by Score, Lucy
My mother sighed theatrically. “Who hurt you, darling?”
It was a joke. But we both knew the answer wasn’t funny.
2
Ally
Decorating Charming’s pizza was the most fun I’d had in… Ugh. Never mind.
Let’s just say life had been a shit show lately. And messing with a grumpy guy—what was it with assholes today anyway?—who looked like he’d waltzed right off the pages of some men’s magazine was definitely a highlight. Which said a lot about my current situation.
I didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of being stretched too thin. This was the kind of life crisis that you muscled through.
When it was all over, I would book myself a vacation on a beach where the only thing I had to worry about was if my straw was long enough to reach the bottom of my frozen cocktail.
“Table Twelve wants their check, Ollie.” George, my boss and the grumpiest Italian grandpa I’d ever met in my life, announced brusquely as if I’d spent the last four hours ignoring diners instead of waiting on them. He hadn’t bothered to learn my name when I started three weeks ago. I hadn’t bothered to teach him. The guy went through servers like new parents went through baby wipes.
At least the checks were made out correctly by Mrs. George. That’s what mattered.
“On it,” I told him.
A mango margarita, I decided, hefting the plates and pushing through the swinging kitchen doors.
By the time I had that mango margarita in hand, I might be in my sixties instead of a ripe old thirty-nine—thanks for pointing that out, Charming—but I would fix what needed fixing. There was no other option.
The dining room, though in desperate need of a complete makeover and maybe an industrial scrubbing, was warm and cozy.
Maybe I could offer to do some after-hours cleaning for a couple extra bucks?
“Here you go,” I said, sliding the pizzas in front of them.
The woman with the to-die-for leather skirt and I’m-a-badass haircut seemed to approve my topping smiley face on hers. She laughed in that way that born-rich people did. Not too loudly and with absolutely no snorting.
Charming, on the other hand, scowled down at his pizza. He had a face for scowling. That strong jaw was even more defined with his teeth clenching like that. Those icy eyes that couldn’t decide if they were blue or gray narrowed.
Ugh. He had those yummy little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Was grumpy and rude suddenly the new hot? My vagina seemed to think so.
It hadn’t been that long since I’d given her some action. But apparently she was into well-dressed douches now. Great. Thank God I was working myself to death for the foreseeable future and wouldn’t have time to explore her new inappropriate preferences.
“Can I get you two anything else right now?” I asked, a paragon of helpfulness.
“That’s it,” Charming said, tossing his napkin on the table and sliding out of the booth. “You and I are going to have a little screaming match about how to treat your customers with respect.”
He stood and closed his long fingers around my wrist.
I knew he felt it, too. That unexpected jolt. Like taking a shot of whiskey or sticking a finger in a light socket. Maybe both at the same time. For one moment of pure insanity, I wondered if he intended to take me over his knee and if I’d let him.
“Dominic, for the love of God. Behave yourself,” the woman sighed in exasperation.
In answer, he spun his pizza around so his mother could read it.
FU spelled out in greasy pepperoni.
“Is there a problem, sir?” I asked with sugary politeness.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, pressing her fingers to her mouth and trying to stifle a laugh. A real one this time.
“It’s not funny,” he snapped.
“It is from where I stand,” I said.
“You are a server. Your job is to act like one and serve,” he said.
Ass. And. Hole.
“You’re a human. Your job is to act like one,” I countered. Any other day, I probably would have let it all go. I knew better than to jeopardize a paycheck. But I’d come in after the lunch shift to find the nineteen-year-old server sobbing into paper napkins in the back because a dick in a suit had unloaded his bad day on her.
Freaking George the jerk caught me trying to comfort her and screamed, “There’s no crying in pizza.”
“I want to speak to the manager,” Dick 2 in the suit announced.
“Dominic, must you?” his date sighed.
“Oh, he must,” I said.
I had him pegged. This guy was one of those people. He believed that everyone under him existed just to serve him. I bet he had a personal assistant and that he had no idea that they were human. He probably called them at 3 a.m. and made them run to the convenience store for lube or eye of newt.
“I’m so glad you agree,” he said dryly. He was still holding my wrist. That electrifying zing was still sizzling its way through my veins. His eyes narrowed as if he felt it too.
Table Twelve, a couple of early twenty-somethings, looked like they were thinking about dining and dashing. Shifty-eyed and uncomfortable.
“Let me get this table their check, and then we can continue our battle royale,” I offered, yanking my hand free.
“Sit back down,” Charming’s lady friend insisted, pulling him back into the booth. “You’re causing a scene.”
I left them, grabbed the check for Twelve, and made serious eye contact with them while I thanked them profusely for coming in. It wasn’t going to be a good tip. I had an instinct about these things since waitressing and bartending had become my main source of income. But at least they weren’t going to walk out on the check.
“I can take that for you now if you’re ready,” I offered.
The guy reluctantly pulled out a wallet on a chain and opened it. “Keep the change,” he squeaked.
Two dollars. It was probably all they could afford, and I totally got that. But I needed to find real work… like six months ago.
