Tainted Love (A Totally '80s Romance 2)

by Addison Moore

  The trumpet sounds, and the over-the-hill Daughter of the Peninsula, dressed like a black dahlia, yelps once again.

  “Miss Amanda Prescott and her date, Mr. Russell James.”

  My heart stops. That can’t be right. I must have imagined that last part. The head waitress distinctly mentioned that these couples have been practicing together for months. I’m sure Russell would have told me if he were going to be Amanda’s bookend for the night. Russell is going to die when he finds out Amanda lost her mind and had them call out his name as her date no less. She’s worse than a bona fide stalker. She’s delusional—

  Then I see them, arm in arm—Amanda and Russell himself.

  “What?” I stumble back a moment, and the tall, lanky girl standing next to me pulls me up and steadies me. That fake smile on her face stretches even tighter as she looks straight ahead.

  Down the aisle they come, oblivious to the help in general, and I duck as they pass me by before watching diligently as they head under the sword-wielding tunnel. Dear God. Amanda is beautiful in her enormous white dress, wide as the double doorway itself, and Russell looks like Prince Charming by her side. Tears start to form, but I won’t let them fall. Not tonight, not ever. How could Russell have done this to me? There has to be some mistake. She must have snagged him as her last-minute date or something. Once the processional is through, I pull the girl aside who was kind enough to keep me from passing out and beg her to switch tables with me.

  “No way.” Her eyes grow large. “The country club expects things done in a certain manner. If management sees me making waves, it’ll be the last gig I get in this place. My weekend tips alone are enough to pay my rent. I’m not shaking things up. Good luck finding someone who will. Now, get to the kitchen.” She winks. “This is where the real fun begins.”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God! This night really could get worse, and boy does it ever.

  I follow the rest of the crew into the kitchen, and we each pick up an oversized tray filled with five fresh breadbaskets. I head out onto the floor in the direction of the guy whom I thought was my boyfriend as he sits with Amanda, and my limbs go weak, my forehead breaks out in a sweat. My tray trembles so hard I’m about to make it rain carbohydrates all over these expensive stone floors.

  “Get a grip—will you?” the thin girl from the lineup hisses into my ear. Her orange lips knot up with discontent. “They’re just people like you and me. No better—believe you me, no better.” She scowls at the crowd. “Lowlifes, most of them. Not worth all that nervous energy. Half the girls will spend their lives in divorce court, and the men—they’ll be in prison touting their innocence right after they fleece the public blind. Get a good look at those young men. One of them is already plotting how he’s going to steal your nest egg.” She speeds off, and I let her words sink in a moment.

  One of them already stole something far more priceless—my heart.

  A live house band, more like full-blown orchestra, complete with tuxedos and full-length gowns sits at the front and plays long, drawn-out boring hymns until the entire place feels as if it’s going to fall into a coma.

  With the stealth maneuvers of a ninja, I bend over backward, literally, serving each table first their bread, then their salads. Everyone at table five is too immersed in conversation to notice my duck-and-jive routine. I could have served those breadsticks topless, and I doubt Russell would have noticed me. He’s so enthralled with his precious princess.

  As soon as I’m through, there’s a slight lull in service, so I jump behind the corridor that leads to the restroom and get a clear view of Amanda and her date.

  There he is. My heart hitches into my throat as I watch him. So casually he hacks through his salad, so effortlessly he knocks back his water and refills Amanda’s glass before refilling his own. And it’s that one tiny act of chivalry that knifes me in the gut, ten times worse than seeing him here as her date. Russell is a prince among men. He’s just not my prince.

