Page 8 of Deviant Obsession

"So, tell me more about the ribeye," Dean says, tapping his menu with one long finger after I’ve managed not to spill their drinks. "Is it grass-fed? Free-range? What's the marbling like? And does the chef butterfly it, or is it served as a traditional cut?"

I've been standing at their table for too long already, rattling off every detail about every dish they ask about. My other tables are starting to give me impatient looks, but I'm trapped here while Dean pretends to carefully consider his options.

"The ribeye is prime grade, grain-finished beef..." I begin again, but he cuts me off.

"What about the salmon? Wild-caught or farmed? What kind of wood do you use for smoking? And the accompanying vegetables… Are they seasonal? Local?"

The nameless underlings are barely containing their laughter now, clearly enjoying the show. Only Brett stares fixedly at his phone, shoulders tense.

"You know what?" Dean leans back, running a hand through his perfectly styled dark curls. "I think I'll keep it simple. Caesarsalad. But I want the dressing on the side, no croutons, chicken grilled—not breaded, extra anchovies, and can you make sure they don't overdress the lettuce? Nothing worse than soggy romaine."

By the time I finish taking everyone else’s equally complicated orders, my notepad is a mess of modifications and special requests. I practically sprint to the kitchen, desperate to check on my other tables.

"Where've you been?" Jenna hisses as I pass. "Table fifteen's been trying to flag you down for ages."

"Sorry," I mutter, already heading their way. "Difficult customers."

I spend the next twenty minutes running between tables, apologizing for the delays and trying to catch up. Just as I'm starting to get back on track, I see Dean raising his hand to summon me again.

"Hate to bother you," he says with a smile that suggests the exact opposite, "but we're gonna need refills over here." He gestures at glasses that are still more than half full.

"Of course," I reply through gritted teeth. "I'll be right back."

This becomes a pattern. Every time I start to focus on another table, Dean finds a reason to demand my attention. More drinks. Extra napkins. Questions about ingredients. Each time, his friends get a little louder, a little messier, their laughter following me across the restaurant.

"Hey, waitress?" One of them—I think they called him Kyle—waves me over again. "This fork has a water spot on it. Could we get new silverware? All of us, just to be safe?"

I gather up their barely used utensils, acutely aware of Dean's glacial eyes raking over me as I bend to reach across the table. My hands start to feel a little clammy as I consider the view he might be getting down the front of my shirt.

When their food arrives, it only gets worse.

"This isn't quite what I was expecting," Dean announces, prodding at his salad with obvious distaste. "The lettuce isn't crisp enough. And I specifically asked for the dressing on the side."

"The dressing is on the side." I point to the small container beside his plate.

"Yes, but see how some of the leaves are slightly wet? That means they pre-tossed it in something. I can't eat this. Can we get a fresh one? And maybe this time make sure they understand what'on the side'means?"

I take his plate, grateful for something to do with my hands other than slamming my fist into his smug face. In the kitchen, I watch the chef prepare a new salad, meticulously ensuring each leaf is bone dry. When I return, one of them has managed to spill salt all over the table and they’re using their napkins to push it onto the floor.

"Much better," Dean declares after inspecting the new salad from every angle. "You're really going above and beyond tonight. Such dedicated service." His mocking tone somehow makes the compliment sound like an insult. I turn away quickly, but not before I see him dump the entire dressing cup over the salad he just claimed needed to be perfectly dry.

The next hour sweeps me up in a tornado of increasingly ridiculous demands. They find problems with every dish. They need fresh drinks the moment their glasses drop below three-quarters full. They rearrange the table settings when I'm not looking so they can complain that things are missing.

Through it all, Dean maintains his facade of polite requests and casual smiles, but there's a cruel enjoyment in his eyes that seeps into my skin like venom. He's orchestrating this whole performance to get to me, and we both know it.

I'm starting to understand why they say the customer is always right—because sometimes, they have you completely attheir mercy, and they’ll press their advantage to their black heart’s content.

"Oh no!" Dean's voice rings out with exaggerated concern as his nearly full pint of beer tips over. The liquid cascades across the table and directly down my front, soaking my black pants. The cold sensation makes me gasp and jump back, but not before the damage is done.

"So sorry about that, sweetheart," he drawls, sounding about as genuine as a Monopoly bill. "Guess you'll have to clean that up." His posse snickers as beer drips onto my shoes.

My hands shake as I grab napkins from the service station, dabbing pointlessly at my soaked uniform. The smell of beer clings to me as I return with cleaning supplies, getting down on my knees to wipe up the puddle forming under their table.

"While you're down there," Kyle calls out, "I dropped my fork earlier. Mind grabbing that too?"

My vision goes red, but I say nothing. I need this job to afford my rent.

One minute.

---