Page 24 of The Fake Out

—LIZA C.

I froze. Like a deer in headlights, if deer wore pigtails and the headlights were twinkly brown eyes.

Chris’s gaze moved over me. I sucked in my stomach in some vain attempt to fold into myself and become invisible. Then he glanced away. Maybe that worked? After all, I was dressed like Hillbilly Barbie, and he couldn’t have been expecting me to be here.

As quickly and quietly as I could, I set up the folding table, keeping one eye on the job at hand and the other on Chris. Four other men and a woman were seated around the table; none of them seemed to notice us servers. At Heather’s direction, I slid plates of food in front of two of them and shuffled around the table to serve the last one. It put me closer to Chris. I held my breath.

Don’t notice me. Don’t make eye contact.

But when I risked a glance, he was staring right at me.

He squinted.

I rocked back on my heels.

He raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head.

He grinned slowly.

Of all the terrible restaurants with half-naked waitresses and he had to come into mine.

My hands started to shake. Unfortunately, I was holding an order of chicken wings. I watched in horror as the plate teetered and the contents slid off, landing on the lap of a middle-aged guy in a gray suit. Then I watched in slow motion as the bowl of Chicky’s dipping sauce took the same journey, leaving a blotchy red trail on the man’s hair, his face, his white shirt.

He swore loudly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I hurriedly set the plate down and snatched a napkin off the table. With a wince, I rubbed at Chicken Wings Guy’s head like it was a genie’s bottle and I could wish this whole situation away. Yeah, that didn’t work.

He batted at my hands and yanked the napkin off his head.

“What the hell? You idiot!” he bellowed, his thin face turning almost purple.

I froze and was shocked to discover the backs of my eyes began to burn. I did not cry, and I would not now.

“This is a two-thousand-dollar suit!” He cursed again, throwing out a few choice words about my mother, my intelligence, my weight, my apparent sexual promiscuity, and my cat. I don’t know how he knew I had a cat but no one, no one, talked about Kevin like that.

My hands curled into fists. I opened my mouth, not exactly sure what was about to spill out, only mostly sure it would get me fired.

Before I could, Shane appeared by my elbow. My eyes swung to the side and caught on Chris. He frowned slightly; his head tilted to the side as though he wanted to say something. I shook my head and begged him silently to keep his mouth shut.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Shane said. “We’ll get you some towels. Please, let me take care of your meal today as an apology.” He pinched my elbow and growled through gritted teeth. “It’s coming out of your tips. Go get towels. Now.”

I snatched up the now empty folding table, ready to make a mad dash for the kitchen or possibly right out the back door to catch a shuttle to a different planet. Could I do that? Volunteer to repopulate Mars, or something? I’d have to research it.

How was this my life?

Chris’s voice stopped me. “It was an accident. No need to get angry. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

His eyes moved between Chicken Wings Guy and my boss, a friendly smile on his face. But his voice had a firm, no-nonsense quality to it, like he meant business.

“Besides, that was an ugly suit anyway.” He grinned. “You did him a favor.”

Did he find this funny? This was not funny. This was my life. I glanced down at Chicken Wings Guy just as a glob of sauce dripped down from his hair to his nose and chin. Maybe it was a little funny.

I took a deep breath. “I am sorry. It was absolutely my fault. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

Chicken Wings Guy opened his mouth, but Chris cut him off. “Nah, I’m sure Douglas understands that these things happen. He’ll take care of it but, Doug, you’re gonna need something to change into.” He swiveled his head around until it landed on the wall of Chicky’s merchandise—keychains, license plate holders, shot glasses, mostly stuff with sparkly letters and silhouettes of women in braided pigtails with large front and back carriages. Your run-of-the-mill money-grab merchandise.