew what he owed me went far beyond cash. My voice rang out over the low salon music as I dialed 911.

Then I decisively called the cops.

Now both of them were stunned.

Rachel’s jaw dropped, and Jason’s face went pale. The bravado vanished from both of them in a heartbeat.

Jason clearly regretted his outburst and tried to make amends.

He tried to catch my eye, softening his tone as if he could take back his earlier threat. But I wasn’t having it.

After all, he still needed my help with the lab work for his graduation project.

I almost laughed at the irony—he’d always depended on me when it mattered. Now he was about to realize just how much he’d taken for granted.

Without my data, he’d have to delay graduation this year.

If he pissed me off at this point, he’d lose more than he’d gain.

Red and blue lights flashed through the blinds. The officers stepped in, boots squeaking on the tile, one of them eyeing the wall of polish colors like he couldn’t believe this was his Saturday. A middle-aged woman rushed in behind them, her face tight with worry—clearly the owner, back from a parent-teacher conference to find chaos in her shop.

She set her purse down with a thump and shot daggers at Rachel. The officers started asking questions, jotting notes as the story tumbled out.

She glared fiercely at the nail tech, who was still smug, thinking she’d scored a big sale.

But she hadn’t considered that with the shop next to a school, if prices were too high, they’d lose most of their student customers.

It was like missing the forest for the trees.

The lesson was as American as it gets: squeeze your customers and you’ll run yourself out of business.

"Sweetheart, I’m real sorry about this mess. This one’s on the house. Next time you come in, ask for me—I’ll make it right." Her apology was sincere, her Southern drawl softening the blow. She handed me a business card, promising better service next time.

"Ma’am, your management needs a serious fix. I think this trainee shouldn’t work here anymore, right?" I said, looking at Rachel.

The owner nodded, took out her phone, tapped a few times, then glared at Rachel. "Rachel, here’s your pay for today. Take the money and go. Our little shop really can’t keep you."

Rachel clearly didn’t expect things to end this way—she was both angry and unwilling.

She stood frozen for a second, lips trembling, then snatched the cash and stomped out. You could practically hear the door’s little bell shake with indignation.

She tried to argue, but the police officer cut her off: “If you don’t want to leave, come with me. Fraud can get you fined three times the amount, and in serious cases, you can be charged.”

She had no choice but to shut up.

I accepted the owner’s apology and quickly left the nail salon—study hall was about to start.

I hurried across the parking lot, feeling the cool air sting my cheeks. My phone buzzed with messages, but I silenced them all. I had better things to do.