Page 1 of Into The Light

CHAPTER ONE

Emilia

“Two gin and tonics. More gin than tonic, darling.”

The forced smile on my face looked no more authentic than Lizzy Dillon’s when she got back from her “vacation” in Scottsdale, looking twenty years younger and like her face had been stretched within an inch of its life. Frozen, fake, and lacking all emotion. An expression I’d mastered since taking this crappy job as a cocktail waitress.

“So, you’d like a double?” I asked.

“No. A single, just heavy on the gin.” He winked and flashed a smile so white the airport could have used him to guide in planes. Either those were veneers, or he brushed with bleach every day. Judging by his spray-tanned skin and the perfectly coiffed grey mustache, I’d put my money on veneers.

“Coming right up,” I said through gritted teeth. I wanted to say piss off.

Anyone who has ever worked as a server knows that there should be one of those conversation bubbles over our heads displaying what we are actually thinking when we nod and smile.

Of course you can have a double for the same price as a single. You can also have a kick in the face.

These regular responses clamored for attention in my head to the constant stream of ridiculous requests these Chicago people bombarded me with the five nights a week I worked here.

I turned and moved through the dimly lit club, sliding between tables and trying to avoid bumping the swanky guests in their designer clothes... the ones I couldn’t afford even if I worked here a hundred hours a week. The new Birkin bag two tables down caught my eye and for a moment I considered a life of crime. If I grabbed it and ran, I could live a pretty happy life sleeping on the street with it until the police ripped it from my hands and dragged me off to jail. Glancing at it again I seriously considered it.

“Emilia, behind you.” Sharon startled me from my visions of running screaming through the street clutching the beautiful red leather bag with a dozen police tearing after me.

“Sorry.” I stepped forward allowing her to pass. “Gin and tonics,” I mumbled to myself as I got back on task.

A loud woman in a pink velour track suit with diamond earrings as large as my now-widened eyes stood at the small spot marked “server station.” She flapped her money in the air while shouting out a drink order to the bartender, Eric, who continued ignoring her. The fastest way to not get served involved waving your money in a bartender’s face. That was rule number two, right behind don’t whistle at them like they’re a dog. Rule numero uno.

“Excuse me,” I said with no attempt to mask the irritation in my voice, “this is the server station.”

She glanced at me and shrugged then returned her attention to Eric as he shook yet another specialty craft cocktail in his metal shaker. “Yoo hoo! Bartender! Two cosmopolitans straight up!” she shouted into the abyss. He didn’t even glance in her direction, continuing his ruse of pretending she didn’t exist.

“Ma’am, you can’t stand there. It’s for employees only,” I said, pointing to the mat on the bar marked in bold letters ‘Server Station: Employees Only.’

“I’ll only be a minute; I think I’m next.”

“Ma’am, I need to get in there,” I said through gritted teeth, irritated she took up my time... and in cocktail waitressing time equaled money.

With an exaggerated groan, she shot me a look. I matched it and raised her a pair of arched eyebrows.

“Fine.” She spun around and pushed her way past me. I stumbled into a hipster as he took a sip of his craft beer. The overpriced ale sloshed over the edge of his glass when I bumped him and rode its way down his beard, making a beeline for my cleavage. I cringed when the cold liquid slipped between my breasts and pooled in a place I couldn’t reach until I could get to the bathroom later.

“Damn!” I wiped the trail it left behind. He shrugged an apology and turned back to his conversation.

“Having a good night, Emilia?” Eric’s voice startled me as I stood with my fingers pushed down between my breasts wiping up the beer as best I could.

“A real doozy,” I answered with an accompanying eye roll.

He laughed and handed me a cocktail napkin. “I’ve been shaking the same shaker for over a minute waiting for that Housewives of Chicago wannabe to get lost. Did you see the freaking velour tracksuit?”

Of course, I had. Every middle-aged, bored housewife in the city sported them, attempting to look young and casual. “The rhinestone ‘Juicy’ across the ass when she stomped away was the icing on the cake,” I snorted.

“Nothing but class.” He laughed. “What do you need?”

“Chomps Houlihan over there needs two gin and tonics, more gin than tonic, but he’s only paying for singles.”

“Chomps Houlihan?” he asked.

“He has these freaking veneer chompers that are literally hurting my eyes. Like Chiclets. It’s not even right.”