  Tess and Rachel engage Amanda’s attention, and the three of them guffaw over something in that annoying witch-like cackle they seemed to have perfected as a trio. Russell, however, doesn’t seem as entranced. He’s simply making small talk with their dates, looking overall disinterested in general. He glances my way, and I duck further into the shadows. I peer through the corner to catch him wincing this way before getting up and heading over.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I scuttle around the back and make my way into the kitchen once again. I take the opportunity to serve all the tables in my area their dome-covered dishes—Amanda’s table with my back turned to them, all before Russell manages to return to his seat. As soon as he enters the main hall, as soon as that wall of a chest of his that I truly believed belonged to me heads in this direction, I scat back to the kitchen.

  I peek through the tiny porthole of a window in the service door and catch Amanda trying to flag down waitstaff.

  “Who the hell has table number five?” the redheaded woman to whom I first reported to duty harps with the panache of a drill sergeant. “Get someone over there with a chicken plate! The darn ditz gave her a steak. Honestly, I don’t know where kids’ heads are these days.”

  Lady, you do not want to know.

  A young man takes up a domed chicken platter for me and makes a beeline for the picky little witch. Most of the crew busies themselves with replenishing water decanters and refilling breadbaskets, but my five tables are simply going to have to do without. Honestly? I should really just leave—or, in the least, bum rush table number five and tip it on its side. Either way, I don’t think I need to stick around for this brand of torture.

  I speed out the back, untying my apron as I go, and the lanky girl from the line catches me by the elbow.

  “Whoa. Where you off to, toots? There’s no smoke break until after dessert. You’d better get back in there before they give that three hundred dollar service tip to someone else.”

  “Three hundred dollars?” That’s more than I make in two months.

  “Yes. You didn’t know? It’s the required gratuity. Five tables equal at least three hundred dollars. Don’t worry—the club already collected. Their parents shelled it out as a part of the deposit. Trust me, once you get a taste of the tipping that goes on at this place, you’ll be clawing your eyes out to be here each and every weekend.” She twists her pumpkin orange lips at me. “Now, get back in there.”

  Wow. Three hundred dollars? I glance back inside to find Amanda whispering something to Russell, and he nods in agreement. Probably something along the lines of, “Aren’t you glad you finally ditched that tattletale skank?”

  A righteous anger starts to boil within me. Who the hell does Russell James think he is, dating me while learning proper etiquette with Amanda on the weekends? The Russell I knew would never have done such a two-timing thing. Although, it’s clear the version I knew never existed. Russell James is nothing but a liar. I wish the main course were spaghetti, because if it were, I’d head over right now and take pleasure in dumping it right over both their heads. On second thought, at least Amanda was honest with me. Why should her nice little updo and pretty white dress have to suffer for it? It’s Russell that I’m honing all my antagonistic aggression on.

  The waitstaff floods the kitchen once again as dessert is rolled out—a puff of white frosting… that they’re setting on fire?

  “What is that?” I snatch at the first body I find and suck in a sharp breath. Mrs. James!

  Her affect softens to a mild confusion. “Aren’t you Sheri’s daughter?”

  “I’m taking her place.” Shit!

  She gives a knowing nod. “Not a problem.” Her cranberry lips actually manage a smile for me. “That’s a Baked Alaska.” She over annunciates the words as if I’ve never heard the King’s English before. “Ice cream ensconced in meringue. Don’t worry. The sous chef will light it for you. Just make sure to keep it flaming until you set it down. It’ll go out on its own. Now, get out there and serve dessert!
” She starts to take off, but I pull her back.

  “Wait! How long has Russell been, you know, practicing?” Inadvertently that sounded dirty and wrong.

  “For the cotillion?” She steps back as if the answer were obvious, and I’m afraid it is. “Oh, months. He’s been preparing every Saturday since September.”

  “September, huh?” There it is, the knife in my beating heart. I was nothing but a joke to him, and Amanda was in on it all along. “There isn’t a king and queen ceremony at these kinds of things is there?” I don’t think my heart can take it.

  “No.” She shakes her head, perturbed before taking off.

