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"Touch my ass, and I'll make sure there's shards of glass in your beer," I warn him.
His hand lowers under the table.
I drop their ticket. "If you're just staying for drinks, you can walk the three feet to the bar to get them yourselves."
"Lana, can you take that table of guys who just sat down?" Marisa asks as I walk by her, dumping plates on the metal counter for the dishwasher.
"That's not my table," I tell her, not about to be nice at nine forty-five. "I'm off soon anyway. Sorry."
I don't stick around to hear her complain. I pick up the plates waiting for me on the raised stainless counter, hiding the shit show that is the kitchen. If people saw what happened back there, they'd never eat here again. I shuffle around the bodies hanging out at the counter ... or bar. Whatever it is, it's the worst setup ever.
I drop the plates on the table, not caring if the correct order is in front of the right person. They're my last table. I need them to eat and settle up, so I can get the hell out of here. Tony should be here soon, and I know Tori won't let me hear the end of it if we don't leave her house by ten thirty.
"Anything else?" I ask, leaving the check without waiting for an answer. "If you need another drink, you can get it at the bar."
Technically, I'm not supposed to serve alcohol. I'
m only fifteen. But Jim and Margo ignore the law. And the police are too preoccupied with what happens in the parking lot to notice what happens inside this metal Twinkie.
It's a job. I can't afford not to be here. And, believe me, I constantly remind myself of this too.
I clear my other tables and make sure they've all paid before returning to the table I just fed. "Ready to pay?" I ask.
They're interfering with my night. If they don't like the not-so-friendly service, they came to the wrong place. Besides, I'm not counting on the crappy tip they never planned to leave me.
A guy with tattoos covering his thick arms pulls out two twenties and drops them on top of the bill without looking at it.
"Need change?"
He shakes his head. I try to hide the surprise that flashes across my face with a blink. Maybe he can't count. I'm not about to offer a math lesson. I hand the cash to Margo at the register and wait for the change. All she does is handle the money. She doesn't trust anyone. Not even Georgia or Mal, who've worked the bar since before I was born. No one touches the cash other than Margo, who remains perched on her wooden stool, watching everyone with her beady blue eyes.
She reminds me of a bird, frail and thin, with wrinkled skin hanging off her, scowling at everyone like she's tempted to peck their eyes out. She sees everything. I try not to talk to her. I try not to even look at her if I can help it. She creeps me out.
I duck into the back, past the counter where plates of food are waiting to be picked up. "Jim, I'm clocking out."
"No you're not," he bellows. "You have five minutes left in your shift. Go check the bathrooms."
I stop, wishing I had kept my mouth shut and just clocked out. He would never have known.
As soon as I push open the red metal door, I'm forced to cover my mouth and nose. The stench is overwhelming. One of the toilets isn't working. Jim knew and didn't want to deal with it himself. Bastard. Well, I'm definitely not going to unclog it. Women are disgusting. I'm convinced we're grosser than men--throwing who knows what into the toilets, pissing all over the seats, littering the floor with shreds of toilet paper that are destined to stick to the bottom of someone's shoe. There's no way I can get away with leaving it like this. I'll get reamed the next time I work.
I pull on latex gloves and pick up the fragments of paper towels and toilet paper scattered on the floor, shoving them into the overflowing trash. I wipe down the chipped porcelain sinks and step down on the trash to compact it.
Taking the trash bag with me, I walk out the back door to toss it in the dumpster. When I try to go back in, the door's locked. I groan. Of course it is. I'm never getting out of here. I'm forced to walk all the way around to the front where there's a line to get in.
A car honks. I turn my head just as Tori pulls herself out the passenger window, sitting on the edge of the door.
"Why are you here? I thought I was coming to your house?" I question, recognizing she's dressed to go out.
"Change of plans. Tony's meeting friends, so we have to go now or else we won't have a ride."
Tony nods with a subtle grin in the driver's seat. I smile back, biting my lip to keep it from being too big.
I look down at my hideous, stained uniform that smells like grease and beer, knowing the rest of me pretty much smells the same. "But I'm repulsive."
"Put on extra perfume. Besides, guys love the smell of this place. You may even get licked tonight," Tori teases wickedly.
I shoot her a disgusted look.
