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Someone like Zaden.
I scandown the line of tables on the register screen, tapping on several to print, then tucking the tickets into slim leather books. I stuff the books into the front of my apron and pull a full tray of drinks onto my palm, hoisting it onto my shoulder to stride off into the dining room.
I drop a check and styrofoam to-go containers at the first table, then distribute drinks at the next, and grab a new order before dropping off the other two receipt books. I’m about to have three six-tops check out at once, and we’re still on a wait for dinner, even though it’s nearly nine. I’m about to be triple-sat.
I take a breath and step back up to the touchscreen register. I’ve been on a double since this morning, with no breaks, running on alcohol and unanswered questions. I don’t know which one is more potent. But the tips have been decent, so that’s something.
I hit send on the order and scan over it a final time, cursing. I forgot to add a steak temp on one of the plates. I walk into the kitchen and over to the window in front of the grill station. Zaden turns around and pulls a line of perforated tickets out of the printer, separating them and hanging them above the window as the noisy machine spits out several more.
“I’ve got two minutes on the burgers for seventeen,” he calls down the line. “How long on those shrimp baskets?”
“They’re coming up now,” Ryan calls out.
“Behind,” Katrina calls from beside him, and he flattens his back against the prep table to let her through with a hot pan.
He glances up and notices me standing there, trying to read through the ticket paper to see which one is mine.
“What did you forget this time?” He asks, scanning down the line.
“That last ribeye on 37 is mid-well. Sorry.”
He plucks one of the tickets from the line and grabs a pen, scribbling a quick note on the paper.
“Fixed.”
I shove at the strands of hair falling messily out of my clip and tuck my notebook back into my apron.
“Thanks.”
“That’s the third correction you’ve made in the last fifteen minutes. What’s wrong?” He pulls down his water glass and takes a drink. “Long night?”
My gaze snaps to his, anger flaring. “I’ve had better.” I roll my shoulders and stretch. “Also, those modification menus are not very intuitive.”
“Lloyd set it up like that on purpose, so pretty girls have to come talk to him,” Zaden answers, casting a cocky glance down toward Lloyd. “Otherwise, he’d only have us assholes for company.”
“What was that?” Lloyd asks, carefully stirring his saucepan. “You want to pick up that 5 AM prep shift tomorrow?”
Zaden shakes his head. “No sense of humor.” His gaze returns to mine, studying me for a moment. I roll the ball of mytongue ring between my lips, and his eyes follow the motion. “Take a break, Mia will cover for you.”
“I can’t. I’m about to be triple-sat. And when I get back to 32, they’re going to ask me for ranch. Again.”
Zaden nods and walks over to the cooler, pulling out three soufflé cups of ranch and sliding them across the stainless steel window to me. “That buys you at least ten minutes. Take a break.”
A smile teases at my lips. “After I put in the orders for the new tables, I will.”
“Good,” he says with a nod. His response rings with satisfaction, and an unmistakable edge of concern.
I stride back through the double doors and tend to my tables, picking up the signed credit card slips and contemplating leaving them dirty so they can’t be sat. When I step back to the register, my attention is drawn to a man coming out of the cash office with Evan, gesticulating wildly with his hands as Evan cowers back in a way I’ve never seen.
The man is older, his hair a mixture of silver and blonde, muscled and just a tad taller, with carefully cropped facial hair and aviator sunglasses on even though it’s night. With his perfectly tailored slacks and a slim-fit button-up shirt, I instantly know who it is even before Mia walks up behind me, flipping out.
“I didn’t know Cyrus was here,” she squeaks, jogging back behind the server station. “Help me clean off this counter and refill those sanitizer buckets. Whose drink is this? It’s going in the trash.” She chucks it into the Slim Jim trashcan at the end of the stainless steel table and slides me a rag. “Quick. Last time hechewed us out about this station because they had to spray for ants again.”
I help her clean as quickly as possible, keeping Evan and Cyrus on the edge of my periphery. I tune everything else out. The clanging of dishes, the low hum from beneath the counter where the CO2 for the drink machine lives, the steady drone of voices in the dining room. Concentrating on the words exchanged between them and the movement of lips.
Cyrus is yelling at him for selling the six crates of snapper that came in off the commercial boats this afternoon, saying they were tagged for distribution. I remember those crates, and I remember Ryan grabbing them, stoned as shit coming off his lunch break, and adding them to the trays in the cooler. I run my rag over the last part of the table and toss it into the sanitizer bucket, then stride over to Evan and Cyrus.
“Hey, sorry,” I interject, pulling a ticket out of one of my books. “I need your help when you get a minute, Evan.” The conversation stops mid sentence, and both men turn toward me, surprised at the disruption.
