The Bait

Misty stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, gripping the porcelain sink until her knuckles turned white.

The fluorescent bulb above the vanity flickered, casting a sickly yellow buzzing light over her reflection, but Misty didn't see the cheap apartment lighting. She saw potential. She saw soft curves, big eyes, and a mouth that Rhonda had once told her was "made for trouble."

She leaned in closer, applying a third coat of mascara. She knew the factory floor was going to be humid today—the rain always made the air inside Department 4 heavy and wet. By second break, this mascara would probably be smudged under her eyes, and her foundation would be melting into the collar of her shirt. But it didn't matter. It was about the first impression. It was about walking through the turnstile and letting everyone know she was there.

She needed the eyes. She lived for them.

"Come on, Misty," she whispered to herself. "Game face."

She stepped back and assessed the outfit. She was wearing her standard-issue navy blue work polo, but she had bought it two sizes too small. The buttons strained across her chest, pulling the fabric tight. She had left the top two buttons undone—a calculated risk. Technically, it was a safety violation to have loose clothing or exposed skin near the presses, but Rhonda never wrote her up for it. Rhonda encouraged it.

“If you’ve got the goods, advertise,” Rhonda always said.

Misty tugged the hem of the shirt down over her hips, checking the fit of her jeans. They were tight, hugging her thighs and waist. She turned to the side, sucking in her stomach. She knew she wasn't the skinny little temps the agency sent over, the ones with stick legs who looked like they’d snap if they lifted a tote pan. She was soft. She was heavy.

But men liked soft. Especially men who spent all day touching cold steel.

She fixed her hair, a bottle-blonde riot of curls that she had spent forty minutes straightening, though the humidity was already starting to frizz the edges. She pulled a stray piece down to frame her face, adjusting her heavy black eyeliner. Her eyes were big, a pale blue that looked innocent until you noticed the hunger in them. She reapplied her lipstick—"Pink Sugar," her signature shade. It was too bright for a factory, but that was the point. In a world of gray steel and concrete, Misty wanted to be the only thing in color.

She grabbed the Tupperware container from the counter. Inside sat six peanut butter swirl brownies, still warm. She had stayed up until midnight baking them, making sure they were gooey in the middle. She didn't bake because she liked cooking; she baked because it was a currency. A cupcake for the forklift driver meant her parts got moved faster. A cookie for the scheduler meant she got the shift she wanted.

And brownies? Brownies were for the big fish.

She popped the lid, checking them one last time. They smelled like sugar and comfort. They smelled like a trap.

She snapped the lid shut, grabbed her keys, and walked out the door.

The drive to the plant was a blur of gray rain and red taillights. Misty parked her rusted Ford Focus in the back lot, far away from the "Executive Row" where Preston’s Lexus sat gleaming in the downpour.

She pulled her hood up and made a run for the side door. The moment she stepped inside the building, the noise hit her. It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical weight. The THUD-THUD-THUD of the 500-ton presses vibrated in her teeth. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal, burned oil, and the sharp, chemical tang of coolant.

To most people, it smelled like a headache. To Misty, it smelled like a hunting ground.

She punched her time card— 6:52 AM —and headed toward the lockers. She didn't go to her machine. She wasn't supposed to be wandering, but she had perks other girls didn't have. Being Rhonda’s favorite came with a long leash.

She was heading for the Forklift Charging Station. She needed intel.

The charging station was tucked away behind the shipping docks, a cage filled with massive yellow batteries and humming electrical cables. It smelled like ozone and acid.

Kyle was there, unplugging his lift.

Kyle was twenty-four, skinny as a rail, with a face that always looked like he was apologizing for something. He was invisible to most of the plant. But not to Misty. She kept Kyle in her pocket like loose change, pulling him out whenever she needed something.

"Kyle!" she chirped, putting on her best smile.

Kyle jumped, dropping the heavy charging cable. It clattered loudly on the concrete. He spun around, his face flushing pink.

"Misty! Hey. Hi. I didn't... I didn't know you were here yet."

"Just got in," she said, stepping closer. She saw his eyes dart down to her chest, then quickly snap back up to her face. It was so easy. "You look tired, sweetie. Did they work you late?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, truck came in late last night. Had to unload it." He wiped his greasy hands on his pants, looking nervous. "You look... nice. That shirt is... is it new?"

"This old thing?" Misty laughed, touching the collar. "I just grabbed whatever was clean. Listen, Kyle... have you seen Jax?"

The light went out of Kyle’s eyes instantly. His shoulders slumped. "Oh. Jax."

"Yeah. I need to ask him about... a machine. Is he in the cage?"

Kyle looked down at his boots. He hated talking about Jax. He hated that Misty only ever talked about Jax. But he couldn't say no to her. He never could.

"He’s not in the cage," Kyle mumbled. "I saw him earlier. In the breakroom."

"The breakroom?"

"Yeah. And... Misty?" Kyle looked up, his expression miserable. "His truck is in the lot. The black Chevy."

