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The beer flowed like wine at a Greek orgy. We’d already been through six bottles of Velvet Fire, and game day wasn’t even halfway over yet. After spending last night flinging drinks at Lucky Lopez, my feet hurt, my head ached, and I wasn’t in the mood to be a smiling, welcoming waitress today.
But, as the strippers at Lucky Lopez told me last night, the show must go the fuck on. Those girls shook their ass, clamped their thighs, and made that pole their bitch whether they were sick, injured, or heartbroken. It was about the almighty dollar, and I summoned up all the energy I could muster and channeled my inner stripper to make it through my shift.
Thankfully, the Fightin’ Irish t-shirt I’d altered by cutting it up and tying it at the waist went a long way to making me feel better. Okay, it was the tips the shirt earned me that made me feel better, but that was basically the same thing since the results were the same. Better service meant better tips, which made it the perfect endless loop of rewards for all involved. Too bad not even money could stop the yawns that nearly split my face open.
Coffee. I needed coffee, and I needed it now.
Right. Fucking. Now.
I stopped in the kitchen to drop another order and grab a quick cup of black coffee. It wasn’t normally my jam, I preferred my coffee sweet and creamy, but I was desperate and short on time.
“What the fuck?” I took a sip from the ceramic mug and felt my stomach lurch. Hard. Weird. I drank coffee at least twice a day, and I’d never had a bad reaction. First time for everything, I guess. I drank as much of the black stuff as I could without puking and rinsed my mouth out with cold water. Nobody wanted coffee breath blowing in their face while they were thousands of dollars down on the game.
“Order up, Mo!” The chef, Sean, glared at me and then barked for good measure. “Goddammit, Mo. I said order up.”
Sean was a temperamental asshole, but he made upscale pub food better than anyone else in town. His food helped my tips, and that was the only reason I hadn’t poisoned the flask he kept in the pocket of his white jacket.
“Yeah, I heard you. I’m coming. Don’t want to serve greasy bar food when it’s lukewarm.”
“Fuck you, my food is not greasy. Or bar food.” His reddish-blond brows dipped into an angry vee that made me smile.
I grabbed an oversized tray and made my way to the window. “Nachos,” I snorted.
“Short rib nachos with a homemade, creamy queso,” he growled.
“Chili cheese fries.” I repeated the order as I loaded another plate onto the big monstrous tray.
“That’s fucking ground bison, not some shit quality beef,” he grunted at me. “Homemade chili, little girl.”
I laughed because it was so easy to goad Sean into showing off his Irish temper. “My bad,” I shot back and rolled my eyes. “And finally, mashed potatoes with…soup?”
“Lamb shank shepherd’s pie, thank you very much. I wouldn’t expect a little girl from the wrong side of the tracks to understand.”
I laughed again and shook my head. “Wrong side of the tracks? I grew up on Snob Hill, thank you very much.”
It didn’t matter what went on inside the house of horrors, I wasn’t trash, whatever else Sean thought. “Sounds to me like you’re the one overcompensating for something.”
He smiled. “I’m happy to show you, Mo. Anytime.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
With my tray loaded, I didn’t wait for the chef’s response, not while I had a rowdy table of four waiting for gourmet bar food to soak up some of the booze they’d been drinking for the past few hours.
“Hey, boys. Hungry?”
“Starved.” The blond with the dimples was a big flirt, and gorgeous to boot. Flirting with him was no hardship, and it was just the distraction I needed for the rest of my shift. Jasper kept himself scarce, which was exactly what my mind and my heart needed after a long fucking week.
“That’s good because I got a ton of food here for you to enjoy. The Nebraska game will be starting soon.”
Blondie with the dimples grabbed my wrist, and I didn’t break any of his fingers because he was playful, not aggressive.
“Have a seat, beautiful, and share my nachos with me.”
“Can’t. I’m on the clock. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble, would you?”
“No,” he sighed and let his shoulders fall in disappointment. “But I would love to buy you a drink or more when your shift is over.”
“Hey waitress, more drinks over here.”
I looked over my shoulder at the group of husbands doing their best to prolong their time away from the wives and kids and sighed. “Thirsty football fans await,” I told blondie with a mildly disappointed smile.
