Chapter 1: The Groupon Trap and the Barbecue Showdown

At the newly opened barbecue joint:

The second I flashed my Groupon voucher, the owners instantly switched gears—like, suddenly putting on a reality TV act. I couldn’t help thinking, Seriously? What is this, some kind of show? My gut told me to brace for drama.

The instant that little green voucher hit the table, it was like a light switch flipped. Their friendly smiles evaporated, replaced by these stiff, tight-lipped expressions—the kind you only see when everyone’s in on a prank but you. Was I on Candid Camera or something? For a split second, I half expected a camera crew to burst out from behind the fryer.

"We don’t have that combo. And that one? Out too."

The woman didn’t even glance at the menu—she just started rattling off what they didn’t have, like she’d practiced this speech just for people like me. Her voice was sharp and clipped, the kind of warning tone that says, Don’t push your luck. My skin prickled; message received, loud and clear.

"No drinks—just tap water."

The man behind the counter chimed in, not even looking up from the register. He sounded like this was his hundredth time saying it today. I paused, stunned—was he for real? The way he delivered it, you’d think anything but plain water was a luxury reserved for royalty. I almost laughed out loud, but it wasn’t funny.

After I got home, my stomach started hurting so badly I had to be rushed to the ER.

It hit me out of nowhere. One minute I was grumbling about the terrible service. The next, I was doubled over on the floor, clutching my stomach, panic rising. The pain was so sharp and sudden, sweat broke out on my forehead. My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone, desperate to dial 911.

Turns out, everything they served me was expired.

The food wasn’t just bad—it was straight-up dangerous. I stared at the hospital ceiling, incredulous. How could anyone be so careless—or just plain reckless? Who does that? Seriously, who lets food go that far past its date and still serves it up with a straight face? Unreal.

Of course, their son just so happens to be my boss.

I let out a groan. Of all the rotten luck. The universe must have a twisted sense of humor—because the guy who signs my paychecks is the same guy whose parents just poisoned me. Of course he is.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or scream.

Because I was unconscious all night, my project didn’t get done. Now the company’s looking at a huge fine.

As if the food poisoning wasn’t enough, I woke up to a flood of frantic emails and missed calls. My project—the one everyone was counting on—was still sitting on my desktop, unfinished. The deadline had come and gone while I was out cold, and now the company was staring down the barrel of a six-figure penalty. Great. Just what I needed. I could practically hear the panic in my boss’s voice, even through his angry texts. It was like he was yelling right in my ear.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the boss’s whole family came to the hospital to lay down the law.

I’d barely had time to process any of it when the entire Hill family showed up at my hospital room, faces tight and angry. They didn’t come to apologize—they came to put the fear of God in me. Their voices were low, but the message was crystal clear: make trouble, and they’d make my life a living hell. It was like something out of a bad soap opera.

But when they found out the big client was actually my dad—well, it was already too late!

The look on their faces when they realized who my father was—priceless. I almost burst out laughing. All that swagger just vanished, replaced by desperate, fake politeness. But the damage was done. Karma moves fast sometimes.

So, there’s a new barbecue place near the office.

It popped up almost overnight—seriously, one day the storefront was empty, and the next it was sandwiched between a nail salon and a payday loan store. The sign out front was bright red, promising "Real Texas Smokehouse BBQ"—which, honestly, is a bold claim around here. Still, I was curious. Word spreads fast at work, and everyone was buzzing about the place. Mostly because of the wild Groupon deal they were running.

One night, after a late shift, I bought a Groupon—planning to try it out with a coworker.

My friend Marcus and I had been pulling overtime all week, so when I spotted the deal—half off for two—I snapped it up. Figured we’d treat ourselves and maybe blow off some steam after another twelve-hour grind. Marcus was all in. "Let’s see if this place lives up to the hype," he said, grinning.

"Welcome, you two! Sit anywhere—plenty of open seats."

The owner, a woman in her fifties, greeted us with a big, sunny smile. Her attitude made the place feel genuinely inviting.

She wore a faded "BBQ Queen" apron and had a laugh that boomed across the room, like you’d just walked into your aunt’s house for Thanksgiving. The dining room was nearly empty, but she treated us like old friends. For a second, I thought we’d found a hidden gem.

We hadn’t even eaten yet, but I already had a good feeling about the place.