  Well, there you have it. At least I won’t have to suffer that terrible fate again. Carefully I carry tray after tray of fiery desserts to their less than awestruck prospective consumers. If someone were to go out of their way to give me a flaming piece of ice cream, I would at least have the courtesy to say thank you. Just as I’m serving the last blazing treat, to the first table, my tray nearly topples, and I do a mad balancing act in an effort to right it. The table breaks out in a mini applause, and I can feel myself blushing deeply as I hand off the final dessert. I glance up in time to see Tess craning her neck at me, her eyes squinted in scrutiny as if she lost a diamond up my nose. I hold the tray up over my face like a shield and head back into the kitchen.

  “Dessert equals almost done, equals three hundred dollars,” I mutter.

  “Now you’ve got it.” It’s the wiry girl from the line again.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Gloria.” She wrinkles her nose at me as if I’ve overstepped my bounds.

  “If I’m going to have a friend in this place, I may as well know what to call you,” I say mostly to myself as I peer out through the porthole window once again. The band kicks the music up a notch, and soon bodies are mixing around the room, and, as much as I want to hate it, as much as I want to bag on the way everyone looks—those beautiful white ball gowns sway with such beauty that not even I can look away. The dance floor fills, and two by two the Noah’s Ark of high society gets underway.

  I spot Russell chatting it up with the guy next to him, laughing. I bet they’re comparing notes on how many girls they have on the side. I bet girls like Amanda find it perfectly acceptable for their douchebag counterparts to step out on them right in the open. All they care about is handbags and couture clothing, expensive European vacations, and gifting the acclaimed staff at Milton blowjobs.

  Gloria steps in beside me. “All we have to do now is clear the tables, and we are out of here. We don’t have to look at another high society snob for the rest of the night.”

  I’m liking this us against them solidarity Gloria and I seem to have forged.

  “That’s it?” My heart breaks a little because a pathetic part of me wanted to linger and watch Russell in all his handsome glory, even if he wasn’t with me. A part of me is still fascinated by that gorgeous boy with the steel blue eyes. A very stupid part of me still cares for him. I really know how to pick ’em—first, dip-my-wick-in-every-girl-I-see Slam, and now, Russell with his trickle down sexual economics. I should ban myself from the male species for life.

  “Go on now,” Gloria coaxes. “Ten more minutes of this torture, then report to the employee lounge where Mrs. James will dole out the cash. There’s another crew coming in tomorrow to break down the tables.”

  “Nice to know we’re just a cog in the wheel that is the Glen Heights Country Club. Here goes nothing.” I head back out just as Russell and Amanda rise from their seats, and I duck behind the towering ice sculpture of a dolphin.

  I watch as Russell holds his arm out, and she gracefully threads her gloved hand through it. My heart shatters. I hate how dapper they look. How perfect they are. How his dimples still seem to be in perfect working order without me in the vicinity. She leans in and whispers something to him before taking off for the restroom.

  That was close. For a second, I thought I’d have to watch them waltz into the sunset—worse yet—lip lock their way into the sunset. Of course, that might have driven me to the brink of madness and caused me to tip over this oversized ice sculpture and set fire to the place. Tragedy averted.

  As quick as lightning, I bus tables one, two, and three. If there were a reward for Houdini-like service, I would be in the running for sure. Table four takes a little more time since I practically have to pry the dessert from a couple of guys taking their obnoxious time with it. But table five is my nemesis. This one will obviously take a bit more finesse since no one actually wants to dance with Tess or Rachel. And, I swear, I keep seeing Tess steal glances, so I have to reinstate my bend-over-backward maneuver.

  I take a deep breath as I eye it from the kitchen. Both Russell and Amanda are nowhere to be found. Another couple gets up, and so does Rachel. I think that’s as good as it gets. Ain’t nobody got time for Tess and her bullshit. I’ll just barrel on over and bulldoze that thing.

  I head over with a tray near my head in the event Tess gets the urge to turn into a scouting hen again. I scoop as many dishes and oversized silver domes as I can into my hands and clear half the table at once.

