Better Red

by Tara Lain

  Kimmie stuck her head through the window. “They served the tamales and they’re almost gone!” She was practically dancing back in the prep area.

  “That’s fantastic. Congratulations to both of you.”

  Julie Winslow, who had worked Red’s tables for lunch, came swinging past, pulling off her apron. “Gotta go pick up the kids. Table eleven and table sixteen are finishing entrees. I told them I was going off shift. They’re bringing a new party to table twelve right now, and there’s a reservation on that table at seven, so move them along. Thanks, cutie.”

  Red waved a hand, grabbed his order pad, and hurried over to the tables that were finishing up, discreetly introduced himself, made sure they had everything they needed, and then went off to meet the new customers.

  As expected, the place filled up, with a line out the door. Nobody could beat Mom’s meatloaf and mac and cheese, and the whole town turned out to get it—the whole town minus Mark Woods.

  When Red delivered his order to the window, Kimmie leaned out. “Where’s your biggest fan? He’s usually here by now.”

  Red didn’t even have the energy to pretend he misunderstood her. “I don’t know. I worked at his place all day on his books, but he was gone and called to say he wouldn’t be back in time to bring me here.” He shrugged. “So I guess he was busy.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Not like him to pass up a chance to be with you all day.”

  “I don’t know about that, but his guys seemed pretty surprised that he wasn’t at work. I gather he doesn’t take a lot of days off.” Trying not to frown—it was bad for business—he slapped the wall and took off toward table twelve. His first party had eaten really fast, so the hostess slipped another small group in before the reservation, but it was getting close to time for the reserved party to arrive.

  Red smiled at Jose Andres and his wife as he delivered the check. Jose held up his finger, dug in his pocket for a credit card, and handed it to Red.

  Good. It only took a couple minutes to ring him up and Red rushed, without looking like he was rushing, back to the table. Jose gave him a nice tip and they left, leaving the bus boys time to reset the table.

  One of the new waiters was having a hard time keeping up with his tables, so Red stepped in to help for a couple minutes, then made a mad dash for the bathroom, washed his hands, checked his phone—nada!—then headed for table twelve.

  When he turned the corner into the front room of the restaurant, he stopped and sucked in a breath. He’d know that dark mane of hair anywhere.

  Chewy walked by and leaned toward Red with a grin. “He even requested your table.” He winked and strode away chuckling.

  Panic. Talk about your mixed emotions. Half of Red couldn’t wait to see that ugly-handsome face again, and the other half just wanted to run—hurry to the back and tell Chewy to take over the table. But of course, he couldn’t. The customer had asked for him.

  This time, Dark Man was alone.

  Red cleared his throat, swallowed, and approached the table. “Good evening, sir. Good to see you again.”

  “Well, hello Redmond.” All those teeth flashed. “I hope you’re doing well.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Red glanced at the table for three with only the dark man sitting at it. “You’re by yourself tonight?”

  “Yes. My companions are actually scouts for me. They’ve left for other places.”

  Red smiled politely, though he’d have loved to ask what the hell a scout was. “Can I get you something to drink before you order?” He poised his pencil and hoped the guy got the hint.

  He did because he dimpled, then said, “How about some iced tea?”

  “Would you like lemon in that?”

  “No thanks. I add a bit of cream to it.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Yes.” He didn’t say it, but every line of that unique face said, “I’m an unusual guy.”

  “I’ll get your tea while you consider the menu.” As he walked away, Red realized he was taking the first full breath of the last few minutes. What was it about that guy? He wasn’t even that gorgeous really. He just seemed so—certain. What would it be like to be that way?

  Red posted the order, glanced to be sure Frank was nearby to serve it, then trotted to his other tables. When he went back to table twelve, the man had set aside his menu and was sipping his milky iced tea.

  Red said, “Have you decided on dinner?”

  The guy leaned back in his chair, real relaxed. “Do you have specials today?”

