Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Spinning on my heels to retrieve the man he’s commanding to see has the racial insult he’s spewing directed at my back rather than my front.
Thankfully, the restaurant is almost empty – due to the time of night – which makes getting from where they’ve set up their crosses to burn to the back office a very quick task. One tap on his open door is all it takes to pull his attention away from whatever he’s working on and over to me. “I’ve got a table requesting to speak with you.”
Cole Shephard, my six foot five, shaggy haired, middled-aged boss who I rarely see have to do anything other than flirt with women at the bar presents me with a puzzled look. “About?”
“Me.”
“You?!” The bewilderment deepens. “You?!”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“My services…,” English words threaten to completely fail me, “are not what they want them to be.”
He gives a confused head tilt. “Why?”
“I’m not…,” the curling of my fingers occurs to stop me from losing the last bit of self-restraint I have, “coño,” is expelled under my breath during the hunt for a more professional phrasing than I want to use, “American enough for them.”
“I see.” He delivers a slow annoyed nod that’s followed by rising to his feet. “They your last table?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and start your closing duties? I can be American enough for them through the free dessert I’m sure they’ll be having.”
A small smile is attempted to be made. “You sure, boss? It’s my table. I can-”
“Not deal with their bullshit for another twenty-five to thirty minutes for the tip we both know they’re not gonna give?” He shakes his head while heading my direction. “Go do your shit, cash out early with Amber.”
I acknowledge the command with a simple nod prior to heading the opposite direction of him.
Thank fuck for small wins.
I seriously needed one tonight.
While all the customers tonight haven’t been racist bastards, they’ve been far from fucking pleasant. Nothing has been to anyone’s liking. Wait time even with a reservation was ridiculous. Drinks weren’t strong enough. Water was too cold. Steaks were overdone. Salad was too dry. Practically anything – besides my service – that they could complain about they fucking did. At one point, a woman complained about the orange scent in the women’s restroom. It was too “tropical” for her.
That’s great.
What the fuck do you want me to do about it?
I literally serve you at the table.
I can’t do anything for you in there.
Due to everyone’s unhappiness in restaurant – and I do mean everyone, patrons, servers and even Gladys Coogler, our main bartender – everything is shite.
Morale.
Attitudes.
Tips.
Even the goddamn air has a bit of awfulness to it.
I just wanna go home, crawl into bed, and sleep on my girlfriend’s pillow because it smells like her – Cocoa Butter –, which helps me pass out faster when she’s not home.
And I fucking hate when she’s not home. Yeah, she’s out helping save lives all across the state, but I still miss her. I still hate that our schedules don’t always match up. I bloody hate that I have hurling practice so she’s out boot shopping with Nat or fucking boat shopping with Daniel. That I’m out creating business plans with Geoffrey first thing in the morning while she’s taking hot yoga at the gym before work. Officially living together for the last three weeks has taken away a bit of the sting from our not syncing but not enough.
Upon my entering the kitchen, Rodrigo Pérez, the head chef, and Carlos Barrios, one of the main cooks, continue chatting in Spanish about sports while Burt Beaver, another cook, does his best to follow the conversation in a language he definitely doesn’t speak.
Technically, I don’t speak the same dialect that they do – they’ve both got family from the same border town in Mexico – but it’s easy enough for me to decipher unlike Burt who has begged me on more than one occasion for tutoring.
To my surprise, I find Gladys near the running dishwasher, strumming her brown fingers impatiently on the counter space right above it. The instant I approach, she hits me with a fury-filled expression. “I just had a motherfucker chew me out about the size of a fucking olive.” Her head tips to one side in increased frustration. “A motherfucking olive! Like look, Jennifer Hopez, I don’t make the olives! I don’t grow them my goddamn self! What the fuck do you want me to do? Host an America’s Next Top Olive competition just to fucking please you?!”
All of a sudden, another server, Maiz Freeman, appears at my side, twiggy, ivory-colored frame immediately slumping against mine for comfort. “My last table totally fucking stiffed me.” She lets out a sigh so heavy I can’t help but wrap an arm around her for support. “Three-hundred-dollar bill, twenty-dollar tip.”