Page 41 of Micah
Doesn't offer to help.
Just barks something over his shoulder without looking back.
My jaw clenches.
Worthless.
Absolutely fucking worthless.
He struts around this place like he's lord of the manor while his little sister works herself into the ground.
She's wiping tables.
Running food.
Pouring drinks.
Bussing glasses.
Cleaning spills.
Taking orders.
Answering the phone.
Meanwhile, Patrick spends half his night leaning against the bar talking to his buddies like he’s some kind of big shot.
My fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
They need another server.
Two, probably.
A busboy.
Hell…
They need a manager.
Someone to help.
Something to lighten the load.
Anything so Sloane doesn't have to do the work of four people.
She laughs at something someone says.
Then disappears into the kitchen.
Thirty seconds later she's back carrying another tray.
No break.
No water.
No chance to breathe.
How long has she been on her feet?