Marcus nudged me and whispered, "See? I told you—good vibes." I let myself relax a little, my stomach already rumbling from the smell of smoked meat and sweet barbecue sauce. Okay, so far so good.

"Hey, I bought a Groupon—should I show you now?"

I pulled out my phone and flashed the Groupon confirmation. Might as well get the business part out of the way. I’d done this at plenty of restaurants before—never had a problem.

The moment I said that, her face changed.

It was like someone hit pause. Her smile froze, then slid right off her face. Her eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a hard line. I swear, you could almost hear the record scratch.

"A Groupon?"

Her voice shot up, like I’d just cursed in church.

She repeated the word like it was something dirty. "Groupon." The word echoed through the empty dining room, and suddenly I felt like I’d just confessed to a crime instead of ordering lunch.

From the kitchen, an older man came out carrying a tray. The smell of barbecue hit me—smoky, sweet, mouthwatering.

He looked to be in his late fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, a tired, wary expression. He was carrying a tray loaded with ribs, brisket, and what looked like every side on the menu.

She hurried over and blocked him. "Groupon."

Uh-oh. The man’s smile vanished. He spun around and disappeared into the kitchen, tray and all. The mood in the room dropped about ten degrees.

Half an hour crawled by, and we still didn’t have our barbecue platter.

The hands on the clock barely moved. The smell of barbecue was torture—especially since we could see other tables getting their food. Marcus kept checking his watch. My stomach growled so loud, I was sure the whole place could hear. I tapped my foot, trying to stay patient.

"Excuse me, is our food almost ready?"

I couldn’t help myself. "It’s been almost thirty minutes. We’ve got other things to do."

She didn’t look pleased. "Rush, rush, rush. What’s the hurry?"

She glared at me, like I’d just asked her to whip up a five-course meal on the spot. Her hands went to her hips, jaw set, foot tapping with annoyance.

"Everyone who comes here is in a hurry. If you want to eat, wait your turn!"

She practically shouted it. I felt my cheeks flush, but I forced myself to keep my cool. Marcus shot me a look that said, "Just let it go."

I glanced around. Besides us, there were only two or three other tables, and they’d all started eating ages ago. Ours was the only table still empty.

One couple was halfway through a rack of ribs, licking their fingers and laughing at something on their phones. Another guy sat alone, scrolling through Instagram as he demolished a pile of fries. It was obvious—we were being singled out.

Good food’s worth the wait, so we sat there, gritting our teeth.

I tried to distract myself by scrolling through emails, but every minute felt like an hour. Marcus tried to crack a joke about "slow-cooked service," but even he sounded irritated. Still, we held out, hoping the food would be worth it.

Another ten minutes dragged by before the man finally brought out our platter.

He set the tray down with a heavy sigh, like he was doing us a huge favor. The aroma was tempting, but something felt off. Marcus raised his eyebrows at me, like, You seeing this?

I stared at the tray, stunned. Such a big plate, but the brisket was just a tiny pile—barely a sixth of the plate.

There was more garnish than meat. The brisket was a sad, lonely clump in the center, surrounded by a moat of limp lettuce and a handful of fries. It looked nothing like the photos online. My jaw dropped.

I turned to the man hovering by our table. "Sir, why is there so little meat on our platter? The table next to us has so much more."

He clicked his tongue, his tone pure mockery. "You used a Groupon. Of course it’s not the same as people who order off the menu."

He didn’t even bother to hide his contempt. He said it loud enough for the other customers to hear, like he wanted to make an example out of us. I clenched my jaw.

That ticked me off. We’re doing barbecue discrimination now?

My blood pressure spiked. Marcus’s jaw tightened. Bad service was one thing, but this was just plain disrespectful. My hands shook under the table.

The lady walked over. I thought she’d try to smooth things over, but instead she poured gasoline on the fire.

She marched up to our table, arms crossed, eyes blazing. I braced for an apology, but what came out of her mouth made my jaw drop.

"If you can’t accept it, then don’t use Groupons."

"Everyone else pays full price—you’re the only ones flashing a coupon?"

"Trying to eat cheap and eat well? Even beggars aren’t this picky!"

Each line hit harder than the last. She didn’t care who heard her. The couple at the next table glanced over, eyebrows raised. My cheeks burned.

I was so angry I couldn’t even respond at first. "You..."

