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“RaRa, get the kitchen cleaned up and head out. Connie and Skye, once things out here are back in order, you can go. Waylon, you and I will count down the registers.”
We all dive into our tasks. Waylon counts down the register he used while I handle mine and Skye’s. My drawer is spot on, but Skye’s is short… very short.
“What’s up?” Waylon asks, having noticed the scowl on my face.
“I don’t know.”
I recount the money and get the same result.
“It’s short, isn’t it?” Waylon demands.
“Connie and RaRa, head on out,” I command instead of replying to Waylon.
“Shit,” Waylon mutters.
Five minutes pass before I’m alone with Skye and my manager, and with each passing second, my ire continues to rise.
Before I can begin questioning Skye, Waylon dives in.
“You’re short again,” he snaps. “What the hell, Skye?”
Skye’s eyes widen as she darts her gaze from him to me and back again. “I don’t know why it would be,” she says. “It was busy tonight, but nothing out of the ordinary happened.”
“Something happened because your register is short by almost three hundred dollars,” I explain.
“How much did you make in tips?” Waylon asks.
Skye reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. She hands it to me, and I count it.
“There’s over four hundred bucks here.”
“What?” Waylon barks and takes money out of his pocket. “I only made a little over a hundred.”
“I’m good at my job,” Skye states, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Can I help it if people tip me well?”
“I’m damn good, too,” Waylon insists. “There’s no way you made that much more than me.” He whirls toward me. “How much did you make?”
“Excuse me?”
Waylon takes a deep breath. “I’m just trying to prove a point. How much did you get in tips?”
I take the money out of my cut and count. “Almost two hundred.”
“See!” Waylon exclaims. “She made more than you, and you own the joint.”
She also has tits.
I bite back that particular retort. “Just because customers seem to like her more than us doesn’t mean anything.”
But something is going on.
“Rogue, it’s always her drawer that’s short,” Waylon insists. “It makes no?—”
“You both realize I’m standing right here,” Skye snaps. “Stop talking about me like I’m not.”
I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. “This is getting us nowhere. Let’s just all take a breather and start over.”
“I don’t think so.” Skye turns on her heel and storms toward the break room. “I’m tired of being questioned about shit that has nothing to do with me.”
