Page 29 of Unbelonging
"Hey," a masculine voice barked behind me. "No trading. You know the rule."
I turned around to see Keith, the night manager, giving me a stern look.
"What rule?" I asked.
"We rotate," he said. "End of story."
"That's not a rule," I said. "It's a process. And besides, we trade all the time."
He crossed his arms. "Not under my watch, you don't." He flicked his head toward the dining area. "Now are you gonna get out there, or am I gonna have to write you up?"
Oh for Pete's sake. I glanced at Josie. Her face was sympathetic, but she only shrugged. She didn't like Keith any more than I did, but she was a lot smarter about it.
"Fine," I muttered, and headed out to the table.
When I arrived, I plastered on a big smile and whipped out my order pad. "Hiya," I said. "You here to eat, or what?"
The guy on the end snickered. "We're here to do something," he said, his voice full of innuendo. He flashed a quick grin across the booth to his friend, who was sitting next to Brittney.
"Got that right," the friend said, his eyes straying to my cleavage as he added, "You got anything special for us?"
Next to him, Brittney giggled far too loud for her amusement to be genuine. "I got something for you," she told him as her hand slipped beneath the table, doing something – I didn't want to consider what – to make her date guffaw. It was loud enough to make the people at neighboring tables glance in their direction, some with amusement, others with annoyance.
Stomaching a string of bad jokes and bad innuendos, I took their orders on autopilot, reminding myself to act normal, or at least as normal as I wassupposedto act, given the nature of my job.
Thankfully, the blondes barely glanced at me while I delivered their drinks, and then their food. From the servers' area, I watched them in my peripheral vision, whenever I had a free moment.
Their table was by far the loudest in the whole restaurant, and given the rowdy nature of the establishment, that was saying something. The guys were hammering the booze, and the girls were matching them drink for drink.
It wasn't until the two girls leaned across the table to give each other a long, full kiss – with tongue – that I started to worry.
Sure, the place definitely had its trashy side, as evidenced by my own attire, and sure, we served up booze and attitude. But it was still a restaurant, and we'd all been told a thousand times that public grope-a-thons, no matter who was participating, were bad for business.
Just last week Eddie had been forced to physically evict a couple of touristy types, a man and woman around my parents' age, who'd shocked their nearby tables by playing catch the cocktail wiener under the table.
And how shall I put this delicately? If the wiener were a horse, it was most definitely out of the barn.
At least that particular couple had been quiet about it. As for Brittney's table, they were anything but. When it was time to deliver their bill, the kissing had turned to neck-licking with a side of groping, as evidenced by Britney's hand squeezing the other girl's breast while their dates hooted encouragement.
Their behavior would've been blatant enough if the girls were sitting side-by-side. But they weren't. They were sitting across from each other, which meant they were leaning across the table in a way that had everyone looking.
I glanced at the bar area. Eddie was nowhere in sight, and I didn't see Keith either. Cursing under my breath, I hustled to the back office. I found Keith with his feet propped on the desk. He was laughing into his cell phone like he had all the time in the world.
When I motioned toward the dining room, in a blatant plea for help, he held up a hand, five fingers extended.
Five minutes? Crap, at the rate those girls were going, in five minutes, they'd be naked and covered in barbecue sauce.
Chapter 18
Keith was still talking on his phone. I edged closer. "We've got a situation," I said in a low, urgent voice.
He waved me away with a quick, shooing motion and mouthed, "One minute."
So was it one minute? Or five?
Either way, it was too long. Muttering, I stalked out of the office and peered into the dining area. As I watched, one of the guys lifted Britney onto the tabletop of their booth. I stared in stunned disgust as she started to dance, lifting her long hair off her neck and gyrating like a low-rent stripper with a nerve condition.
Alcohol was definitely not her friend.