My voice caught. I wanted to scream, to throw the plate, but all that came out was a strangled, "You..."

The man jumped in, "If you don’t like it, then don’t eat. The food’s ready, the sides are prepped. If you don’t eat, that’s your problem. We already scanned your coupon—no refunds."

He sounded smug, like he’d just scored a win. Marcus shook his head, lips pressed tight. My nails dug into my palms.

I grabbed my bag and acted like I was about to leave.

I stood up so fast my chair nearly toppled. I shot Marcus a look, ready to bolt. My heart hammered in my chest.

Marcus reached out, gently tugging my sleeve. "Savannah, c’mon. Don’t give them the satisfaction. We paid for this—let’s just eat and get out."

He had a point, so I sat back down to wait for the food.

I forced myself to sit, even though every muscle wanted to walk out. Marcus gave me a small, encouraging nod. Fine. Let’s see how this plays out.

But they still didn’t bring out the rest. Clearly, they wanted us to get fed up and leave on our own.

We waited. And waited. The other tables got refills, fresh plates, even dessert. Our table was ignored like we didn’t exist. I bit my tongue, fuming.

This time, I wasn’t having it. I started loudly calling out in the restaurant, pestering them every two minutes.

Every couple minutes, I’d raise my voice: "Excuse me, can we get the rest of our order?" Marcus tried to hide behind his menu, but I was on a mission. If they were going to treat us like this, I was going to make them squirm.

The other customers started giving us weird looks.

A guy across the room snickered. His girlfriend whispered something, glancing at us. The couple with the ribs shot us a sympathetic look, like, Been there. My cheeks burned, but I didn’t care.

Unable to take the pressure, the boss finally brought out the food—but something was definitely off.

He slammed the tray down, barely looking at us. The food looked...wrong. The colors were off, the portions even smaller than before. Marcus poked at the plate, frowning. My stomach sank.

"Sir, my set clearly comes with brisket, so why did we get chicken breast?"

"And the shrimp is just tofu now?"

"Sausage swapped for hot dog?"

I ticked off each item, holding up my phone with the Groupon listing as proof. The substitutions were so blatant, it was almost laughable.

The man raised his chin, looking down his nose at us. "You think you can get all that with a Groupon? Keep dreaming."

His tone was pure disdain. He didn’t even try to hide it. Marcus let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples.

I pulled out my phone, ready to argue. "But look, it says so right here on your listing! Isn’t this false advertising?"

I zoomed in on the glossy photo of the platter we were supposed to get. The difference was night and day. I could feel my blood boiling.

He looked flustered and said nothing.

For a second, he looked like he might actually apologize. Then his jaw set, and he refused to meet my eyes. Classic.

The lady marched over, hands on hips, looking fierce. "You little brat, stop spouting nonsense! Four eyes and you still can’t read? Check the fine print at the bottom!"

She leaned over, jabbing her finger at my phone screen. Her voice was shrill, echoing through the restaurant. I squinted at the tiny print at the bottom of the listing, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

I zoomed in on the picture and, sure enough, there was a line in tiny text:

[Images for reference only. Items may vary. Merchant may make substitutions.]

It was practically microscopic, buried at the bottom in gray font. Classic bait-and-switch. I almost laughed at the audacity. Unbelievable.

Well, well—pulling the old fast-food ad trick, huh?

I snorted. "Wow, that’s low," I muttered. Marcus shot me a look, mouthing, "Let’s just get out of here."

Marcus tugged my sleeve. "Savannah, let it go. Just eat and get out—we’ve got more important things to do."

He slumped in his seat, rubbing his eyes. I knew he was right. My stomach was growling, and we still had work to finish. I forced myself to take a bite, even though my appetite was gone.

The first bite was dry, flavorless. I chewed, trying not to grimace. Marcus shrugged and started in on his hot dog, pretending it was what he’d ordered all along. I tried not to gag.

But the chicken breast tasted off. Marcus said he didn’t notice anything. Maybe I was just overthinking it.

I poked at it with my fork, sniffing suspiciously. It smelled...off. Marcus shrugged, "Tastes fine to me," but I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.

"Ma’am, I remember the set comes with drinks, right?"

I called out, trying to sound casual. If they were going to short us on food, I at least wanted my soda.

She shot me a glare. "Drinks? Wait a sec."

