Rude little thing, isn’t she?
“Usually the servers here are friendlier,” I say slowly, voice low and husky. “They know to have manners.”
“Good for them,” she answers without missing a beat. “I just want to take your order.”
Sean coughs to cover a laugh. I shoot him a glare before turning back to the girl.
“Two whiskeys. Dry.”
She doesn’t bother with the notepad, simply giving a curt nod then turning to walk off before I can say anything else.
I watch her go, irritation prickling under my skin.
“The hell was that?” Sean mutters, his grin broader than ever. You’d think this was the funniest shit he’s seen all week.
“New server,” I grunt. “Apparently.”
“Charming personality.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Bet she’s a lovely girl.”
“Regular Mary fucking Sunshine,” I answer, drumming my fingers against the table. My gaze tracks her through the pub as she steps behind the counter and pours our whiskeys.
“Wonder what would make Tom hire her. Didn’t even know he was looking for somebody new.”
I grunt again, the primitive noise serving as my input. I’m still watching the girl.
There’s something nagging me about her.
She looks familiar from somewhere. A face I’ve seen before but can’t place. Has she been in the crowd of one of my fights? Does she live in the neighborhood and have I passed her up in the street before?
She returns with our drinks, setting them down harder than necessary. A few drops of whiskey slosh over the rim of my glass and onto the table. She doesn’t apologize or acknowledge the spill.
“Tab or cash?” she asks flatly.
I scowl.
Bridget would already know the answer to that basic-ass question.
“Tab. Under Rourke.”
She scribbles it down on her notepad and walks away again. I find myself glaring after her, even harder and more critically than before.
This girl is off; this girl isn’t some simple new waitress hired on by Tom.
The feeling in my gut says there’s more to her, and whatever it is, it likely spells trouble…
TWO
Jhene
“Don’t be mad,okay? But I need you to cover for me. I told Tom it’s lady problems.”
Bridget stands in front of me in the cramped back hallway of the Banshee, tugging off her apron and shoving it into her oversized leather bag. Her ginger hair is freshly curled, makeup touched up, and there’s a sparkle in her bright apple-green eyes that tells me this has nothing to do withactualperiod cramps.
“Cover for you?” I repeat slowly, my brows knitting. “It’s only my second shift.”