"I know his truck, Kyle."

"No, I mean... it’s piled with stuff. Clothes. A pillow. The windows were all fogged up like someone slept in it."

Misty froze. Her heart did a little skip in her chest.

"He slept in his truck?" she whispered.

"Looks like it," Kyle said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Maybe his wife finally kicked him out. Heard he was looking pretty rough this morning."

Misty didn't hear the satisfaction. She only heard the opportunity.

Jax was homeless. He was alone. He was sleeping in the cold.

She had been chasing him since the day she got hired. It didn't matter that he wore a ring. It didn't matter that he talked about his kids. To Misty, a wedding ring was just a challenge. She would bring him donuts, laugh too loud at his jokes, and "accidentally" brush against him in the tool crib. Back then, he had brushed it off with a polite smile. He was committed. He was a "good husband."

But a good husband doesn't sleep in a truck.

A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn't a nice smile; it was predatory.

"Oh, poor baby," she cooed, clutching the Tupperware to her chest. "He must be freezing."

"He’s fine, Misty," Kyle said, annoyed. "He’s a grown man. He probably deserved it."

"Don't be mean, Kyle. It doesn't suit you." She reached out and patted Kyle’s cheek. He leaned into the touch like a starving cat, closing his eyes for a second. She pulled her hand away before he could get comfortable. "Thanks for the tip, sweetie. You’re a lifesaver."

"Misty, wait—"

But she was already gone, her steel-toed boots clunking rhythmically as she hurried toward the production floor.

Department 4 was chaos. The shift had just started, and the noise was deafening. Barb and Tammy were already on the line, feeding metal sheets into the press with robotic efficiency. Slide. Punch. Pull. Slide. Punch. Pull.

Misty bypassed them completely. She walked straight past her own machine—which was currently unmanned and blinking a red light—and headed for the glass box in the center of the room.

The Supervisor’s Office. The Fishbowl.

She opened the door and slipped inside. The sudden drop in noise was jarring. Inside, it was air-conditioned and quiet, smelling of Rhonda’s vanilla perfume and old carpet.

Rhonda was sitting behind her desk, staring at a spreadsheet on her computer. She didn't look up.

"You're late to your machine, Misty. Barb is giving me the stink eye."

"Let her look," Misty said, dropping into the visitor’s chair. She set the Tupperware on the desk. "Kyle says Jax slept in his truck."

Rhonda stopped typing. She swiveled her chair around slowly. Her eyes, lined with heavy black makeup, narrowed.

"I know," Rhonda said. "I just talked to him."

"You talked to him? Is he okay?"

"He’s pathetic," Rhonda said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes even though smoking inside had been illegal for twenty years. She just held the unlit cigarette in her fingers, rolling it back and forth. "He’s hurt. He’s angry. And his ego is bruised bad."

"Kyle said he looked rough."

"He looks like a project," Rhonda corrected. She looked at the Tupperware. "What’s in the box?"

"Brownies. Peanut butter."

Rhonda smiled. "Good girl. You remembered."

"I made them last night. Just in case."

"Well, 'in case' is here." Rhonda leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "Listen to me, Misty. This is the window. It’s not going to stay open forever. A man like Jax doesn't stay lonely long. Deb from Quality Control is already circling him like a shark."

"Deb?" Misty bristled. "She’s old. And she’s mean."

"She’s aggressive. Men like aggressive when they’re feeling weak. If you want him, you have to get to him first."

Misty checked her reflection in the glass wall of the office. She smoothed her shirt. She checked her lipstick.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"He's in the breakroom," Rhonda said. "Washing up. Feeling sorry for himself."

"Should I go in there?"

"No," Rhonda said. "Let him stew. Let him walk onto the floor and realize how cold it is out there without his wife to keep him warm. Then... you be the heater."

Misty smiled. She grabbed the Tupperware.

"I can do that."

"I know you can," Rhonda said, turning back to her screen. "Just make sure you lock it down before he finds a better offer."

Misty stepped out of the office and back into the roar of the factory. The heat hit her instantly, but this time, it felt good. It felt like adrenaline.

She walked past Barb and Tammy. Barb glared at her over the safety guard of the press.

"Nice of you to join us, Princess!" Barb shouted over the noise. "Line’s been running for ten minutes!"

Misty didn't even look at her. She just smirked and walked to her machine. She put her gloves on, but she didn't start working. She watched the door to the breakroom.

She waited for the wolf to come out. And this time, she had the bait.

***

The machine clanged rhythmically. Thud. Hiss. Thud. Hiss.

"Brownies," Tammy shouted over the noise. "She brought brownies."

Barb didn't look up from the press. She shoved a metal sheet in. "Peanut butter?"

"Swirl. I saw the Tupperware."

Barb snorted. "That girl has one move. Feed 'em and breed 'em."

"You think Jax will eat them?"

"Jax is sleeping in a truck, Tammy. He’d eat a tire if you put frosting on it.”