by Monica James
“So?” I ask after I’m done mentally undressing him.
His eyes, which are still partially covered by wisps of hair, snap up to meet mine. He lowers the menu and folds it up, resting it on the table.
“So?” he repeats, settling into the booth and casually interlacing his hands behind his head.
And then, there is silence.
I’m used to these moments of silence, as that’s all I got dealing with strung out people most of the time. But this silence is not uncomfortable, it is anything but.
But I have a job to do.
“So, what do you want?” I ask and cringe when I realize that’s not how you address a customer.
So I correct myself. “What can I get for you?”
Quinn’s eyes never leave mine as he bites back a smile, but he thankfully doesn’t say anything smart.
“Can I please have Bobby Joe’s bacon burger, extra cheese, no onions or tomato, onion rings, and a Coke?”
He watches me as I nod after each word.
“Do you want to upsize your onion rings for a dollar?” I ask.
Quinn nods, his long hair slipping into his eyes once again. “Sure. Why not.”
I reach for the menu, but his hand, in a lightning speed move, covers mine.
A startled breath escapes my parted lips, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me have a slight case of hysteria as my skin feels like it may be on fire under his hand.
“Don’t you need to write it down?” he asks, his long fingers still enclosed around my wrist.
I shake my head and the movement unfastens some of my hair, which spills around my face.
Pulling my hand out from under his, because I can’t deal with the feelings that are currently swimming around in my chest right now, I tap my forehead with my finger and reply, “Nope, it’s all up here.”
Quinn arches an eyebrow, unbelieving.
Just to prove a point, I decide to recite his order.
“Bobby Joe’s bacon burger, extra cheese, no onions or tomato, onion rings and a Coke. By the way, what’s with no onions on your burger, but onion rings?” I ask, confused.
Quinn laughs. It’s a deep, throaty chuckle, and the sound sends a chill throughout my body.
“Ah, what can I say, I like to live life on the edge,” he jokes, pulling on his lip and drawing the piercing into his mouth. “So, you new here?” he asks with a hint of humor as I stand immobile, transfixed on his mouth.
“Ah, yeah,” I reply, snapping my eyes to his, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“Where you from?” he asks, reaching for his coffee.
A simple question to most is impossible for me to answer truthfully. So I don’t.
“So, thanks for fixing the shower,” I counter instead, hoping he gets the hint. “Hank told me you’re the handyman. That’s real nice of you to help him out.”
Quinn nods, and once again that mysterious grin hugs his cheeks. “I like hanging out there, so I’m happy to help whenever I can.”
There is an inexplicable pull I feel toward Quinn, and by the way he’s gazing at me with an eyebrow cocked, and a constant smirk, marring his flawless features whenever I see him, I dare say the feeling is reciprocated.
“How long have you been working there?” I question, hoping I don’t come across as nosy, but for some reason, I need to know all there is to him.
“Um,” Quinn replies, his eyes lowering to his coffee as his pointer finger skirts around the rim quickly. “For a few years now.” His finger is still doing laps around the cup. “It’s just my brother and me, and well, my parents, they weren’t really around.” His finger ceases with the whirlwind of movement as he meets my curious stare. “So, Night Cats was kinda my sanctuary when I was a kid, and still is.”
Quinn’s guarded response has me even more intrigued.
“Where were your parents?”
Quinn chuckles, but it’s not a pleasant sound. “Let’s just say, my parents are selfish assholes, and both my brother and me are better off without them.”
I nod, as his comment is one I can sadly relate to.
“Aren’t they all,” I reply in a faraway voice, hating the vulnerability in my response.
Quinn’s brow furrows, as if attempting to decipher my comment. But I have revealed too much, and I need to be more careful in the future.
“So if you ever need anything, when I’m at the motel, I mean, please let me know,” Quinn says after a moment of silence, watching me closely.
However, before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes, announcing the arrival of customers. And judging by how loud they are, there are a lot of them.