“Thanks, guys,” I said brightly and shoved the money in my apron.
Charming was sitting, arms folded, staring down at his untouched FU pizza while his date daintily cut hers into bite-sized pieces.
“George, Table Eight wants to talk to you.”
“Now what the fuck did you do?” he snarled, dropping his fork in the double helping of pasta primavera he’d made himself. He acted as if I’d been nothing but a troublemaker, and I considered making him his own pizza. I wondered if the twelve-inch pie was big enough for “dumbass” spelled out in sausage.
“The guy was being a jerk,” I told him, knowing full well George wouldn’t care. He’d side with the ass. Asses liked other asses.
He hefted his bulk off the rickety stool that was going to give up the fight against his 300 pounds any day now. At five and a half feet tall, he was a grumpy beach ball of a human being. “Let’s go. Be fucking polite,” he said, wiping his hands on the sauce-stained apron. George lumbered through the swinging doors, and I followed.
“Thank you for coming to George’s Village Pizza. I’m George,” he said, all olive oily charm now. The guy was a dick to his employees, his vendors, hell, even his wife. But to a diner with a fat wallet? George was almost sort of friendly. “I understand there’s a problem.”
Without saying a word, Charming spun his pizza plate around.
George’s eyes narrowed.
“Is this supposed to be some kinda joke, Ollie?”
Great. I could see the vein in his neck.
That wasn’t a good sign. I’d seen it twice before. Once when he’d fired his delivery driver for stopping to help direct traffic at an accident scene and again when a server had slipped on a grease spill in the back and sprained her wrist. He fired her on the spot and said if she tried to collect workers’ comp he’d burn down her mother’s house.
The server was his niece. Her mother was George�
��s sister.
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just how the pepperonis arranged themselves.”
“This kind of service is unacceptable,” Charming insisted.
“Of course. Of course,” George agreed, all apologies. “And I promise you the situation will be rectified.”
“She should be fired,” Charming said, leveling me with a cold look. “She’s a detriment to your business. I’m never coming back here.”
And there it was.
I knew I was out of a job.
“Good,” I said. “You should stick to torturing servers uptown.”
“’Ay! Not in my restaurant,” George bellowed. His third chin vibrated with rage. If I didn’t get out now, I might cause a coronary, and I didn’t really want that on my conscience. I also really didn’t want to have to give this guy mouth-to-mouth. Wisely, I zipped my lips.
“I really think this is an overreaction,” the woman said smoothly.
“No. It’s not,” George and Charming said together.
They could get Team Asshole jerseys.
“Ollie, get your things. You’re fired.”
The son of a bitch wasn’t even going to let me close out my tables. I had at least another thirty bucks in tips coming. Maybe I should burn his mother’s house down. But the woman made a hell of a cannoli and caught me up on General Hospital when she came in. I’d burn down George’s house instead.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” the woman said.
“Yes, it is,” Charming snapped.
“She’s fired, and I’ll bring you another pizza. On the house,” George insisted. “Good?”
Charming, still looking at me but now with the slightest, victorious curve to his snarly lips, nodded briskly. “Fine.”
I already knew George would be taking the cost of the two pizzas out of my last paycheck. Jackass.
Without a word, I headed back into the kitchen. I grabbed my coat off the rack, scooped the money out of my apron, keeping my bank and the tips and throwing the rest on top of George’s primavera. Take that.
“You fired?” The cook called from behind the stainless-steel worktop where he was rolling out dough.
“Yep,” I said, shrugging into my coat.
He nodded. “Good for you.”
I gave him a wry smirk. “Yeah. Fingers crossed, you’ll be next. George would love to have to make and serve his own pizzas.”
He gave me a floury two-finger salute as I slipped on my backpack and went back into the dining room. I could have gone out the back door into the alley, but I was already fired, so there was no harm in making a scene.
“You two could learn something about how to treat people,” I said, pointing my finger in their direction.
Physically they couldn’t have been more different. George with his barrel-shaped body, greased hair, and too-small polo shirt. Charming with his tailored suit and fancy boots. He probably got manicures and facials and then accused the spa staff of looking him in the eye.
“This might come as a surprise to you both, but we’re all people. We’re not here just to serve you. We have lives and families and goals. And your lives might start looking a hell of a lot better if you remembered that.”
“Get outta here, Ollie,” George hissed. He made a shooing motion with his beefy hands.
Charming was smirking at me.
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s no hope for you,” I said to him. I knew his type. Well, not personally. But from a safe distance where I could armchair quarterback it. “Rich, miserable, empty. Nothing and nobody ever lives up to your expectations. Including yourself.”
That chiseled jaw clenched, and I knew I’d hit a bullseye. Good.
“Get out!” George screeched. “And don’t come back!”
“Don’t even think about stiffing me for my paycheck, buddy,” I told him. “I know where your mother lives.”
He turned a worrying shade of purple, and I decided it was time to exit. I swept toward the door and felt pretty damn good about my speech.
“Here. You deserve this.” The girls at Table Two pressed a crisp twenty into my hands. “We used to work in food service.”
