Page 3 of Ruthless

Chapter 2

Ginger

Present

God, I was tired. Five straight days of working a double shift were taking a toll on my sleep deprived brain, and my body was holding up little better than that. I should have remembered what Bike Week had been like last year and moved on before this one. But the tips were more than worth it in the end. I was finally able to get ahead on the bills and actually squirrel away some decent money. I thought about the coffee can in my cupboard and the roll of bills that was hidden beneath the grains of coffee.

The truth was that I was tired of moving on. I liked the area, I liked being near the beach, and for the first time in years I felt that I may have finally found a place that I could put down roots. After three years of being on what I considered to be the run, looking behind my back, always afraid that one of Wildman's Devils would catch up to me, nothing had happened. But I was still afraid that the moment I let my guard down would be the moment that danger would strike.

"Just two more hours," Della said in an exhausted voice, all but collapsing onto the bar. She'd been working right alongside me all week. One of the first people I'd met when arriving in Daytona Beach, we'd become fast and best friends. We lived in the same shitty apartment complex. She put a hand at the small of her back and arched with a loud groan. "I'm getting too old for this," she joked.

I laughed, because we were only twenty-four, but I could sympathize with her. At the moment I felt twice that. "I suggest that once this week is over we treat ourselves to a spa day."

"I like your way of thinking," she groaned.

I frowned, giving her a curious look. Her color seemed a little off, and I'd noticed that as the evening had gone on her usual pep had waned. "Are you feeling okay, honey? You look a little pale."

She shrugged, brushing it off. "Probably just overtired."

That was probably true.

"Smiles, girls!" We both rolled our eyes and pasted on our fake smiles for Vinny, the owner of Pirate's Cove. Thank God he wasn't out front very often and stayed in his back office. He insisted that we keep smiles on our faces for the customers. As if they cared if we were smiling or not. All they wanted was fast service and the chance to cop a feel without getting shot down.

"I can't stand that jerk," Della snarled in a low tone. "’Smiles, girls,’" she mimicked.

I knew that she didn't mean it. Vinny was a decent boss, it's just that we were so tired and cranky with the grueling schedule we kept, and he seemed blissfully oblivious, which came off as being insensitive. More than once I'd wished that we could slap a pair of stilettos on his oversized, caveman-like feet and make him work an eight-hour shift in them.

I immediately looked around to make sure that Della hadn't been heard, though. The only eavesdropper that we really had to worry about was Vinny's girlfriend, Stevie, who also happened to be one of the bartenders that were working that night. But a quick glance revealed that she was busy at the furthest end of the bar filling drink orders. The place was packed, as usual, and it didn't show any signs of emptying out as it grew closer to quitting time. It was a bad sign when Vinny showed up out front before closing and he saw how full the bar was. He was money-hungry, and we were waiting for the day when he insisted that we stay open until the last customer left.

"Damn." I saw a hand go up at one of my fuller tables where a biker club from Georgia, and their women, were seated. Thank God they were staying at the hotel across the street and wouldn’t be driving after they left. They were drunk and rowdy and had kept me hopping.

"Want me to help you, honey?" Della asked with a genuine smile.

I shook my head. "No, you need a break too, enjoy it." I made my way to their table in a kind of dance-like series of moves between tables, chairs, and dancers. I was laughing at myself by the time I reached them. "What can I get ya'll?" I prepared myself for the rapid-fire orders that I knew from experience were coming. But to my surprise, it suddenly got quiet.

"Nothing, sweetheart," one of the men said with a grin, catching me by surprise. "We've kept you dancing all night and you done good. You deserve this."

I looked down at the bills that he was holding out, certain that sheer exhaustion was causing me to see triple. I blinked and refocused my eyes on his hand. Nope. Still there. Three one hundred dollar bills. My gaze flew up to his, and then gradually moved around the table, taking in all the smiles. I felt the burn of tears in my eyes and clenched my teeth to hold them back.

One of the women that were closest to me grabbed the money out of his hand and then turned to me. "Take it. I do what you do back home, so we know how hard you work, especially during events."

I took the money from her slowly. "I . . . I . . . thank you so much!" I'd never gotten a tip so big, and was suddenly feeling overwhelmed. It had to be because I was so freaking tired. I took a deep breath, and quickly wiped at the tear threatening to spill.

"We'll be leaving now. Maybe we'll see you next year when we return." As their president, according to the patch on his cut, scooted back his chair, the others followed.

"You just might," I responded, stepping back with a smile. "I hope ya'll have a safe trip home."

My good wishes were met with murmurs and nods, and I watched them leave. Once we’d exchanged the last wave as they plowed through the door to the outside, I swung around to go back to the bar. I tucked the money into my pocket.

"Baby, you g-get that kind of mon-money from m-me, you better get d-down on your kne-knees."

Talk about a glass of cold water in the face!

I was halted by the feel of a hand curling around my arm. Gasping at his crudeness, I glanced down into the man's face. His red, droopy eyes revealed that he was beyond drunk. His friends were all laughing at his comment, but I didn't find a thing funny about it. I'd had enough of sloppy drunks that week, and I was at the end of my tolerance. "Why, did you drop it on the floor?" I glanced down as if that were a possibility.

He threw his head back and snorted, along with his inebriated friends. They were part of the usual weekend crowd who frequented the bar so I'd seen them around before. "No, it's in-in my pants!" He leaned back in his chair and thrust his hips up suggestively.

I glanced at the bar, watching Della shake her head and roll her eyes at me. She realized that I was about to let him have it and was reminding me in her way not to get myself into trouble. I reined in the urge to pick up the guy's half-empty beer and dump it over his head. I looked at his crotch, then back up to his cloudy eyes. "It can't be in your pants," I smiled, pulling my arm away. "The bulge is too tiny."

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