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Chapter 1
Gia
Chewing my gum really hard is just about the only thing keeping me from strangling this customer. It’s the last hour of a long shift at Bingo Bangos – my feet hurt, my hair is pulled back too tight, and I’m about one skirt-grab away from biting someone’s head off.
“C’mon, hunnie. I told you. I’ll have a porterhouse for two and you on my lap so I can feed you.” This clean-shaven man with a chiseled jaw has worked up a steam trying to impress his friends. He has blonde, Jamie Lannister hair that I want to yank clean off, but I can’t tell if I’m just being overly bitchy, or he’s really this insufferable.
When I do nothing but close my eyes and sigh, he laughs in the most cringeworthy way imaginable. His mouth opens so wide I can see his back molars, and he slaps his friends’ shoulders like he said something clever.
What an ass.
“Okay, Farquaad. Be right back with your bib and bottle. First, I’m going to take the men’s orders, if you don’t mind.” I smile facetiously and turn to the quiet guy at the end of the table.
“Ohhh!” The other guys roast Mr. Lannister for my quip, and it feels kind of good to mess with him.
“Oh, she totally digs me. You see that smile, boys? Oh yeah, you’re just jealous, Matt.”
I take the orders as quickly as I can and rush to the kitchen. It’s about that time of night where my flats start sticking to the floor. Enough drinks spilled in the restaurant-turned-lounge on a Saturday, marking my cue that soon, I can count my tip roll and get the hell out of here to my cozy little apartment.
I know it’s dumb, but I paint landscapes when I get home while watching reruns of Friends. Don’t judge. It’s therapeutic. Dealing with hairy-chested, V-neck wearing jerk-offs all day would drive anyone into Chandler’s arms – RIP.
That’s an hour and many whistles away, though. Sometimes I like the attention the Bangos uniform invites. A skirt that swishes every step, tight black blazer and a low-cut shirt making manbabies drool. It’s fun, sometimes. But tonight? Every glazed set of eyes and sweaty man’s underarms makes me want to yack.
I try to be in and out of the kitchen so the steam doesn’t cling to my hair. Grabbing three hot plates for another table is a balancing act of not getting burned and not bumping into someone. But Stacey stands right in front of the exit to ruin my flow.
“You heard, Gia?” She raises her eyebrows, grasping the door frame and flicking her curly hair back like a seductress.
“You taking shots on the job again?” I scoff. “Didn’t Marty tell you? No partying with the douchebags while serving.”
“Oh shut up, bitch.” She bares her teeth playfully at me. “Castor DeMatteo and his boys are clearing out a room soon. How do I look? Perfectly sex-tastic? Mmph. I hope one of them pull me for their private party.”
I tense up at the mention.
“Ooh. Marco didn’t tell you?” She’s playing with me, knowing full well I don’t associate with him anymore.
“No, Stacey, my brother didn’t tell me. And I don’t really care.”
“Oh, c’mon. You know Castor is hot shit. When he rolls in, all the panties drop. Even mine.”
“What do you mean ‘even yours,’ like it’s some rare event? You mean especially yours.” We smirk at one another as I scoot past her to deliver the steaming food.
She follows me and speaks loudly over my shoulder to combat the thumping music, “I think you should be a great friend and hook a girl up.”
“I don’t associate with assholes—”
On cue, a burly man whistles at the two of us.
Stacey looks at me knowingly.
“—To the best of my ability.”
I recall the orders of the table by memory – even with Stacey buzzing in my ear – and assure the snippy fourth at the table that her food is coming right out. Slow-cooked pernil is named such for a reason. Her stringy blonde hair and painted-on eyebrows would’ve got a pass if she didn’t just snap her tongue at me.
“Oh-oh-oh!” Stacey latches onto my arm, squeezing tight. “Here they come.”
The Red Sea of servers parts for an entourage of mobsters strutting into the restaurant. Who’s at the head other than Castor, my brother’s closest friend growing up. Gold rings line each of his fingers, framing fists lathered in ink. He fills out his blazer so well, unlike half these other schmucks.
His crew battles for his ear – three men who continue leaning over to tell him something – and a small army strut farther behind. Some have women on their arms, others have their hands crossed over their bellies like bodyguards… It’s a whole show.