  “Nice job!” Mrs. James passes me in the kitchen with a clipboard in her hand, and I try not to let the growing smirk on my face show.

  I speed back out and scoop up the rest of the dishes while Tess is busy cackling away in her poor date’s ear. Just one more dish, and I’m in the clear! It’s Russell’s.

  My hand trembles reaching for it as if it was Russell himself, and suddenly I feel the need to strangle his utensils. He didn’t even touch his Baked Alaska. Figures. Even the stunt desserts are wasted on these people.

  “Here, let me help you.” A strong hand hoists the final dish to my chin, and a pair of piercing blue eyes stares back at me through the tower of china and steel amassed on my oversized tray.

  A breath gets caught in my throat, as his eyes grow wide with surprise.

  “Heather?”

  “Shit!” I spin around and sway from side-to-side with a stack of dishes to my ears, teetering toward the opposite direction of the kitchen, straight for the dance floor. Amanda heads this way, and I try to zig as she zags just as my foot catches on the edge of the dance floor and up in the air go all the pretty gold-trimmed dishes, the silverware twirling like batons—Russell’s Baked Alaska that was never even touched lands smack on Amanda’s forehead. Then the dishes come down with a magnificent clatter that stops the band in its tracks, and every single soul in the entire facility turns to gawk at the disaster.

  “Oh!” It’s the only word that manages to croak from my mouth.

  “Heather.” Russell tries to spin me around, but I tear off my apron and hand it to Amanda in an effort to get the meringue off her face.

  “You stupid little slut!” She shakes the excess ice cream off her fingers.

  “I’m sorry.” I turn to head out and ram right into a familiar strong as steel chest.

  “What are you doing here?” Russell catches me by the fingers just as the band starts up again, and I pull away abruptly as if we’re about to break out into a jazz number.

  “Never mind what I’m doing here!” I snatch my fingers back. “What are you doing here?” I thread through the bodies that have once again started in on their socialite shenanigans, only to find myself deeper onto the dance floor.

  “Heather, wait!” Russell roars over the noise of the crowd, but no one really seems to pay attention. A plethora of overgrown dresses swirl and twirl, and people laugh and enjoy themselves as if they didn’t have a care in the world—and they don’t, because for one, they’re not me!

  The crowd thickens as Russell spins me back by the hand.

  “Leave me alone!” I riot in his face.

  He blocks my path with an urgency as if stopping me from committing a homicide, and he might be. A pained look takes over his face as if it agonized him to have me here. Most likely it does since I’m infringing on his time with Preppy Princess
Amanda.

  His hands glide down my arms as if begging me to stay. “This isn’t what it looks like. I swear it.”

  “Ha!” I laugh right into his face. “This is exactly what it looks like. Your mother says you’ve been practicing diligently for months!”

  Amanda comes over with her face mostly clean, and she plucks at his arm.

  “Go to her!” I shout so hard my throat burns. “You were right, Amanda! You are the same people. You belong together.” I push past them, and Russell is right there with me.

  “Let me take you home,” he pants. The warm scent of his cologne silently kills me. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  I stop in my tracks and push him so hard in the chest he stumbles backward. The crowd around us staggers and gasps at the sight of me as if I’ve just wielded an assault rifle.

  “We are done!” I roar. “Don’t you ever talk to me or look at me again. We’re from different worlds. I’m barreling toward my destiny of becoming an honest hard-working person, and you are shaping up to be quite the liar!”

  His jaw clenches as if I had just slapped him, not that I’ve taken it off the table just yet.

  I turn to go, and he roars out my name once again. “I took Amanda to the dance because my mother said she’d bring me to see my father if I did.”

  A tear rolls down my cheek. It’s hard to tell which way is up or down when someone throws you into a room with no floor and no ceiling. I have no idea if Russell James even knows the meaning of the truth anymore. But I’m not in the mood to debate it, so I do the only thing I can do.

  Leave.