by Vivian Gray
“You gotta be kidding me, sweetheart.” She tosses back her long, jet-black hair and adjusts her tight top. She looks me up and down before reaching over to suddenly undo the top buttons of my shirt so that the lining of my lacey bra slips through the opening. “We both know,” she adds with a smile, “that the only way to guarantee the tips we deserve is to give them what they think they deserve. Show a little more of that dewy white skin. Guys like these don’t see natural redheads with their natural bodies every day. You have to make them think you’re offering it.”
I fidget with the buttons she’s undone as I protest, “I’m not offering it. I would never sleep with one of those jerks out there. They couldn’t pay me to.”
Elinor leans up against the window of the kitchen door, sneaking a peek at the restaurant’s dining room. For ten o’clock on a Friday, it’s a relatively slow night. Only three servers remain which is usually a good thing – less competition for tables and tips. But on nights that drag, waitressing is more of a curse than a blessing. I rarely make enough to equal out the time spent with the few customers remaining.
Still, Elinor doesn’t seem phased by this at all. In fact, she looks positively giddy when she turns back to me. “Yeah. Sure, Del. That’s great. But you need to be open to at least giving a show.” She takes my hand and pulls me up towards the window. With a stubby finger pointed to the glass she adds, “You see that table over there? The one with the man in the navy suit? That’s Price Olsen.”
“Price Olsen? Am I supposed to know that name?” I hate admitting how out of it I am. I rarely see a movie, and I never read those trashy celebrity gossip magazines unless I am with my mom. I work so much and so late that the only TV I catch is the late-night news or early morning infomercials. By L.A. standards, I’m practically a recluse shut-in.
Elinor knows this about me. We’ve worked together for over a year now, but that still doesn’t stop her from rolling her huge brown eyes at me with a deep, long sigh. “Come on, Del. Price Olsen is a huge movie producer. He’s worked on just about everything, which means he has money for anything.” She thinks for a second and then says excitedly, “You know, I don’t need this table. You take him. Flirt with him. See what happens. I bet you’ll get enough cash from him to make up for the shitty tables you had earlier.”
I glance back at the table. Two men, both dressed in those heavy business suits that look so uncomfortable on most guys, lean back casually in the booth. The man in blue stretches out his arm to take up even more space. Something about him skeeves me out. Even without seeing his face or hearing his voice, a little bit of me is none too eager to attend to him – especially in the way Elinor is suggesting.
“No way,” I refuse, “he’s in your zone. You take him. I’m not desperate, El. I can handle the two or three tables I’ve got.”
“Shut up and do it. If you don’t, I’ll tell Bill that the reason why some of the richest men in the country are not being waited on is because you ignored their table.”
“You wouldn’t!” I exclaim. The last thing I want is for Bill, our portly and sexist manager, to be told I wasn’t doing my job. I’ve already had enough run-ins with him, especially with me needing some time off to help my mom out. He wanted me to make up my days in, well, unconventional ways that didn’t involve finding backups. I’m not about to go down that rabbit hole again.
“Better get out there, Del. The clock is ticking.” She gestures with her finger to the clock on the wall. A sign under it is a reminder that no customer can be seated for more than three minutes without someone checking on them. My three minutes of resistance is clearly up. Elinor practically throws me and my half-undone shirt out the kitchen door with a hearty slap to my back.
It takes a moment for the men to register me. I hate that about rich guys; they never seem to care about who is standing before them. It’s not until I lean over the Price Olsen guy’s lap with a coaster in hand that the two give me a look over. They’re pleased. At least there’s that. Maybe Elinor is right. Flash a little skin, bat a few eyelashes, and cash in at the end of the night.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I gush with an unnaturally lower voice as I place down two glasses of water before them. “How are we doing tonight?”
The man in blue is clearly the leader. His friend looks to him to answer even the most basic question. He clears his throat, leans back, and adjusts a pair of thick black glasses dangling from his nose. His upturned nose flares slightly as he laughs. “Better now that you’re here, darling. Do you have a name?”
“Delilah. I’ll be your server for the evening. Is there anything I can get for you, or would you two like to see a menu?” I reach over the table again, this time slower, to make a big production out of handing them a pair of black leather binders with the list of our drinks and entrees. Neither opens the book.
“What do you recommend, Delilah?” My name on his lips feels terribly wrong, but I can’t place why. It’s the same feeling I had back in the kitchen when they first walked in.
I think for a second and then recommend the most expensive cocktail on the menu. I lick my painted lips as I suggest, “The Charleston’s delicious. It’s sweet with a hint of honey, but the bartender makes it extra strong for a kick. I like to sip it on hard nights.”
“Hard nights?” Price laughs again. “Is this a hard night?”
“Not with you two around.” I try to giggle, but it comes out all wrong. They don’t seem to mind or notice though. To my surprise, Price moves over in their booth and pats the empty spot on the black studded leather seat.
“Then sit with us for a moment. Tell us more about the menu.”
Red flag! Red flag! Red flag! Delilah, get your ass out of here. Rule number one of waitressing is to never sit in a customer’s booth with them! Make up some excuse, quick!