  “Oh darn, sorry. I should have told you.” Heat crept up his neck, which was plain stupid. “Today’s comfort food day. We have Mom’s meat loaf, Pop’s mac and cheese, and chicken pot pie, plus our regular menu.”

  “Hmm. Which do you like the best?” His dark eyes glittered—or maybe that was just the overhead lights.

  “Uh, well, some people get meat loaf with a side of mac and cheese. That’s a pretty good way to go.”

  “Ah, but will the restaurant pay for my cardiologist?”

  Red snorted and then slapped a hand over his mouth.

  The guy dimpled again. I wonder how old he is? The dark man said, “I think I might forgive myself if I have a big green salad along with my meat loaf and mac and cheese.”

  “Would you like Italian, ranch, or bleu cheese, sir?”

  “Vinaigrette.”

  Red tried to control his grin. “Aka Italian.”

  That got a big smile that made Red’s stomach flip twice. “All right, but put it on the side, please.”

  Red leaned closer. “Just so you know, Mom’s bleu cheese dressing doesn’t come out of a bottle and it’s to die for.”

  Those dark, dark eyes narrowed. “Ah, death by bleu cheese—served by Redmond. What a way to go.”

  No breath. Gone. Passing out in the middle of the restaurant topped his very long list of personal humiliations. “O-okay.” Red turned and ran—at least in his brain if not in his body. He slapped the order up and powered straight to the storage room where he collapsed on the one bench, trying to suck in a full inhale.

  The door opened and Red jumped up.

  Kimmie waved at him. “It’s just me. Cool it.”

  He sat back down.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Just feeling kind of light-headed.”

  “Did you have anything to eat today?”

  “Breakfast.” The picture of the mostly uneaten food on his huge breakfast plate and Rachel Machellian standing over him looking suspicious proved that was a lie. “Sorry, it’s been kind of a weird day. Gran got this huge news and everything’s pretty upset.”

  “Tell me quick. I need to get back.”

  “One of her blog fans turned out to be Christasy Anselmo and she’s coming to video an episode of her show with Gran.”

  Kimmie’s mouth literally dropped open. “You’re freaking kidding me.”

  “Nope. But I need to get back out there.” He stood and sucked air noisily.

  “Wow. Okay, tell me everything later.” They walked to the door. “Chewy says your big tipper is back on table twelve.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I need to hurry.”

  She patted his shoulder as Red practiced looking relaxed and confident all the way to the front room. The man was eating without even staring at his phone and didn’t seem to notice that half the people in the room were staring at him. Jeez, who could do that? “Are you enjoying your meal, sir?”

  “Yes, very much. I haven’t had anything like this since I was a kid. It really does bring back memories. And you’re not kidding about the bleu cheese. Delicious. Now, the meal would be perfect if I could get you to stop calling me sir and try for Brock.”

  Red’s brain had scampered ahead to dessert suggestions and came flying back like someone pulled on its reins. “Excuse me?”

  The man held out a hand. “I’m Brock Wolfe. Since I’ll probably be back in more than once, I’m suggesting you call me Brock rather than rel
egating me to my dotage with a well-placed sir.”

  “I always call the customers sir, sir.” Red made a squeaking sound when he swallowed. “Uh, except when they’re ladies, of course.”

  “Hmm. Really?” He pointed to RJ Stern who graduated from high school with Red. “Do you call him sir?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “How about him?” He waggled a subtle finger toward Mr. Hardesty, the head of the town council who was about eighty.

  “Yes.” Red was starting to smile.

  “I rest my case.”

  For the first time, the hot-poker tension on the back of Red’s neck relaxed a little. “Okay, Brock, what would you like for dessert?”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that anyone who just ate meat loaf, mac and cheese, plus bleu cheese could actually eat dessert.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, now you’re sensible.” His eyes danced.

  “I’m suggesting you drink your dessert in the form of the best root beer float in the United States of America.”

  Brock dropped his head in his hand and at least six pairs of eyes from around the room gazed at them in fascination. Brock said, “Unfair. I’d kill for an average root beer float. There’s no telling what I’d do for the best one in the US.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Red grinned, wrote it on the order, turned with a touch of sass, and walked away.