“Um, thanks,” I stutter, snapping out of my thoughts. “I’ll be right back with your Coke. Food won’t be too long,” I say, dashing off, thankful for the derailment.
When I see the group who just strolled into the diner, the hair at the back of my neck instantly rears up. I immediately don’t like them, because one of them is the dick who nearly ran me over in the Jeep.
There are four of them. Two boys and two girls.
The girls are wearing red and yellow cheerleading outfits that could be deemed inappropriate, as I’m pretty sure I can see their hoo-hoos if they move the wrong way. They’re both platinum blonde, and their perfect hair sits in high, slicked back ponytails, held in place with red and yellow ribbons.
I think I just vomited in my mouth a little as I hear them giggling, fluttering their fake eyelashes to the two jocks.
Let me reiterate, I HATE cheerleaders. And I HATE jocks.
Swallowing my revulsion, I grab four menus from the counter and walk over to NFL Ken, who I’m pretty certain was the driver of the Jeep, and Cheerleader Barbie, while pinning my nametag back on.
“Hi, guys, grab a seat and I’ll be with you shortly,” I say, handing them their menus.
I’m so proud of myself, as the sentence didn’t end with profanity.
“Who are you?” sneers cheerleader number one rudely, while hooking her manicured fingers through the arm of the beefy looking guy, who is definitely the driver.
She’s giving me serious evil eye as she pulls him to her side protectively, and I roll my eyes, tapping my nametag sarcastically. I walk off before I say something that will surely get my ass fired.
Where the hell is Tabitha? Looking at the clock, which thankfully reveals half an hour is nearly up, I give myself a pep talk. You can do this, Mia, only a few more minutes and then Tabitha can deal with them.
The party of four are giggling and whispering not so softly when I approach their booth.
The cheerleader, who gave me serious stink eye, is sitting in the middle of the group, and eyes my face with disgust as I look at them, waiting for them to order.
“What can I get you?” I ask casually.
“Where’s the carrot top?” asks the driver.
I look at him and my lip curls. He is so… big and brawny and… rude.
“Who?” I ask, knowing all too well he’s referring to Tabitha.
“You know, the redhead,” he clarifies, slouching back into his seat and throwing an arm around the other cheerleader.
She giggles. “Brad.”
Okay, meathead number one is Brad—the fucker who can’t drive.
“Ooh, you got a thing for her?” mocks cheerleader number one, throwing an empty straw wrapper his way.
Brad pulls back, horror-struck. “Fuck no, Stacey. If I wanted to slum it, I wouldn’t be doing it with a redhead.”
And cheerleader number one is Stacey.
Stacey cackles and looks at me pointedly. “What about emo freaks?” she asks, directing the question at me.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from flying over the table and pulling out her fake hair.
Ignoring Stacey, like she didn’t just insult me, I ask, “So, you ready to order?”
Stacey crosses her arms over her bust; obviously pissed she didn’t get a response out of me. It’s going to take a lot more than a b
unch of spoiled, rich college kids to get me riled up.
Jock number two gives me a small smile. “Can I please have a Coke?”
I give him a small nod, acknowledging his order.
“Gimme a Coke, too,” says Brad, throwing the menu onto the table, unhappy with the food selection.
“Can I please have a Caesar Salad, no ranch dressing, and a diet Coke?” asks cheerleader two.
Nodding, I then move my eyes over to Malibu Stacey, waiting for her order.
She’s wearing a snide smile on her painted lips as she cocks a thin, fair eyebrow.
“I’ll have a cheeseburger with no cheese, extra pickles, and I want the little diced onions, not the big ones you get on the double cheeseburgers. I want a skinny chocolate shake, no whipped cream, but lots of chocolate syrup.” She taps her chin and adds, “Oh, and a basket of chili fries and a diet Coke, no ice.”
I know this tiny girl in front of me doesn’t keep her figure by eating. And if she did eat that much, she probably pays a visit to the bathroom afterward.
