Page 5

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.”

“I can’t believe I only have half an hour left in my shift,” I say.

“You could wait for me. I’d walk with you to the subway. You’re way too young and pretty to be walking by yourself, Taylor.”

“I’ve got pepper spray in my purse.”

“And would you really use it?”

“Definitely. I’m not the type to feel bad about hurting someone if my safety is at risk. I’ll do what I have to do.”

“Your dad raised you right, Taylor.”

“Yes, he was the best father a girl could wish for.”

“How’s your job taking care of that older lady?”

I can’t help blushing as soon as I remember what happened with Mrs. Marshall’s grandson earlier today. “It’s going fine.”

“You look tired. I know serving the lounge is exhausting, but soon, you could take a bartending course and stay here with me behind the bar.”

In the near future, I’m planning to be in a nursing program, God willing.

I give her a quick smile without responding. Jackie has worked at this bar for a few years, and I don’t want her thinking I look down on her career.

“So, will you wait for me so we can walk out together?”

“No. Thanks for the offer, but I’m exhausted. I have to be at Mrs. Marshall’s house early tomorrow. She asked me to stay the entire day because the morning nurse has something else going on. Don’t worry; I’m always careful when I leave here. Plus, I don’t just have pepper spray. I have two legs, too. I love to run.”

She bursts out laughing, shaking her head. “The hero stands and fights; the smartest one runs,” she says.

“Exactly. In my case, I’m not interested in being a heroine. Survival is the goal. That, to me, is already a victory.”

* * *

Exactly forty minutes later, I’m on my way to the subway.

I lied to Jackie. I’m definitely scared of going home alone at night; New York’s subway is terrifying.

I didn’t grow up in Manhattan. When people hear “New York,” they think of the Big Apple, the island where the rich and famous lead lavish lifestyles. I’m a New Yorker from the state of New York, and there’s a big difference. I was born and raised in Goshen, a small town with fewer than ten thousand residents.

I glance at the relatively empty street and quicken my pace. I always leave work wearing sneakers, and I wasn’t kidding when I told Jackie that if I need to run, I won’t think twice about it.

I’m about to step onto the first stair leading down to the subway when a chill runs down my neck. Maybe it’s my sixth sense—the instinct that warns us of danger even if we think our fears are unfounded.

I whip my head around almost a full 180°, like something out of The Exorcist , not even trying to hide the fact that I’m on alert. I don’t see anyone, but I still don’t go down the steps. If someone’s following me, I have a better chance of shaking them on the street than in the subway.

I stand there, unsure what to do, then decide to head back to the bar. But at that exact moment, a couple comes around the corner, walking in my direction. I exhale in relief when it’s clear they’re headed for the subway as well.

Without thinking twice, as soon as they’re close enough to hear me, I ask if I can walk with them because I have a feeling I’m being followed. That’s the advantage of being a small-town girl: I don’t give a damn about embarrassing myself. My only goal is to get home safely—and if sticking with them helps, then so be it.