  Five minutes later, when the order came up, Red said, “I’ll take it.”

  He marched back to the man—Brock’s—table with the float, featuring whipped cream, plus a touch of cinnamon and chocolate powder on the top, and presented it with a flourish.

  Brock held up a finger. “Wait. The judges must reach a verdict.” Ignoring the straw Red had put beside his glass, he sipped a mouthful of the float, leaving a tiny mustache of cream on his upper lip.

  He closed his eyes, his lips parted, a slim but long pink tongue emerged and he licked, ever so slowly, the strip of white. “Ohhhh, yes.”

  Red couldn’t drag his gaze from that tongue. Unfortunately, neither could most of the diners in the room.

  Brock moaned, “This is even better than advertised and far exceeds my expectations.” Again, his tongue slid out and as it rose, so did significant parts of Red’s anatomy. All his energy dove from his head to his cock, and the combination of light-headed and stiff-crotched made him grab for the back of the chair to keep from falling.

  Jeez, could I be more of a tool? Still, his cock refused to cooperate with any calm-down suggestions.

  Brock finally opened his eyes, smiled, and said, “So what are you studying in college?”

  College? What? “Uh, I’m not in college yet.”

  “But you must have some idea what you’d like to study.”

  Introduction to Cock? History of Balls? His brain wouldn’t function. “Not really. I’ll let you finish your dessert.” He shrugged so his apron adjusted a little and left the room with a smile plastered on his face.

  When he got to the order window, he forced himself to remember his other customers. Fortunately, even meatloaf couldn’t keep the good families of Ever After up too late, so the dining rooms were starting to clear and the line at the door had dwindled to nothing. He delivered the check to two of his tables and collected money, but only one of them turned over and that was with kids who ordered burgers and fries. Amazingly, and very happily, he hadn’t seen Phil Gordat in there since the night Mark took him out.

  Mark. Oh great, just what he needed. To be reminded that Mark hadn’t even wanted to see him that day. Or maybe any day.

  As he squared his shoulders to return to table twelve, Chewy waylaid him. “You gonna get us a big reward again?”

  “I don’t know, Chewy.” He tried not to frown.

  “Felly says that dude practically drools when he looks at you.”

  Enough! “Tell Felly to fuck off!” Chewy looked shocked, but Red walked to the front room with the bill in his hand.

  Brock was looking at his watch.

  Red said, “Oh, I hope I didn’t make you late.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’ve been so relaxed, I lost track of time. Thank you for all your excellent recommendations.” He pulled a platinum card from his wallet, and Red hurried it to the front and returned with his credit card payment form.

  Brock signed and jotted a number on the bottom of the slip. Red didn’t stare, but it took effort. Then Brock took a business card from his pocket. He held it out to Red. “Red, I’d like you to take my card and look me up online. I plan to come back into the restaurant, and at that time, perhaps we can arrange a few minutes to talk. I think we might have, shall we say, business to do together.”

  “What do you mean?” Red’s expression had to look some combination of scared, fascinated, and angry. He had no idea why he felt any of those things.

  “We’ll discuss it another day, after you’ve had a chance to check me out, okay?” Brock stood and then handed Red the receipt. It had a regular 20 percent tip, but under the slip of paper was a hundred dollar bill. “Why don’t you keep that for yourself?”

  Red sucked in air as he stared at the money. “We share tips, sir. I mean Brock. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  Brock stood nearly eye-to-eye with Red, which made him an inch or two over six feet. Heat seemed to radiate from his body, but that had to be Red’s imagination. Brock’s lips turned up. “Aren’t you a refreshing package of honesty?” He gave him a warm pat on the arm. “See you soon.”

  For a second, their gazes intertwined like some tunnel of dark heat, and then Brock whirled and started toward the exit.

  Red turned. Standing directly in front of him, staring at Red, was Mark.