My mind practically screams at me, but my body doesn’t know how to say no to his offer. He’s cute, in an older daddy kind of way. He’s certainly not my type with his clean-shaven face and the well-tailored suit. Even his cologne is not my style, but I have to admit his peppery hair and unbuttoned suit shirt try to reassure me that he wouldn’t be so bad.
“For a moment,” I find myself echoing as I slip next to him. His arm drapes around my shoulders within seconds. I try not to recoil or lean too close to him, but staying neutral is next to impossible with his deep-set eyes staring at me, imploring me to play along.
“Now, Delilah… tell us what else you recommend. You made that last drink sound so… appealing.” His words came dripping out of his mouth, every one slowed down and emphasized. His body scoots closer to mine, and the hand around my shoulder squeezes.
I don’t even notice his friend excusing himself until it’s too late. In the last booth around the corner, I’m trapped with not another person to see me squirm.
“Red or white wine?” I ask, more innocent this time. If I can ease back on my flirting, he might grow tired of me. I’d rather a crappy tip than this.
Price uses the back of his hand to gently touch my cheek. It’s a move that no one else in their fucking right mind would make given how he just met me. But the prick is bold, and he knows he can get just about any woman in the world with this move. His velvety voice whispers in my ear as he pushes back strands of my hair, “White is always nice, but I do like a good red every now and then.”
I try to pull away as I exclaim, “Fabulous. I’ll get you a glass of the—” He holds on tighter to me, his grip digging into my shoulder, and the wandering hand moves to my opened blouse. Two fingers trace around the line of my breasts, moving the fabric away for easier access. His head bobs down towards my neck, inhaling deeply.
“Hmmm… not yet. I haven’t made up my mind yet on what I want. How about you read the rest of this menu to me and tell me what I should drink.” Out of nowhere, the hem of my skirt eases up and a warm hand cups the inside of my thigh. Before I can bat it away, it travels up and up and lingers at the fleshiest part of my leg. The shock of it sends
me reeling up, nearly tipping the table over to the side.
“I’m sorry... “ I struggle to say. “Is there anything I can get you or would you like some more time? How about I give you more time, and then I’ll come back with a drink on the house? How about that?” My mind races relentlessly. I need to get away from him. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was the last time I took a man to bed.
Price leans towards me and reaches for my arm. With one thrust, he yanks me back down so that my hands land on the side of the bench. I look up to see him sneering. The smug smile points to the large piece in his tight trousers. “You’re not going anywhere, Delilah – not until I say you’re dismissed.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but my only thought is to run. As soon as he lets go of my arm, I fly back up and grab one of the glasses of water on the table. Without hesitation, I launch it at his pretty face and hipster glasses. The water splashes everywhere and chips of ice go darting through the air towards his chest. He stares, motionless, at me with his hands outstretched in shock.
“WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT DID YOU DO YOU DUMB, INSIGNIFICANT BITCH!?”
The rest of the bar goes silent. I feel every single eye turn towards our secluded place in the restaurant; some heads stretching to get a glimpse of me and the man screaming obscenities. I have no idea what to do. Should I apologize? Should I storm away? Should I hand him the extra cloth napkin in my pocket?
Luckily, I don’t have to make a decision. Before I can stammer some response, Bill, the manager, appears by my side. “Delilah? Is everything alri—” His voice stops as he notices the customer. Instant recognition hits, and by the look on Price’s face, Bill’s quick to pick up that the spilled water was no accident. Everything changes. He changes his question to, “What the hell did you do?”
“He was getting fresh with me, Bill,” I insist as quietly as possible. I don’t need the whole restaurant to hear my problems. “His hand was up my skirt. I had to do something.”
“Do you know how much this suit cost, you idiot? I want to be reimbursed for this!” Price rises in the booth, his tan face glowing red with anger. Behind him, his friend pops his head up at another booth, but he remains silent.
“Sir – Mr. Olsen, we will be happy to take care of this, as well as find you another booth. Of course, whatever you want will be on the house. Should I send another waitress over to fetch you a Charleston?”
Bill’s drink suggestion is too much. Price Olsen stands to his feet and hovers over poor Bill. A finger pointed at his chest, he exclaims, “I want you to fire that slut right here and right now.”
“Me?” I ask. “I didn’t do anything wrong! You touched me, and I—”
Bill lifts a hand towards me. “Stop, Delilah. Go home.”
“Go home? Bill, I am scheduled for the rest of the night! You can’t do this! I need the money!”
“I don’t care, Delilah. Go home, and we’ll talk in the morning.” Bill turns to face me, finally. But I can’t read him. His eyes flash fear, but his body is relaxed. He knows he can’t win this either way. I may be one of his best and most reliable servers, but when a customer like Price Olsen makes demands, he has to listen. I know this.
I don’t try to plead my case. In front of the two men and the rest of the bar, I untie my waitressing apron and hand Bill my billfold with my day’s receipts and cash. He doesn’t bother to look through it but instead stuffs it in one of his pockets and returns to offering Price the world in exchange for his silence.
