“Thanks.”
I decide to just drop off the drinks at the hostile booth and go grab the drink order from the group of ball players.
“Sorry, for the wait, guys. Let’s start out with drinks.”
I keep my head down to avoid the stares and direct eye contact with any of the men. They all start firing off orders, and I keep up as fast as I can. Sodas and milkshakes fill my green notepad. Eight total. Eight hot football players. Well, I’m guessing football players, from Jenni’s information.
“All right, I’ll be right back to take your food order.”
No time like now to collect the payment from the assholes. I’ve filled my other table’s drinks and food orders. The ball players all have been served their food. Plates and plates of overflowing fries and burgers are scattered on their tables. Some even ordered more than one meal, and by their stature it looks like they will be polishing off all of it.
There’s no cash or credit card visible by the bill I’d dropped off earlier. “I’m really going to need you guys to pay. I’m sorry if the service wasn’t up to your standards, but my boss really needs you to pay.”
“Listen up, we are not going to pay. We will get up out of this booth once this last drink is down and fucking walk out. I’d like to see you stop us,” one of them says in a normal voice.
Their language, demeanor, and absolute lack of respect remind me exactly of my mom’s boyfriends who used to litter our house. It creeps me right down to the bone. This is one of the first times since I’ve left home over a year ago a visual reminder like this has haunted me. I never stood up to them when I was younger. I have the scars on my hand and neck to prove it.
“I’m sorry, but…”
Before I can finish my last sentence, the bigger of the two grabs my wrist and wrenches me down to his face. It just happens to be the wrist with the knot, causing me to squeal in pain from the pressure of his grip.
“You little fucking bitch, we won’t pay. Now get the fuck out of our faces.”
A large hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling me in the opposite direction of the huge man. My back collides into a hard chest, and my wrist is jerked away from the assholes with a loud pop and crackle.
The large hand holding me pushes me to the side to another body, and then I’m pushed behind a line of men. The men act as a barrier between me and the two jackasses.
“You have a problem?” I hear a voice and immediately recognize it.
I see the asshole who had me by the wrist rise from the booth and go nose to nose with Layne.
“You fucking deaf, asshole? I want to know what your problem is with Jodie.”
“Layne, don’t.”
This is the last thing I need. I need this job. Two men turn around and stare at me with quizzical looks on their faces.
“What?” I whisper.
“His name is Lincoln,” the largest one responds.
A gasp of horror escapes as I cover my mouth and my face reddens. Holy shit, that was a tad awkward.
Their voices have escalated to yells, and I finally hear a fist slam down. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lincoln’s fist colliding with the man’s face.
“Let’s talk a little more outside,” Lincoln says.
The man holding his face doesn’t look impressed, and his buddy whips out a fifty-dollar bill, lays it on the table, and grabs his friend by the elbow. The whole football crowd follows them, and I collapse on the barstool, relief flowing through my blood. Foul language, hollering, and fistfights bring back way too many memories for me. Something I never want to be around again.
“Ma’am, can I get another side of ranch, please?” a customer calls.
“Yep, no problem,” I reply with a trembling smile.
My legs are rubber and wobble back and forth as I try to get them underneath me. Voices can still be heard from outside. Looking back at their table, most plates still contain food. They will be back.
I focus on filling up the side of ranch, trying to gather all my
I decide to just drop off the drinks at the hostile booth and go grab the drink order from the group of ball players.
“Sorry, for the wait, guys. Let’s start out with drinks.”
I keep my head down to avoid the stares and direct eye contact with any of the men. They all start firing off orders, and I keep up as fast as I can. Sodas and milkshakes fill my green notepad. Eight total. Eight hot football players. Well, I’m guessing football players, from Jenni’s information.
“All right, I’ll be right back to take your food order.”
No time like now to collect the payment from the assholes. I’ve filled my other table’s drinks and food orders. The ball players all have been served their food. Plates and plates of overflowing fries and burgers are scattered on their tables. Some even ordered more than one meal, and by their stature it looks like they will be polishing off all of it.
There’s no cash or credit card visible by the bill I’d dropped off earlier. “I’m really going to need you guys to pay. I’m sorry if the service wasn’t up to your standards, but my boss really needs you to pay.”
“Listen up, we are not going to pay. We will get up out of this booth once this last drink is down and fucking walk out. I’d like to see you stop us,” one of them says in a normal voice.
Their language, demeanor, and absolute lack of respect remind me exactly of my mom’s boyfriends who used to litter our house. It creeps me right down to the bone. This is one of the first times since I’ve left home over a year ago a visual reminder like this has haunted me. I never stood up to them when I was younger. I have the scars on my hand and neck to prove it.
“I’m sorry, but…”
Before I can finish my last sentence, the bigger of the two grabs my wrist and wrenches me down to his face. It just happens to be the wrist with the knot, causing me to squeal in pain from the pressure of his grip.
“You little fucking bitch, we won’t pay. Now get the fuck out of our faces.”
A large hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling me in the opposite direction of the huge man. My back collides into a hard chest, and my wrist is jerked away from the assholes with a loud pop and crackle.
The large hand holding me pushes me to the side to another body, and then I’m pushed behind a line of men. The men act as a barrier between me and the two jackasses.
“You have a problem?” I hear a voice and immediately recognize it.
I see the asshole who had me by the wrist rise from the booth and go nose to nose with Layne.
“You fucking deaf, asshole? I want to know what your problem is with Jodie.”
“Layne, don’t.”
This is the last thing I need. I need this job. Two men turn around and stare at me with quizzical looks on their faces.
“What?” I whisper.
“His name is Lincoln,” the largest one responds.
A gasp of horror escapes as I cover my mouth and my face reddens. Holy shit, that was a tad awkward.
Their voices have escalated to yells, and I finally hear a fist slam down. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lincoln’s fist colliding with the man’s face.
“Let’s talk a little more outside,” Lincoln says.
The man holding his face doesn’t look impressed, and his buddy whips out a fifty-dollar bill, lays it on the table, and grabs his friend by the elbow. The whole football crowd follows them, and I collapse on the barstool, relief flowing through my blood. Foul language, hollering, and fistfights bring back way too many memories for me. Something I never want to be around again.
“Ma’am, can I get another side of ranch, please?” a customer calls.
“Yep, no problem,” I reply with a trembling smile.
My legs are rubber and wobble back and forth as I try to get them underneath me. Voices can still be heard from outside. Looking back at their table, most plates still contain food. They will be back.
I focus on filling up the side of ranch, trying to gather all my
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