Page 64 of Badd Love
I jolted, sniffled, and wiped at my eyes. "Sorry, sorry. Yeah, what's up?" I turned to my boss, Saleh, who was looking at me with concern.
"You are okay?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Sure, sure. Fine. Just…stuff going on."
"Table twelve, please."
I glanced at the table in question—a pair of abutted four-top high tables in the bar area, which was my usual section. A group of studio exec types was seated at the table, laughing and elbowing each other and looking all chummy and bro-y…and handsy.
Trust me, I'm familiar with the type. They're experts at "accidentally" brushing my butt or boobs and then acting like innocent little lambs.
I've never spat in anyone's drink or food, but I have been tempted, and it's always tables like this. I once made a guy's drink with well vodka instead of Goose, just out of spite. Not that he noticed.
Saleh must have noticed and correctly interpreted my expression. "I can have Alicia wait on them, if you prefer."
"No, no. I got it. I need the money."
"If they are trouble, you let me know, yes? I will put into them the fear of God…and Saleh."
That was no idle threat—Saleh was a lovely, kind, soft-spoken man who was my favorite boss ever. He also happened to be six-foot-five, weighed three hundred pounds, and had fought alongside Americans against Saddam Hussein in the Gulf War.
"I know." I patted his arm as I breezed past him toward twelve. "Just keep an eye out. I'll let you know if they're a problem."
He caught my arm and spun me around. "You do not need to tell me what is wrong, but I hope you talk to someone. You are changed, in recent days. More sadder. Lost in your thoughts very often."
I winced. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I am only worried for you," he said.
"I'll be okay."
He sighed. "Okay. Go, now. Go."
I went. They addressed 99% of their comments and requests to my cleavage, but I'm a cocktail waitress in an industry bar. I wear low-cut tops on purpose, so that's nothing new or surprising; big cleavage equals big tips, and since I’ve got ‘em, may as well benefit from ‘em. They kept their hands to themselves, thankfully—the presence of Saleh glowering watchfully from the hostess desk may have helped.
They did tip well, though, so that's nice.
The evening progressed normally. A few tables shorted me, a few tipped generously. By the time the bar was getting ready to shut down, I was wiped out and ready to go home, rinse off the bar-stank, and go to sleep.
The feeling started fifteen minutes before the doors were set to close. Saleh was counting cash in the office with Sharon, the assistant manager, and the rest of us servers were doing our closing work—rolling silverware, filling condiments, counting tips, wiping tables, sweeping floors.
It was a feeling of disquiet, at first. A subtle gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Women, you're familiar. It's the feeling you get walking to your car at night, a knowledge that someone is watching or following, even if you can't see anyone. You can justfeelit, so you walk faster, grip your keys between your fingers, or have your taser or pepper spray in your hand inside your purse.
I looked around the bar, but saw no one unusual: Geoff, Tommy, Cal, and Carl, our "Cheers crew" regulars, were sitting at the far end of the bar as always, four in a row, sipping the last of their beers. The kitchen crew was banging around the kitchen as they closed up. The other girls were at table 1 rolling silverware while I stood at the bar, topping off ketchup, mustard, salt, and pepper.
"Connor?" I called out, addressing our busser, who was flipping up chairs onto the tables.
In the act of flipping a chair, he popped his head up. "Yeah, Linz?"
Connor was a cute kid—seventeen, gangly and long-limbed, eager to please, with all the signs pointing to an eventual glow-up into a hottie, one day. I knew he harbored an innocent little crush on me, and I was very careful to not encourage it.
"Have you checked the bathrooms?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. Should I?"
"Would you mind? Please?"
"Sure!" He finished putting up the chairs at the table and then scurried to the bathrooms, popping into the men's room, and then poking his head into the women's and calling out before entering.
