in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen. That’s when my blood turns to magma.
I slam my hands on top of the metal countertop. “Listen the hell up!”
My shout silences every last one of the vloggers. The high schooler looks on with a shocked expression and mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”
“My personal life isn’t up for discussion. I’m also not interested in name-dropping any of you in a commercial when you’ve been harassing me and my customers every day since the festival. I’m here to cook and serve food, and you goddamn piranhas are crowding around my truck, making it impossible for my mother and me to serve our customers. Either get the hell out of the way so my customers can order, or else.”
There’s silence, followed by soft mutters. A scrawny white guy in the back of the crowd tucks his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms, stubborn written across his frown. “Or else what?”
Leaning my head back, I puff out all the hot air pent up in my body. He’s the pissant who asked about Callum’s bedroom performance. I swipe a bottle of lemon-lime soda from the counter and give it a dozen of the most violent shakes I can manage. I stomp out of the truck and up to the offending vlogger.
Even when I’m standing two inches from him, he has the audacity to smirk. But when I twist off the cap, a stream of soda smashes him square in the face. My frustration dissipates with each violent burst of carbonated liquid.
Stumbling back, he heaves a breath, then coughs. He wrings his hands, then rubs his eyes. “You have—you have no right!” he sputters.
I can’t help but laugh, then turn around to the other vloggers. They all stand with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Slowly, they back away from the spectacle I’ve created, their gazes locked on me the entire time. It’s like I’m some wild animal they’ve been warned about.
Slowly walk away! No sudden movements! If you’re not careful, she’ll assault you with carbonated beverages!
The offending vlogger wipes the moisture off his face with his arm. “That’s assault! I’ll call the police on you!”
I step forward so far into his space, he stumbles backward. Good. He’s been in my space—on my food truck turf every day, acting like an entitled and rude asshole. It’s time he gets a taste of his own medicine.
“And tell them what?” I bark back. “That you’ve been harassing me and my customers all morning—all week actually? Please do. You’ll save me the trouble of picking up the phone. I was going to report you to them anyway.”
Mrs. Tokushige walks up next to me, the look on her face something between determined and ferocious. “He elbowed me yesterday when I was standing in line. I think he’s the reason I’ve got this bruise on my arm.”
The stubborn vlogger is now irate. His wide eyes dart from me to Mrs. Tokushige, then back to me.
“So you’ve been physically assaulting people as well? I bet the police would love to hear that.” I glare at him.
Penelope hops over to my other side. “The other day that guy tried to slip me a twenty to get me to tell him secrets about you. Scum.”
“Bribery too?” I say. “Another interesting fact to relay to law enforcement.”
I pat Penelope on the shoulder, thankful that she’s more than just a customer now. We regularly meet up at each other’s places for drinks and chats. I vent to her about the Callum situation and random life stresses. I learned her relationship with her ex-boyfriend ended the month after she moved to Maui for him when she caught him cheating. She almost booked a ticket back to her home in Cincinnati, but she decided to try making things work here on her own. So she put her Instagram hobby to professional use and started a social media consulting company, which explains her killer Instagram following and how she’s free most days to take her lunch all the way out at my food truck in Makena. Right now, she’s the greatest friend I could ask for.
I wink at her, then turn back to the offending vlogger, who opens his mouth to speak, but then starts coughing up leftover soda.
“I’d love to see you cited for your shitty behavior,” I say. “Call the police. I dare you.”
Instead of dialing the police or saying anything, he stomps past us and down the road, muttering curses along the way.