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I’m not only tired, but I think I left all my hope at that lake Kanen took me to. The beautiful glowing lake that Lacey called a pond. For a moment there, for the briefest stretch of time when we were together, I’d thought that things were going to work out just fine between Kanen and me, and that we would be able to have something real. But after Lacey convinced me how men work, and showed me just how stupid all my decisions really were, it’s plain that it’s all just a pipe dream. Kanen’s no different than the others. What we have—no, had—(“I loved you,” said Jeffrey, not “I love you”) was just for that one moment.
“Okay.” She looks at me critically. “But listen to me now. This is a good sign, Chastity, he came back. Now don’t fuck it up again.”
I’m not really sure what she means by that, as I hadn’t known I was fucking it up the first time, but whatever. She seems to be some kind of expert, though I have no clue what to do anymore.
When I get out on the floor, the manager gives me the table right beside Kanen’s. Great. Now Lacey’s serving Kanen and I’m serving the guy beside him. So I can’t avoid him, but I’m not supposed to pay attention to him either. How’s that supposed to work out? I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.
I can feel his eyes on me as I wobble around in these heels. Of course, I sneak looks at him too, and have to admire the way his shoulders look in the T-shirt stretched over their powerful breadth. The tattoos that are just showing at the edges of the fabric remind me of the way he looked as he hovered over me, his body glistening with sweat in the evening sun, and how it felt when he was thrusting into me. God help me, I blush, and from under his cowboy hat, Kanen smiles like he can read my mind. I can feel a big grin growing on my face, but I try to straighten it into a more serious, respectable, less-available expression, thinking of how Lacey would react. I turn my head away and break the flow of energy, and try to focus on the job at hand.
“Welcome to Frizbees,” I say to the man at the table beside Kanen. “I’m Chastity, may I take your order?”
“Sure, I’ve been waiting for about twenty minutes. I’d like it if somebody did,” the man snaps angrily.
“I sure am sorry about that,” I say, taken aback. I try to sound the most Texan and the least Canadian as I can manage. “What would you like, sir?”
“Well, could you bring me a flipping menu?” he demands. “You expect me just to have the thing memorized?”
“Sorry, sir,” I falter. “Right away.” Shit.
I look sheepishly at Kanen as I turn to go to the hostess stand. Crap. She should have given him a menu. It’s not my fault that he was left alone. I don’t think.
“Take mine,” Kanen offers the man, holding out the laminated, brightly-colored menu. “I’ve pretty much got it memorized.”
“I don’t need your shitty menu,” snaps the man. Then he says something I don’t catch under his breath.
“It’s okay, Kanen, I’ll get him a new one,” I quickly say, a little worried. I don’t want anything bad to happen that I can prevent. Kanen’s eyes are as dark and dangerous as his tattoos.
Lacey comes up quick. “Here’s your beer, sir,” she says to Kanen. She winks at him as she sets it down. It’s not flirtatious; she’d never betray me. I think she’s just trying to lighten the moment.
“Why I can’t have that waitress, I don’t know,” my customer says loudly. “Just came in, and already has a beer and even a menu! It’s like...some kind of goddamn miracle!” He sticks his hands out like he’s talking to the whole restaurant, or an imaginary person interviewing him, and people are starting to look. This is getting more embarrassing by the minute.
I quickly put a menu down in front of him. “And did you want something to drink as well?” I ask. Shit, my first real customer after training day and he’s a doozy.
“Well what do you think? Damn right I do. I’ll take a draft,” he says. “A good American brand,” he says, shooting a look at Kanen, who glowers back menacingly. That seems like a weird comment, but I don’t want to ask what it means.
I hurry over as fast as I can go on these heels, which is to say, not fast at all. It’s only been ten minutes that I’ve had them on and already my feet are screaming for mercy. The bartender looks at me as she pours the drink. “Be careful with that guy, Chas,” she says.
“Who, the Wrecker?” I ask, almost out of habit. Do I really need someone else to warn me off of Kanen?
“No, you dummy,” she retorts, not unkindly. “That customer. Your table. He’s a douchebag, but he spends a lot of money here and he’s friends with the owners. If he doesn’t like you, it doesn’t bode well for your job.”
“Then why didn’t anyone bring him a menu?” I despair, taking the frosty beverage from her hand.
“I dunno, I was with customers, and I don’t have time to watch everything besides my bar. But whatever happens, you’re his server, so just be on your game.” Her pale eyes behind the layers of makeup are no-nonsense. “I’m telling you this for your own good.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, but not very convincingly, I’m su
re.
I start to totter back to the table, a death grip on the beer. My only hope is not to spill this damn thing like I did yesterday. “Steady, steady,” I tell myself. When I get to the table, I go to set it down when I feel something kick me from under the table. It’s the man’s cowboy booted toe, and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose. My hand flies out to steady myself and the beer goes down all over the table. “Shit!” I say.
The customer jumps up, looks down at his pants which now look as if he’s peed himself. “You fucking moron!” He yells, his face red. “What the fuck are you doing? Where’s Jim?” he demands.
Jim is the owner, who I haven’t met yet. The one that the bartender was telling me about. I’m mortified. I don’t want Kanen to see me like this, and I don’t want to be treated like this, but I feel somehow I deserve it. It’s true. The second beer down in two days. I am a terrible waitress.
“Don’t call her that,” Kanen says menacingly from the next table. He slowly gets up, unfolding his long legs, and stands at his full height. He looks even bigger and stronger than normal in front of this pot-bellied, red-faced blond. “I let you say what you want to me, but you don’t talk to her that way.”
“I’ll say whatever I damn well please,” drawls the man slowly. I can see his fists curling up at his sides. “We’ve got free speech here in America. It’s our God-given right. But I’m sure you don’t know anything about that, do you, dirt-worshipper?”
