Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I want to drop onto a bed and fall asleep for days.
I hate that hard-assed Bridger guy so much.
He sure does give a new meaning to “hard-ass”. And now that he said what he said, it changes my whole perception of that stunt outside Biggie’s Bites. I feel guilty, like I did something wrong.
And that pisses me off worse than anything.
I’m not the kind of guy he insists I am. Fuck Bridger and his “conclusion”. I’m a better man than he thinks, and he will never know it, because he’s stuck in his own stubborn mind, set in his ways, unable to open himself up to someone who’s a tad rougher around the edges than he’s used to.
Every second now is consumed with his words, his voice, his eyes in that restroom as he stared me down, standing so close to my face that he could see my boogers.
I shouldn’t care so much.
I shouldn’t want to prove him totally wrong about me.
But he’s yanking out all of my worst instincts. I want to go out there and tell him off, even if it wouldn’t change his mind about me, even if it would just confirm how much of a “gentleman” I’m not. Why should he get to be the cool one who makes the shot and leaves me standing there in the restroom like an idiot?
If he thinks he’s gotten the last word, he’s got another thing coming. Or is it think? He’s got another think coming? Fuck it. He’s got a thing and a think coming, and next time I see that prick, I’ll give him both.
Unlucky for me, the next time is right the hell now: the cook sets the last dish on the tray, taps a bell. “Order for table 8!” before disappearing back into the kitchen.
I glare at that tray.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Then suddenly I have to. Six dishes balanced on my tray, I go through the swinging door into the restaurant with my tray stand tucked under an arm. Somehow, my brain’s gone and muted the whole restaurant, the mindless chatter, laughter, and eating, gone. I count down the tables as I pass them by—12, 11, 10, 9—and by the time I reach my destination, kick open the stand, and set the tray down on it, I feel like master of the table.
More importantly: master of gentlemanliness. “Here you are, ma’am,” I say with gusto, placing a dish in front of Ms. Davis. “And for you, my good sir.” Reverend Arnold’s dish. “Nice n’ hot, Gran’s best.” Trey’s dish. “Yours, too.” Cody’s. “Here you go, Mr. Pete.”
Then I set down the final dish in front of Bridger.
And I lean forward, using my especially charming voice. “And last but not least, your sirloin steak, Mr. Bridger, sir.”
His eyes drop to it.
What he sees is, by all means, a 10-ounce sirloin steak. But I’d describe it as less cooked medium rare and, rather, fully fucking opposite of rare. Well-done. Beyond well-done, even. What he is staring down at with his baffled little know-it-all eyes is a slab of fucking shoe leather.
Still leaning forward, I offer a smile to the table. “If everyone who ordered a steak would like to try a bite of it, I’d love to know whether they came out the way you wanted.”
“Oh, mine’s just perfect,” moans Ms. Davis at the other end of the table. “Mine, too,” says Reverend Arnold kindly. “Wow, this is one juicy piece a’ meat,” calls Cody. “Give compliments to Gran! Well, or the cook,” he says, “whoever’s responsible for this.”
I lift my eyebrows to Bridger. “How about you … sir?”
His eyes are harder than stone as he stares at me. I swear his soul is trying to grow a body, climb out of those stupid eyes, and strangle me right now.
I can’t begin to describe how much joy that brings me.
He points at his plate. “And these?”
“Oh, you mean the cute carrot sticks?” My smile brightens as I lean in and bring my voice way down, just for him. “I believe you did agree to havin’ two … sticks … for your sides. Right off of the children’s menu, just for you. Complete with a little blop a’ ranch dip. Or did I get that wrong … sir?”
He doesn’t answer. He picks up his fork and knife, saws off a bite of shoe leather, then brings it to his lips. I watch with building satisfaction as he chews. And boy is it work for him to chomp his way through that piece of solidified cattle tar. It’s probably even more work for me to keep from laughing while he, as stubborn as he is, refuses to give me the satisfaction of showing his anger.
Don’t worry, Bridger. Watching this is satisfying enough.
When he finally muscles that first bite down, he lifts his eyes to me.