As I walk back towards the kitchen, Elinor passes me with a smack on the shoulder. Under her breath, I hear her mutter, “I should have taken the damn table.”
Yeah. You should have, I think to myself. A million other thoughts of self-doubt and hate run through my head. I shouldn’t have acted like that. I am not that type of girl. But since that night with Race, where I let my inhibitions go and put my guard down for a moment, I’ve wanted to feel that again. There’s something so daring, so freeing, about being a person who can just ease into that flirty, carefree self.
But that small moment in time with him ended in a disaster as well. It’s not like I woke up with a man who was excited to see me. It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t heard from him. Despite him being around the Pipeline almost every night, I’ve avoided the club whenever Ariel’s mentioned he might be there. I’ve even changed my routes a few times thinking that if I stick in Bad Bastard’s territory, I may see him on the streets, riding his red and black Harley.
God! What a fucking idiot I’ve been! I have spent my entire life wanting to be someone I’m not. Though I hate to admit it, I’ve harbored the dreams that maybe I’ll end up like a girl that Price Olsen would want to sleep with. He’d whisk me away from the trailer parks and gang-infested apartment complexes and treat me to things I’ve never experienced like champagne and a flight overseas. Maybe that was in the back of my mind when I let myself sit down with him at the booth.
But my life isn’t Price or even Race. It’s this in between where I try to straddle the past and the present. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, I am going to end up back here in this ghetto neighborhood run by the clubs. I am going to be that bastard baby abandoned by her daddy doomed to repeat her mama’s mistakes. No one can save me that, especially not another man.
I need to talk to someone… anyone. I glance down at my phone as I drive into my apartment’s parking lot. By accident, I pull up the contact list. Race’s info pops up. I had forgotten he put it there that morning while I was in the shower. He even included a picture of himself leaning back on the motel bed. A smile is spread across his face. It’s a completely different picture from the sadistic, power-hungry asshole I’ve painted in my memories of that night and morning.
I could hit send and see what happens. He’d probably just ignore the call since he doesn’t have my number. It would go to voicemail, and I’d hang up. If he did find out I called him, I would blame it on a misdial or a bad night at work – all true. Because there is nothing in this world outside a mistake that would make me call an asshole like Race on a night like this.
The phone slips back into my purse, and I head up the stairs to my second-floor apartment. I pass by a few of the windows of my neighbors – all dark. But something catches my eye. Unlike the Zeldina’s and the Martin’s apartments, mine isn’t closed up. A light shines through one of the shuttered blinds and, as I approach the entrance, I see the door cracked open just slightly.
My breath hitches in my throat as I slowly tiptoe towards it. I use the small crack to peer in, but the only thing I can see is my couch tipped over onto the floor and the contents of my hallway closet thrown everywhere on the ground. In my chest, my heart beats rapidly against my lungs and skin. I try to listen over the noise of the thudding, but I can’t hear anyone inside. There’s nothing but the hum of the air conditioning.
Who do I call for something like this? The cops? No. I can’t. They don’t do shit around here, especially if it’s club-related. But as soon as I think of the Devils, the thought dawns on me – the only explanation for this has to be someone working for the Devils. And if this was a job, there was only one man who could have ordered it.
I take my phone out of my purse again and, without hesitation, press the name on the screen I swore I would never call.
Chapter Six
Race
“Did you touch anything?” I demand as she rolls down the window of her car. Delilah’s eyes are impossibly wide, like a doll come to life.
“No, no,” she mumbles, appearing lost in her thoughts. “I didn’t even go inside. I saw it from the crack in the door.”
“The crack in the door?” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. I’ve had clingy girls pull this shit before. They make up some excuse, any excuse, to get me to come back to them. And when I give in to their pleas and stories, it all turns out to be weak lies or some call for attention. It’s hard to tell if Delilah would pull that sort of thing, but I don’t put
it past any kind of woman to be cold and calculating after so many years with my ex, Miranda.
Delilah runs her hands over the leather steering wheel. They slightly shake, but she tries to cover it by placing them back on her knees. When she’s taken a breath, she responds, “Yeah. I saw that the door was open, but I don’t have anyone living with me. Only my mom’s got the key, and she would never… She wouldn’t come over and not tell me.”
“What did you see inside?” I ask, slightly more convinced.
“A damn mess. The light was on. That’s why I was worried someone might still be in there, but I didn’t hear anyone from the outside. My couch was turned over and the person or people, uh, they emptied out this dresser I had in my hallway.” She looks up to the second floor of her building. A row of blacked out windows and doors line the row, but in the center, nearest the open-air stairwell, is a set of two illuminated windows with the curtains drawn. The door does appear to be partially open, but it’s hard to see from below.
“Stay here,” I order her. I don’t need to tell her twice. With how shaken up she is, I doubt she wants to step foot in her place until I give the all-clear. She bites her lip slightly and goes back to holding tightly onto the steering wheel with her dark painted eyes focused in front of her.
