Page 4 of Silver Edge
Crap. The words broke through my mouth barrier.
Ms. Monroe tapped her painted nail against the tabletop four times. “Do you know who I am?”
No.I don’t subscribe toSnob Weekly.
I tugged at the scratchy-collared uniform shirt they forced me to wear then scribbled on my pad. Writing instead of saying kept me from unemployment.“No, I don’t.”
“I’m someone you don’t want to mess with, little girl. I’m Margo Elswood.” She scooted to the end of her booth and stood on her Lady Gaga shoes. “I’m going to find the manager.”
Great. Now I’d done it. Why’d I have to be so hostile? What did the social worker call it? A coping mechanism for sensory issues? Of course, why did she have to be such a tool?
Man-filet stopped her with a soft touch to her arm. “Don’t worry about her. Focus on me,” he said, his voice dripping with enough sex appeal to match his Vin Diesel tone.
I made my way to the ordering kiosk where my GM stood with his micro-managerial hat firmly in place. “You need any help?”
“No, sir.” I made quick work of entering the order to avoid further convo with him.
“You need to use your pad so you don’t forget anything,” GM said.
“No worries. I don’t need to write it down.”
He crossed his arms over his chest in that I’m-the-boss stance. “I gave you this job as a favor. Don’t blow it. You’ve served nothing but attitude since you started here, and it doesn’t sit well with me. Being a waitress requires people skills, and I’m not seeing much of that from you.”
“I thought we were talking about the computer.” I grabbed a water pitcher and returned to work, my mind abandoning the conversation to calculate tile patterns beneath my feet. With the crowd’s ear-piercing volume and mixed smells of food and perfume, I needed something to hold my concentration.
Perhaps this waitress thing wasn’t the right job for me. Not that it mattered. I had to make it work if I was going to be able to survive on my own. Who else would hire an ex-addict high-school dropout with an attitude and no job history? I’d managed to find that abandoned warehouse space only a few blocks from here for sleeping until I could afford a place. There had been no mention of a place to stay before my middle-of-the-night escape. I had saved just enough money from my Community chores for food until my paycheck. Everything had fallen into place; I couldn’t wreck it now.
After filling water glasses and dropping off stacks of napkins, I retrieved the problem couple’s food from the warmer window, but my feet stuck to the tacky daffodil-colored tile. I forced one foot to move, then the other.
Slurp. Pop. Slurp. Pop.
The vibration carried up my calf and thigh to my hips then shook each rib. How long had it been since someone cleaned the sticky floor? I longed to grab a mop and make it stop, but I continued despite the feeling of garbage disposal blades slashing at my ankles.
With a forced smile, I lowered the plates. He returned my gesture, a gazillion-dollar smile that probably melted most women’s knees. One of my knees trembled slightly. Well, I was human, too. A whisper of a girl and clothed in Goodwill rejects, but human.
“I told you to write it down,” Monroe sneered. “I said no meat, no corn, no cilantro, and no tomatoes.” She huffed and lifted one perfectly manicured hand toward the GM, who stood at the end of the aisle. A breeze from the propped-open front doors sent her smoldering-weed perfume my way. My gut wrenched and my gag reflex engaged.
“Is that necessary?” Filet’s beaming smile dwarfed to a failing night-light.
The overhead lightbulb flickered, shooting stabbing pain into my brain. My heartbeat quickened, stinging my chest.
“Can I help you, Miss Elswood?” The GM stood at my side, his gaze dipping to her voluptuous half-exposed breasts and back to her full lips.
At that moment, I knew she’d won. She snagged him easily in her web of beauty and societal superiority.
“Yes, sir,” she drawled with the sensuality of a jazz singer. “This young lady refused to write down my order, and now she’s ruined it.”
“She ordered a Fiesta salad with no cilantro, no meat, and no corn. I remember everything,” I said, my voice lowering to that of a simpering child. Dang, I hated when my body betrayed me.
“No. I ordered a Fiesta salad with no cilantro, no meat, no corn, no tomato, and no attitude.” She ran a finger down the neckline of her dress, accentuating her cleavage for my boss. And the dumb animal took the bait, practically drooling as he stood there.
“I don’t recall you sayingno tomatoes.” Filet winked at me, his dark lashes fluttering with the promise to save me from the vengeful tramp at his side.
Her head whipped around like she’d been possessed. “No, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
He closed his mouth like the good little pet he probably was. “Whatever.” With that one word, his status faded from conqueror to mosquito. Damn him. She must be a beast in bed.
“We’ll make it right, miss. I’m so sorry for your trouble. Scarlet, take this back to the kitchen and order it correctly this time.”
