Page 7

“Of course, my dear, but I don’t like that you work at that bar. If I double your salary, will you quit? You could stay here with me on the night shift. Or better yet, move in.”
I nearly die of embarrassment when she says that. Now, more than ever, I focus exclusively on her, ignoring everyone else in the room, even Bonnie. Still, I sense that all three of them are watching me, especially father and son.
I know she spoke out of pure kindness, but all I want is for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me. I have no problem being poor, but I hate having my financial difficulties discussed in front of strangers. I don’t want her grandson—who’s already mistaken me for his father’s mistress—to think I’m some opportunist trying to exploit his grandmother.
“I truly appreciate it, but you already have Nurse Eraisa for the night shift. You don’t need me here,” I say, forcing a small smile, then head out without making eye contact with anyone else, aside from a quick wave to Bonnie.
I’m far from shy, but in a little over two hours, I’ve gone through the most embarrassing situation of my life and still had to stand face-to-face with the man who saw me naked.
Taylor
CHAPTER FIVE
That Same Night
“Taylor,they’re asking for extra bread at table four!” Jackie yells at me, and I resist the urge to say I don’t want to go over there.
That table has five men who, if you put all their brains together, probably wouldn’t fill the mold of one regular brain. Arrogant jerks, with a tendency for crude jokes, and very drunk, which makes it worse.
I can’t complain, though.
Despite the stench of alcohol from the patrons and the fact that some of them need the bouncers to remind them our rears aren’t cushions for them to squeeze, the tips are good. Apparently, once the middle-class crowd has had a few drinks, they suddenly believe they’re rich and start handing out money like there’s no tomorrow.
“Herb bread or regular?” I ask.
“Honey, the only herb those guys probably like isn’t on our menu, so just take them a basket of regular bread.”
I fill one of the baskets with warm bread that the kitchen helper keeps in the oven to make it seem fresh—even though I know it was delivered earlier this morning—and head to the table with a forced smile on my face. Serving idiots is part of the job.
“Just the bread, gentlemen?”
“Are you on the menu, sweetheart?”
Jesus. Every time I hear these ridiculous pick-up lines, I mentally roll my eyes. If I literally did it every time, I’m sure at some point they’d get stuck facing my brain.
“Would you like another round of beer?” I continue, ignoring the moron.
“Yeah, but only if you bring it.”
“Certainly, sir. After all, this table is in my section.” I press my lips together to stop myself from saying anything else, because there’s something about him I really dislike. I have a fiery temper, and my internal training on hiding emotions is coming in handy. My mom was born in Ireland, so hot blood runs in my veins, and if I weren’t good at controlling my temper, I’d be getting into trouble all the time.
“But you’re gonna open the bottle too, right?” He keeps up the “sexy” act, sliding his hand around the neck of a pretend bottle, moving it up and down in a clear imitation of masturbation.
God, give me the patience not to shove the bottle down his throat when I bring it.
Do these bastards think we stand around for hours serving drunks for fun? Don’t they realize that if I had any other choice, I’d be miles away from this job?
“Yes, I can open it.”
Even though they look a bit under thirty, they’re all wearing suits, which means they’re probably executives or lawyers.
When I finally finish their second or third round—can’t remember at this point, since my brain’s basically short-circuiting by now—I go back to the counter.
“More dumb jokes?” Jackie asks.
“Yeah. I’m so lucky. I always get tables with idiots.”
“Don’t kid yourself, sweetie. Real luck would be finding a table without idiots. The guys who come here think that just because we serve them, they can do and say whatever they want.”