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. She stomped off toward the back, muttering under her breath. Marcus shot me a side-eye.

They’d already swapped out the food—surely they wouldn’t do the same with the drinks?

I glanced at Marcus, who just shrugged. "Maybe we’ll get lucky," he whispered, but he didn’t sound convinced. I braced myself.

She came over with a kettle and filled our cups—with tap water.

The water was lukewarm, cloudy, and tasted faintly of chlorine. I stared at the cup, trying not to gag. Marcus took a sip, made a face, and set the cup down with a thud.

Marcus frowned. "This is just water—no soda?"

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, like, Can you believe this?

The lady replied, "You want flavor? Hang on."

She said it with a twisted grin, already heading back to the kitchen. Marcus and I exchanged a look—this was about to get even weirder.

She took a ladle, scooped some barbecue sauce from the tray, and poured it into our cups.

We stared, horrified, as she dumped a spoonful of greasy, lukewarm sauce into each cup. The liquid turned a sickly orange, oil floating on top. I gagged a little in my throat.

Plain water mixed with greasy sauce—what a sight.

It looked like something you’d pour out of a clogged sink. Marcus tried to stifle a laugh, but I could tell he was just as grossed out as I was. My stomach churned.

We still didn’t get what her game was.

For a second, I wondered if this was some kind of sick joke. Maybe there really was a hidden camera somewhere.

"There, now it’s got flavor. Drink it while it’s hot."

She grinned, all teeth, like she’d just performed a magic trick. I pushed the cup away, shaking my head in disbelief.

Turns out she just wanted to mess with us.

Marcus muttered, "That’s it, I’m done," under his breath. I couldn’t blame him. I was right there with him.

I slammed the table and stood up. At six feet tall, I had the height advantage.

The chair screeched. I towered over her, fists clenched, voice shaking with anger. The whole restaurant fell silent.

She instinctively took two steps back.

Her eyes widened. For a split second, she actually looked scared. Good.

I shouted, "You’ve gone way too far!"

My voice echoed through the place. Even Marcus looked startled. The lady’s face twisted in outrage.

"What, you gonna hit an old lady in public?"

She raised her chin, daring me. Her voice was loud, trying to draw attention from the other tables. I clenched my fists tighter.

The man rushed over, glaring at me with murder in his eyes.

He planted himself between us, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked ready to throw down right there in the dining room.

With her husband backing her up, the lady regained her smugness.

She straightened her shoulders, smirking. The fear disappeared, replaced by a look that said, You can’t touch me.

"If you want to eat here, you’d better know your place. People like you only deserve food at your own level. Groupon customers aren’t real customers to us!"

She spat the words out, practically daring me to argue. My face burned with anger.

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to argue.

I was about to let her have it, but Marcus grabbed my arm, shaking his head. Not worth it, he mouthed.

Marcus pulled me away, telling me not to waste my breath.

"It’s not worth it, Savannah. Let’s just go," he whispered urgently. I hesitated, but his grip was solid.

The man spat into the barbecue tray. "Pah! What a joke! My son’s a big shot. If you keep messing with our business, I’ll have him sue you."

He actually spat—right into the tray. I recoiled, disgusted. Marcus’s eyes widened. The mention of their son made my stomach twist.

My fists clenched, veins popping on my neck.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I was ready to explode.

The lady put on a look of mock fear. "Oh my, you gonna hit me? I’m so scared!"

She clutched her chest, eyes wide, lips trembling. It was so over-the-top, I almost laughed. Almost.

Then she stuck her face out, eyes shut, like she was waiting for a slap.

She leaned in, daring me. The whole restaurant seemed to hold its breath.

I was about to oblige when Marcus dragged me out with all his strength!

He practically lifted me out of my seat, steering me toward the door. I let him, but not without shooting one last glare at the couple.

As we left, the couple yelled after us:

"We don’t welcome cheapskates here! Don’t come back!"

Their voices echoed down the empty sidewalk. I felt my face flush with embarrassment and rage.

Fine!

If that’s how they wanted to play it, so be it. I was already plotting my revenge.

I’ll hit them with a perfect negative review when I get home—a Yelp post the length of a novel, with photos.

I could see it already: a scathing, blow-by-blow account, complete with pictures of the sad little platter and every insult. No way I was letting this slide.