I wanted to not need it. I wanted to sweep out of here with my dignity intact and my head held high. But I needed every damn dime.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
The young couple from Table Twelve held the door for me. “Here. We were going to the movies, but you earned it,” the guy said, holding up a few crumpled dollars.
“Take it,” his girlfriend insisted. She beamed at me. And I realized that them giving me their last seven bucks was going to make them feel better than me refusing it.
I couldn’t afford to have any pride.
“Thanks, guys.”
“Pay it forward,” the guy said.
I swallowed down the rage, the fear, and that bite of Stromboli I’d managed an hour ago.
I would. Someday.
3
Ally
I gave up my seat on the steel bus bench to a shaggy guy in a puffy red ski jacket with the size sticker still on it and a dog in a pink turtleneck sweater.
I had three hours to fill before my next shift. A night gig on the bar at a mediocre hotspot in Midtown. It was mostly tourists buying fifteen-dollar Cosmos, but the tips were good. It wasn’t enough time to run home to Jersey and take a nap like I wanted to. But I could hit the library and look for a new server gig or check the freelance site and see if I’d landed any projects.
Pretty please, sweet baby Jesus.
When I’d first arrived here, I thought landing a job as a graphic designer would be easy. I’d run my own small business back in Boulder and done well. But it turned out New York firms didn’t enjoy taking a chance on a self-taught designer who needed a flexible schedule for “family emergencies.”
Restaurants and bars, however, didn’t give a shit what hours you took as long as you showed up when you were on the schedule. I took freelance projects when I got them and held down five regular part-time gigs.
Make that four. Thanks, Charming. And George.
I indulged myself in a little fantasy.
Mogul Entrepreneurial Me storming into Charming’s corner office, because of course he had one, and firing him on the spot because I’d just purchased the company after he pissed me off. If I were wildly wealthy, I’d do shit like that. Sure, I’d give back. Rescue dogs. Eradicate cancer. Take care of the elderly. Buy nice interview outfits for women who needed better jobs. I’d start a spa where women could get massages along with gynecological exams, mammograms, and dental cleanings. With a bar.
And for fun, I’d buy up corporations and fire assholes.
I’d wear a Satan-red dress and heels and have security drag him out of his chair. Then I’d give everyone an extra week of paid vacation just for dealing with him.
Fantasy complete, I put my mental energy into picking out the best bus route to the library. I needed to replace my pathetic pizza income ASAP.
The wind stabbed at my exposed skin like a thousand tiny daggers.
It was effing cold. My righteous anger kept me as warm as it could. But January in Manhattan was arctic. And depressing. The last snow had been pretty for all of five minutes. But the traffic snarls and gray slush defied whitewashing. Plus, it had made my commute into the city an even bigger nightmare.
I shifted the straps of my backpack, hiking it up higher. My ancient laptop had the dead weight of a sleeping toddler.
“Excuse me?”
I debated pretending like I hadn’t heard her. New Yorkers didn’t strike up conversations at bus stops. We ignored each other and pretended we lived in soundproof, eye contact-proof personal bubbles.
But I recognized the red leather under a very nice ivory wool winter coat.
“Ollie?” Charming’s date asked tentatively. She was tall, and not just because she was in a pair of suede boots that I’d sell a kidney for.
Long-legged. High cheekbones. Killer haircut. Em
erald the size of a postage stamp on her middle finger.
“Ally,” I said warily.
“I’m Dalessandra,” she said, reaching into an impossibly chic clutch. “Here.”
It was a business card. Dalessandra Russo, editor-in-chief Label Magazine.
Whoa. Even I’d read Label before.
“What’s this for?” I asked, still staring at the linen card.
“You just lost a job. I’ve got one for you.”
“You need a server?” I hedged, still not understanding.
“No. But I could use someone with your… personality. Show up at this address on Monday morning. Nine a.m. Ask for me. Full-time. Benefits.”
My stupid, optimistic heart started to sing a diva-worthy aria. My father had always warned me I was just a little too Pollyanna and not enough Mr. Darcy.
“I just show up, and you give me a job?” I pressed, trying to squash the hope that bloomed inside me.
“Yes.”
Well, that was vague.
“Hey, lady. You maybe got another job in there for me?” a burly guy in ripped cargo pants and a hunter-safety-orange ski cap asked hopefully. He had a spectacular beard and wind-reddened cheeks. His smile was oddly beguiling.
She looked him up and down. “Can you type?”
He winced, shook his head.
“How about sort packages? Deliver things?”
“Now that I can do! I worked in a mail room for two years in high school.”
High school looked like it had been about thirty years ago for him. I recognized a fellow Pollyanna.
Dalessandra produced another card, and—using a ballpoint pen that looked like it was made from actual gold—scribbled something on the back. “Go here Monday and give them this card. Full-time. Benefits,” she said again.
The man held it like it was a winning lottery ticket. “My wife ain’t gonna believe this! I’ve been out of work for six months!” He celebrated by hugging every person at the bus stop, including our lovely benefactress and then me. He smelled like birthday cakes and granted wishes.
