Page 37 of The Chef

Causing me to tip the tray of drinks.

Causing me to fall.

As I collapse, my waitressing instincts leap to the fore and I try my hardest to keep the glasses from smashing into the customers and instead away from them. I am successful in not letting any of the drinks hurt my customers, but I am not successful in not allowing any liquid to be splashed over the Dad as I tumble to the ground.

Both he and I are covered in beer. I slip to the floor, my ass bearing the full thrust of the impact.

Ouch.

But I’m not worried about myself, I’m concerned about the drinks.

I glance up and everything’s in slow motion. All the glasses have smashed on the ground around me and not over any of the customers, so that’s good, but beer has sprayed completely over the Dad and me.

I smell lager dripping from my nose.

My shirt is wet. Sticky.

Oh no.

I quickly rise back up to my feet, glancing at the damage.

No one seems hurt. The women on the table seem like they didn’t even get a single drop on them.

But for me and the Dad?

Yeah, we’re soaking in beer.

“I’m so sorry,” I hastily mutter to the Dad, balancing myself on my feet and careful not to hurt myself on the broken glass scattered around me.

He glares up at me in shock. He’s not as wet as I am, but the beer is definitely dripping down his shirt and head, leaving his bald scalp shining under the restaurant lights.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

“I am so sorry,” I repeat. “Let me find something to clean this up for you.”

The Dad stares at me with his little beady eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“I saw the whole thing,” his daughter says, leaning across the table. “It was an accident. She didn’t mean to spill those.”

The Dad either doesn’t hear her or purposefully ignores her and instead suddenly reaches out with his pudgy hand and grips me by the shirt, standing. With force, he pulls me in close to his face by my shirt. His permanent frown is turned into a menacing snarl.

What the hell?

“I want you to pay for this,” he says to me quietly under his breath. “I want you to pay me for my expensive clothes you’ve ruined and for the way you’ve treated me.”

I try to struggle against his grip but he’s too strong. He has me by the shirt, nearly lifting my whole body into the air. His other hand raises above me, curled in a fist.

Oh my god, he’s really going to hurt me.

He’s really going to hurt me.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand wraps around the Dad’s arm and yanks him away from me. I’m let go and fall back on my feet. I spin around to see who’s set me free.

Cliff Finn.

He’s standing to my side, gripping the customer’s arm, and with an expression on his face I’ve never seen from him before.

Pure unbridled anger.