I put my game face on and walk over to them. There’s no point putting it off.
Their eyes fall on me wordlessly and nerves claw at my throat. I’ve known men like this my whole life. I’ve learned the hard way not to stick around for a second longer than I have to.
“Good evening,” I say politely. “What can I get you guys?”
“I want a steak.”
I turn to the burly man who spoke. He removes his shades to reveal dark, piercing eyes that might be considered attractive if the rest of his face weren’t so… threatening. My eyes flicker down to the massive eagle tattoo that takes up the entire left side of his thick neck. It looks shitty, blotchy, amateurish.
A prison tat, if I’ve ever seen one.
“Rare,” he tells me. “I like my meat bloody.”
I have to resist the urge to cringe at the salacious way he gives me his order. His gaze roams down to my stomach and he licks his lips. Goosebumps prickle my skin, but I manage to hold it together.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, keeping my tone professional. “We don’t have steak.”
He raises his eyebrows while his friends snicker. Clearly, he’s the ringleader and he’s so predictably menacing that I almost want to roll my eyes.
If only he knew the kind of life I’ve had.
“I want steak,” he says. “So do my men.”
So do my men. Those words aren’t lost on me.
They’re definitely mafia, probably small-time drug runners operating out of nearby Tijuana.
But I’ve had enough of the mafia for one lifetime.
“I’m sorry—”
“Let me put it to you in a way you can understand,” he interrupts. He leans forward a little, scanning me from head to toe, though his eyes linger on my stomach and breasts. “I want fresh meat. One way or the other. You know, I’ve always had a thing for pregnant women.”
My forced smile turns sour. I take a step back. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I back away and head straight for the kitchen. Once I’m in the safety of the kitchen, I can breathe a little easier, but the thought of going back out there turns my stomach.
“Emily, you okay?” asks Jose, the line cook.
I nod and force a smile back onto my face. “I’m fine,” I reply. “I just…you know, difficult customers.”
“What else is new?” Jose asks, rolling his eyes.
“Not shit. Anyway, can you whip up four steaks… rare?” I ask desperately.
“Steaks?” he repeats. “We don’t have steak. Tell them to pick something off the fucking menu. That’s what it’s there for.”
“I can’t tell these customers that,” I groan.
He walks past me and peers through the little partition that looks over into the restaurant area. “Table three?” he asks.
“That’s the one.”
“Fuck, those dudes look scary.”
“My point exactly.”
“I’ve got some pork ribs though. Go ask them if they’ll have those?”