“I am a waitress,” I admitted.
“You are?” her eyes lit up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, but at a diner.”
“But could you help out tonight?” she asked, eager. “I’d only give you a couple of tables, four, five tops. It would help so much.”
“No, I don’t think…?” I looked up at the manager. Wait tables? At Declan’s bar? That didn’t make any sense.
But he nodded. “We could use some help tonight. You’ve waitressed before?”
“The last four years,” I replied automatically, even though I couldn’t really be considering doing this, could I? I was supposed to meet Declan at seven o’clock. To have a difficult, awkward conversation and break out of our agreement. Suddenly, waiting tables sounded like a fabulous alternative.
“I have an extra uniform,” the waitress continued. “All you’re doing is drink orders. I will totally help you.” She clutched my hands. “Please?”
“I haven’t filled out any paperwork or anything,” I worried. But I could use some extra cash. Especially now that I wasn’t going to accept Declan’s offer.
“We’ll figure that out.” The manager shrugged, not too concerned. “Trish will get you all set up.” Trish, the waitress, plus the manager and the bartender all looked at me expectantly.
“OK.” I stood up, bemused but ready for duty.
“All right!” They welcomed me, Trish looping her arm through mine and leading me to go get changed. Maybe this idea was actually a stroke of genius? Waiting tables kept you busy, so busy you barely had a second to think. It was how I’d made it through the last couple of years: show up for my shift, pour coffee, deliver food, punch out. Work worked for me. When I stopped and thought about it, agreeing to wait tables tonight made no sense at all. But maybe that was the key: no stopping and thinking.
A few minutes later I found myself in a back room wiggling into a loaner set of a black t-shirt and skirt. One thing was clear: there wasn’t enough fabric.
“Um, Trish?” I heard her humming outside the changing space as she reapplied some mascara.
“Everything OK in there?”
“Do you have anything larger? These are…”
Trish giggled. “Trust me.”
“But it’s not Hooters. This is a nice place, right?”
Now she burst out laughing. “Let me see.”
Tentatively, I stepped out in what passed for clothes. The V-neck clung to every curve, offering up a generous slice of cleavage. It was a stretch to say that the skirt ended at mid-thigh, especially if it crept up any as I moved or turned or did any of the typical things a waitress did.
“Perfect,” Trish declared.
“Are you kidding me?”
“You’re showcasing your assets.” In saying so, she thrust out her own. “Put those boots of yours back on and you’ll make some good tips tonight.”
I smoothed out the fabric as if I could make it magically grow bigger.
“Meet me out in five. I’ll show you your tables.”
Alone in the room, I stepped into my boots. A thin sliver of a mirror revealed my reflection. It made me blush. I didn’t dress like that, not any more. As a teenager I’d gone through a phase. The Declan phase. I’d strutted my stuff, skimpy clothes clinging to my curves, all skin and temptation. But not for the past six years. First heartbreak had cloaked me, then my father’s illness and passing, then the financial troubles. I’d mostly taken to wearing baggy jeans and old work shirts, the kind you’d find on a hardened, middle-aged rancher’s wife.
I drew up my hair into a high ponytail and then struck a pose, hip to the side. Imaginary pen and pad of paper in hand, I sized myself up in the mirror. May I take your order?
I could do this. Yes, to me it looked like my clothes had called in sick for the night, but maybe I was overreacting? These were probably normal, 24-year-old women’s clothes. I just hadn’t been living a normal, 24-year-old woman’s life.
Plus, I’d had a lot of fun the night before in that wee scrap of a dress. It hadn’t stayed on me for long. Declan had pulled the top down and yanked the bottom up as he’d taken me up on a shelf, pinching my nipples and licking and sucking my clit like an animal.
Flushed, I looked at myself sideways in the mirror. Stomach in, ass out. Showcasing my assets. It might be fun to see Declan in this outfit. A wicked grin flashed across my face. It might drive him completely insane.
It would serve him right, the man was so infuriating. He always had the upper hand, dismissing me like a kid back in the day, sitting behind that huge desk in his office. Making me squirm in the crowded restaurant. Tonight I’d make him squirm. I’d show him I wasn’t at his beck and call. When he showed up at seven o’clock—if he showed up at all—I’d be a little too busy to talk. I’d tell him I’d talk to him when my shift was over. Jutting my chin out with a defiant tilt, I gave myself a nod in the mirror. Let’s do this.
Heading back into the bar, I saw Trish buzzing around in a hum of activity.
“Good,” the manager said, giving me a quick glance before he went back to his clipboard again, deep in logistics mode before the start of his short-handed night. Maybe I’d overreacted to the skimpiness of my outfit?
Then the bartender dropped a bottle.
“Fuck!” I heard him exclaim, cracking his head as he stood back up. Hand to the back of his skull, he drew up to his full height slowly, wincing in pain.
“Are you OK?” I rushed over to see if he needed help. “Are you bleeding?”
A woman’s great, big laugh boomed out. “Come on over here,” Trish called to me. “Before Trent recovers and starts using his cheesy lines on you.”
She set me to work filling small bowls with Spanish Marcona almonds. I’d never had one before, but I guessed the same rule applied here with the jazz music and subtle lighting as at the dusty, honky-tonk Silver Dollar Saloon back home. The best customer was a drunk and thirsty one.
“All right, we have five, ten minutes tops before things start to pick up,” Trish explained as she and I distributed the dishes to high, round tables. “It’s Saturday night so we’ll be slammed. But you’ve only got those five tables.” She nodded to my section, front and center.
“You’re gonna get a lot of attention, that’s for sure.” Trish looked me over, then burst out laughing once more. “I hope Trent knocks himself out again. That’d be awesome.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as well. So Trent had dropped that bottle and cracked his head over me. When was the last time that had happened? That would be never.
Right on schedule, the bar started to bustle with patrons. Many of the women wore sleek dresses, the men in crisp dress shirts with pressed collars against freshly-shaven skin. Country girl that I was, I had to admit I felt impressed.
“My, but they’re gussied up,” I murmured to Trish.
“Not bad, right?” Trish agreed, with a not-so-subtle nod over to a chiseled guy drinking over at one of her tables.
At the bar, Trent filled my first round of drink orders. “I have to ask, are you a model?”
I barely managed to suppress a snort along with my laughter. “How many pick-up lines do you have?”
“Do you have a map?” he asked in response. “I’m getting lost in your eyes.”
The next couple of hours flew by in a whirlwind of banter, orders and laughter. The buzz and energy in the bar eclipsed the tiny Chat ‘n’ Chew with its locals and regulars, taking their time with what passed for news in our sleepy corner of the world. I spun around from table to bar, finding that a quick smile and fast service earned crazy good tips. Of course, it helped that the prices were outrageous. Imported beers at $7 a glass, $12 signature cocktails. I could get a full meal plus dessert for that back home. But this was no place like home, Dorothy, and I didn’t want to tap my cowboy boot-heels together to go back just yet.
Busy as I was, I couldn’t help scanning the room. I still had time before seven o’clock, but Declan might arri
ve early. It was his place, after all. A buzz of anticipation formed in my stomach.
“Why the frown, beautiful?” A trio of handsome guys arrived at one of my tables.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” I greeted them with a big smile.
One placed both hands over his heart. “I’m a goner, guys. That smile did me in.”