She’s doing this because I haven’t written any of it down, and she’s trying to be difficult in what she orders so I muddle things up.
“Right, that’s all then?” I ask, my smile dripping with sarcasm.
Stacey looks taken aback that I’ve remembered everything, but nods.
Turning my back on them, I mumble, “Tramp,” under my breath.
When I enter the kitchen, I see Tristan reaching overhead to place three big boxes on a high shelf. His shirt is riding up, exposing a sliver of toned flesh.
I quickly avert my eyes, embarrassed that I’m blatantly checking out the light dusting of hair on his tummy.
“Hey, everything going okay out there?” he asks, wiping his hands on his baggy shorts.
“Yup, fine,” I reply while writing down my orders, failing to mention the asswipes out there.
“Whatcha after? I’ll get it for you.”
I haven’t really figured out what Tristan’s role is at Bobby Joe’s. He hired me, but I know he’s not technically the owner or chef. But he seems to do it all.
I rattle off the orders, and after I am done, his dimple makes an appearance.
“Did you remember all that? Without writing it all down?”
I nod like it’s no big deal, because to me, it isn’t.
“Wow, watch out, Tabitha,” he jokes, playfully.
Speaking of which.
“I better get back out there. Tabitha is due back and I don’t want her to think I’m slacking off, talking to the boss. Oh and boss, I spilled ketchup everywhere,” I say teasingly.
Tristan tosses a bag of fries into the deep fryer, which makes a loud, sizzling hiss.
“Please—the boss? They don’t pay me enough for that. As for the ketchup, I won’t take it out of your pay, this time,” he says, mimicking a deep, commanding voice, but just breaks out into a grin.
As I find my lips tipping up, I quickly excuse myself before I overanalyze the smile. And why I feel so comfortable around a complete stranger.
I am about to push through the double doors, but get barreled into by Tabitha.
“Oh shit, sorry,” I apologize quickly.
But when I see her face, I know something is wrong.
“Tabitha, are you okay?”
But I know that’s a stupid question as she throws herself into my arms, crying hysterically.
I’m totally taken off guard, and don’t know how to react to a situation such as this. She just keeps sobbing, and the more she sobs, the harder she grabs onto me.
“Tabitha?” I ask as she wraps her arms around my middle, squeezing the air out of my lungs.
I’m standing awkwardly with my arms straight by my sides and head pulled back, shying away from her touching me.
This isn’t the right way to comfort her, as I’ve seen in movies how friends are meant to console friends. And my current stance most certainly does not resemble that in the slightest.
“There, there,” I say, trying my best to sound sympathetic.
The gesture just makes her cry louder, and I cringe.
“Tabitha, what’s the matter? Did… your cat die?” I ask, as I once saw a girl on TV crying this way when her cat died.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with her.
The kitchen door swings open and out strolls Tristan with a milkshake in one hand, and a Coke in the other.
He stops abruptly when he sees us in the hallway. “Oh. Is everything okay?” he asks, looking at me, concern clear in his gentle eyes.
I shrug but the movement doesn’t deter Tabitha, as she’s still holding on for dear life.
“I think her cat died,” I say stupidly when there’s an uncomfortable silence, that’s occasionally filled with Tabitha’s sniffles.
Thankfully, her cries cease, and she muffles against my chest, “I don’t have a cat.”
My shoulders rise up in a shrug because that’s all I got.
Tristan bites back a small smirk when he sees how rigid and awkward I look consoling Tabitha.
“What’s up, Abi?” he asks, dipping down to meet her eyes.
Tabitha sniffs, and thank the Lord, she lets me go.
“Brad,” is all she replies.
Brad? As in asswipe, can’t drive Brad?
Tristan’s jaw clenches and he looks toward the double doors.
“He’s out there?”
Tabitha’s lower lip trembles, and I’m afraid she’s about to launch herself at me for round two of tears.
I quickly step to the left, and nearly knock into Tristan.