  Chapter Eight

  Do something! Smile. Yell. Something.

  Red stared at Mark whose expression was unreadable. Not shocked or interested or angry. He just turned, walked to his usual spot at the counter, and sat with his broad shoulders forming that wall between him and the other customers. Between him and humanity. Between him and Red.

  Suddenly, heat rose in Red’s face. Weirdly, it was anger. Damn, who does Mark think he is? I work five hours for him and he doesn’t even show up to drive me to work. Now he comes in at the end of my shift and doesn’t give me a thanks for balancing my books or a go to hell. Why should he look at me with judgment anyway? All I did was checkout a customer.

  Pointedly ignoring Mark, Red stomped to the order window.

  Kimmie started to smile, then saw his face. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  She crossed her arms. “Well fuck off to you, too, and by the way, I can hear your phone ringing in the storage room.”

  “How do you know it’s mine?” He couldn’t force himself to smile.

  “Because it’s your gran’s ringtone. That’s how.”

  “Well, fuck.” He hurried to the back room, grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket, and sure enough, his gran had called twice. She almost never phoned him at work. He dialed.

  “Hi, darling.” His gran’s voice sounded sunny, which instantly ratcheted down his anxiety level.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, dear, it couldn’t be better. I can’t thank you enough for asking Mark to come over and help me. He’s been so amazing. I just couldn’t wait for you to get home to tell you. Heavens, the boy can do anything. He cleaned the carpet, painted, repaired the screen door, and helped set up my workspace. But he wouldn’t let me feed him dinner, so I’m guessing he’s coming your way, and I just wanted you to thank him again and buy his dinner. I’ll pay, okay?”

  Red stared at the phone and felt the heat building behind his eyes. “Thanks, Gran. I’ve got to hurry.” Running out the door, he clicked off his phone, skidded around the corner to the counter—and, of course, because whatever gods there might be hated Redmond Ridley, Mark was gone.

  If there hadn’t been any more customers, he’d have slid to the floor and just stayed there. As it was, he sta
red at the empty stool. Mark must not have even ordered coffee. He just didn’t want to see Red.

  Warm hands grasped his arms. Kimmie said, “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Di-did you see him go?”

  “Yeah. He came in, saw you, went to the counter, and then when you went by him without saying anything, he got up, walked to the door, and left.”

  Red nodded.

  Behind him, Kimmie said, “Chewy, will you check out Red’s last table, please?” Then her voice got softer and closer. “Are you mad at him? Didn’t you want to see him? You seemed really pissed off.”

  “Not angry. Stupid. Just really, really stupid.”

  “Hey, that’s obvious, but is there any particular reason?” She grinned.

  She wanted him to laugh, but he couldn’t. He sighed. “I got all up in myself Diva-like and decided to be pissed that he didn’t come get me and instead let me take the bus to work.”

  “Okay, that was pretty super Deev there, but what? You realized that was dumb?”

  He shook his head dully. “Gran called and told me Mark had been working for her all day. He did everything. All the stuff I should have been doing. Hell, I saw her on the street and was wondering why she wasn’t at home working on the house. It was because Mark was doing it!” He turned and his shoulders felt too heavy to hold up. “So you see, I didn’t even realize my assholeness on my own. I needed Gran to help me.”

  “Come on.” She pulled on his arm and walked him to the back room, then shoved him on the bench. He didn’t resist. Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “So what’s with the dude with the eyes?”

  “Eyes?”

  “Mr. Sexy. The big-city customer. Was he hitting on you?”

  “No!” He chewed his lip. “I mean, I don’t think so.” Crap, in the anxiety over Mark, the whole thing with Brock had kind of faded into the background. But Mark probably wouldn’t have run out the door if Brock hadn’t—hadn’t what? “What did it look like? I mean, did you see Brock, the dude with the eyes?”

  “Yes. When Mark walked over there, I followed him to see what was going on—Sorry, you know I’m nosy—and I saw what he saw.”

  Red sighed. “What was that?”