Page 4 of Ruthless

His face instantly turned red, scrunching up with anger as a chorus of laughter and gaffs erupted around us. His friends weren't the only ones who'd overheard our conversation. I swung back toward Della, shooting her a wink.

I began weaving my way back to the bar when another patron at one of my tables stopped me. "Could we get another pitcher of beer, doll?" It was a table of four bikers, their cuts turned inside out to hide their club patches. I'd noticed that a few clubs were doing that this year, as many establishments had banned the wearing of colors in order to avoid confrontations between battling clubs.

I smiled down into his friendly brown eyes and full-bearded face. "Sure, be right back." I felt the eyes of all four bikers on me as I walked away.

"Guess you put that jerk in his place," Della chuckled when I reached her at the bar. "Good girl!" She picked up the circular tray of drinks that Stevie had just set down and rushed off.

"Pitcher of beer, Stevie!" I called after her.

Lola, one of the younger waitresses we worked with, took Della's place at the bar. "I swear if that prick pinches my ass one more time, I'm gonna snatch off his rug and throw it across the room!" She was royally pissed. "My boyfriend's getting tired of me coming home with bruises."

Boyfriend? That was news to me. She wasn't shy about flirting with some of the guys, and even disappearing with them on occasion. I guess she only had a boyfriend when it came in handy. I couldn't blame her for being pissed, though. We'd all had to put up with the occasional slap on the ass and a grope here and there, but it made for good tips. Unfortunately, some customers got overzealous when they'd had too much to drink, or used that as an excuse for their bad behavior. When we complained to Vinny about them he just brushed it off and said that it was par for the course, and to think about the tips that we got as a result.

So why work in a job where daily abuse was 'par for the course'? We all had our own reasons. I was running, and picking up waitressing jobs was the best, and sometimes only, option when you hopped from town to town. Getting an education in order to do something better wouldn't have been worth it for me, because I didn't have time to spend searching for jobs and doing interviews. When I hit a new location I usually needed a job immediately. Sure, I had a little money saved up, but I pretended that it didn't exist so that I wouldn't rely on it. Besides, it belonged to someone else.

Why was I running? I was running from the Red Devils motorcycle club and their sadistic president, Wildman. They'd held me captive for a while after kidnapping me right off the street. Then I'd been forced to participate in a sick, twisted initiation ritual with one of their new members.

Rebel.

I tried not to think about him, but from the second he'd forced me to peer into his eyes I'd felt trapped, mesmerized by a ruthless outlaw who was too sexy for words. He'd been forced to take my virginity, and then had done all that he could to get me out of there.

I wondered where he was today, if he was even still alive. Much later I'd heard rumors that the Red Devils had been killed off, but I'd been too frightened to believe it. So I now lived my life always looking over my shoulder and waiting for the day that one of them showed up to take me back to them. I shuddered.

"You okay, honey?" Lola asked, seeing my shiver.

I forced a smile and nodded. "Want me to take your pincher?" I asked just as Stevie came over and dropped off the pitcher of beer I'd ordered.

Lola smiled tiredly and I knew what her answer was going to be before she said it. None of us liked giving up a table, because you never knew what kind of tip you'd get.

"No, thanks. We'll be closing soon."

I picked up the pitcher and headed back to the biker's table, the ever-present smile pasted onto my face. "Here ya go." I set the pitcher down in the center of the table. "We'll be closing soon."

"Yeah, this is our last pitcher, doll. We'll be out of your hair in a minute," said the man who seemed to be the spokesman for the table.

I had no doubts. I'd never seen a pitcher of beer disappear as fast as they did at their table. They'd had several of our large pitchers, the evidence of which was still on the table. They hadn't wanted me to remove the pitchers when they were empty, I supposed because they were keeping track. I thought to myself that their legs must be hollow, because none of them seemed overly drunk.

As it grew closer to two o'clock, the place began to clear out. Thank, God! I was surprised to see Stevie begin turning off the neon signs in the windows, an obvious deterrent to keep people from coming in for that last drink. Most locals knew that when the lights were out, the place was closing up or was already closed. Stevie must be feeling the week's punishing schedule, too, I thought. I'd noticed that she'd slipped off her usual stilettos and was wearing a pair of flats. I wished that we were allowed that small concession.

Most of the tables in my section were empty, so I began wiping them down and flipping the chairs on top so that the floor would be easier to sweep. I happened to glance up toward Della's area to see that she was just as busy as I, as were Lola and Carrie. We were all so exhausted, although you never would have known it from the speed and enthusiasm we were exerting as we cleaned our sections. The clock was winding down, and the thought of kicking off our ridiculous heels and putting up our aching feet was a strong incentive to get done fast.

I made my way toward Della. At some point we all began working together, crossing over into each other’s zones in order to get done as quickly as possible. Eventually the remaining customers got the hint, paid up their tabs, and left.

"God, I think you're right, I might be getting sick. I suddenly feel awful."

I looked up from the table that I was cleaning, frowning. Della did look awful. There wasn't an ounce of color in her face now. "I knew it!" I said with concern. "You look pale."

She flopped down into a chair. "I feel nauseous." There was surprise in her tone. Her arm came up and she placed a hand over her tummy. "It just suddenly came on."

God, she was beginning to look green, as if she might throw up. "You better go home while you can still drive," I said. "Before you get worse."

She tried to smile. "Thanks." Then she groaned. "Whatever it is, it's hitting me fast."

"Go!" I encouraged with concern. "I can finish up your section. No problem."

She shook her head. "I'm not going to leave you stranded, I can hold out another half hour." I hadn't forgotten that she was the one with the car.

"I'm sure that I can bum a ride from one of the others," I insisted. "Now please go home! I'll check in on you when I get there."

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