“Here, I’ll take those,” I say as I take hold of the drinks and make a quick exit, leaving Tristan to deal with the tears.
As I see the table of four, I realize I would rather deal with the tears than them. I quickly sneak a peek at Quinn, who’s still sitting at his table, talking on his phone. As I look at him a little longer than expected, he meets my gaze as he hangs up, and I almost trip over my feet.
Quickly lowering my eyes, I make a beeline for Brad’s table.
I slide the Coke to Brad and chocolate shake to Stacey without a word and turn my back, ready to hightail it out of there, when I hear a throat clearing.
“Excuse me, Paige,” Stacey spits out, saying my name like it is a disease.
Closing my eyes tightly, as my patience is about to snap, I take a deep breath before I spin around and reopen my eyes, trying my best not to glare.
“Yes?” I say curtly, looking at Stacey who is pursing her lips.
“I didn’t order this,” she says, sliding the milkshake to me.
My hand slaps around the tumbler, my silver rings clinking on the glass loudly. She pushed the milkshake with enough force it would have fallen off the table if I hadn’t caught it.
“Yes, you did,” I reply, and this time, I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice.
“No, I didn’t,” she mocks, shuffling up in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest daringly.
“Okay, what did you order then?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
The table is looking between me and Stacey, and I can sense a fight is brewing.
“I ordered a strawberry shake,” she replies, examining her fingernails like this conversation is boring her.
My anger begins to bubble to the surface, and I am scared of what is going to happen when it boils over. I take a visible breath, and think of why I am here.
I am only here short term. I can deal with this snooty nosed, little bitch.
“No, you didn’t. You ordered this,” I say, and slide the milkshake back at her with as much force as she did.
She quickly catches it, as it would have spilled all over her cheerleading outfit if she didn’t.
With that visual, I smile a big, sarcastic smirk, daring her to challenge me.
She pushes the milkshake aside and sits up, glaring at me.
“How would you know? You didn’t even write it down.”
“I didn’t
need to,” I reply, and I can feel my face reddening in rage.
“What? You expect me to believe you remembered it?” she asks, incredulous.
“I don’t care what you believe,” I retort complacently.
“Prove it,” she says, smirking sinisterly.
The table looks at me, and everyone, bar Brad, looks mighty uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Prove what?” I spit out, knowing all too well what she wants.
“Tell me what I ordered,” she answers, narrowing her grey eyes at me.
Deciding to humor this little tramp, I twirl my finger around my hair, attempting my best bimbo impersonation as I say, “Cheeseburger with no cheese, extra pickles, the little diced onions, not the big ones you get on the double cheeseburgers. Skinny chocolate shake, no whipped cream, lots of chocolate syrup, basket of chili fries, and a diet Coke, no ice.”
I say all this in my best mimicking voice, mocking the harlot in front of me.
The whole table bite their lips, embarrassed I have called Stacey out on her bluff.
“So, can I go do my job now?” I ask cockily.
Stacey only nods and sips on her shake, humiliated, not meeting my eyes.
I turn on my heel and feel my lips slant up into a smile. A real, genuine, happy smile.
My eyes snap up to meet a pair of highly amused emerald eyes, biting back a big smirk, as he obviously heard the exchange.
This time, however, I don’t lower my eyes. I meet his gaze, and I don’t know what comes over me when I return his smile, and it doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels normal.
Chapter 9
A Gentleman Never Tells
The rest of the day passes without another lick of drama, thank goodness. But to be honest, it’s too busy to deal with any drama.
Tabitha was right, the lunch rush is nothing compared to the dinner rush. I’m run off my feet, and by the time my shift ends at 9 p.m., all I can think about is having a shower and going to sleep.
I throw my dirty apron into the wash and am collecting my bag when Tabitha enters the locker room, looking as exhausted as I.
“Wow, I’m beat,” she says, slumping onto the lone, plastic chair sitting near my locker.
I give her a small smile, and realize this simple gesture is something I’m becoming more comfortable with.
