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I guess on some level it makes sense for someone to mistake me as ‘the help’ but these four? No. They’re just being pricks. They know damn well that I’m not working at this party.
Deciding to play their little game, I swivel my gaze to Colton. “And for you Mr. Carrington?” I question, adjusting the empty tumblers in my hands and staring heavily into his eyes, daring him to try me.
He doesn’t respond, just stares with the challenge bright in his eyes. They narrow and I watch as his chin raises. I don’t doubt he’s weighing his options. The corner of his lip lifts and just like that, it’s game time.
Excitement bubbles within me.
“Scotch neat,” he murmurs in that low, domineering tone that makes my core rattle with desperation.
I grin and just as I go to leave, Jude raises his ugly head. “What the fuck are you waiting for, help? Get out of here and make it fast. You’re not getting paid to waste my fucking time.”
I scoff under my breath and walk straight through the center of them, barging my way between Jude and Colton’s shoulders, regretting it a second later when I remember that I’ve drunk way too many of those magical fruity drinks to be making movements like that.
As I finally pass them, I hear Jude’s disgusted scoff behind me. “Jesus fucking Christ. That chick is such a bitch. What does she think she’s doing hanging around a party like this? Doesn’t she realize she’s the punchline in everyone’s joke tonight.”
His words sail right through to my soul and tear me limb from limb. It fucking aches yet somehow I keep myself moving. I’m a fucking joke. He’s right. I’m the white trash playing dress up in a world I don’t belong in.
Embarrassment sweeps through me. All night I’ve been shamelessly drinking and laughing with Milo. He’s had his hand on my ass on the dancefloor, there have been drinks delivered one by one to our table with a stack of food higher than the ceiling and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that I was just as good as the other fuckers in the room.
Charlie’s voice comes murmured behind me. “Dude, she’s going to spit in your fucking drink.”
There’s a sharp scoff and I hear the familiar tone of Colton’s voice but his words are muffled by the music.
I keep myself moving while feeling like an absolute piece of shit. I bet all these rich party goers have been laughing behind my back all night. Here I was, foolish enough to assume the music was tonight’s entertainment. They’ve probably had bets on when the trash was going to embarrass herself or cause a scene.
Well, I’ll fucking show them.
I barge my way through to the kitchen and drop the glass tumblers down into the sink, not giving a shit about the people madly scrambling around me, trying to make the night go off without any issues.
I keep walking around to the bar and grab a tray before slamming four clean tumblers down. I can’t even remember what they ordered, but I really couldn’t give a shit. I mean, what the fuck is the difference between neat and sour, and what the fuck was Jude saying about lemon? It doesn’t matter to me.
I grab the closest bottle which is a bourbon and freely pour into each of the glasses. No measuring, no fancy pour just straight from the bottle into the glass which was probably made of diamonds mined by child slaves. I give each tumbler an extra dollop of fuck you before slamming the bourbon down and scooping up the tray the same way the waitresses have been all night. After all, if I want to look the part, I have to play the part.
I walk back out to the party which suddenly doesn’t seem so appealing. I spy Milo sitting at our table, looking around and probably wondering where his fake date has gone. I duck and dodge around the pretentious assholes who reach for the glasses on my tray.
As if feeling me coming, Colton looks back over his shoulder. His eyes narrow on me as he takes in the tray sitting firmly in my hand. He turns toward me and on cue, the other three stooges do too. “Took fucking long enough,” Jude mutters beneath his breath.
I smile wide, ignoring the way they make me feel like the trash they always claim me to be, just like a good little waitress should.
I reach for a glass, knowing I’m going to have to make this quick.
“I tried to tell you,” I say, raising my chin as my fingers curl around the tumbler. “I am not the fucking help.”
My hand shoots out and the bourbon hits Jude right in the center of his douchey looking suit. A loud gasp comes sailing from his mouth but before he even has a moment to comprehend what the fuck is happening, the glass is slammed back down on the tray and replaced with another that’s aimed for Spencer’s chest.
