Page 9 of Wolfish Player
“What our bartender means to say—” Mr. Tyler interjects. “Is that she’s sorry.”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” I say. “Can she say it with a little less condescension?”
“I’m… so sorry?” Her face reddens. “Is that better, sir?”
“I think so.” The manager looks at me. “But it’s up to our guest.”
“Hold on then.” She leans closer across the bar, bringing her beautiful face closer to mine. “Allow me another chance to make my apology even better.”
I stop smoothing my tie.
“I am sorry for my subpar service tonight, sir,” she says, tone low and teasing. “So incredibly sorry.”
“You’re incredibly forgiven.”
“I’m not done.” She leans in, her breath grazing my cheek. “I’m also sorry that you have the audacity to come in here and expect someone to kiss your ass just because you can afford to waste eighty dollars on a shot of whiskey.”
I arch a brow.
“I’m sorry that you think you’re too good to wash your Tom Ford suit?—”
“It’s an Armani.”
“It doesn’t make you any better than me or anyone else.”
“Okay, I think that’s enough…” The manager whispers to her. “You need to stop.”
“Yes, you do,” I finally say, low enough for only her to hear. “Unless your goal is to get fired by the end of the night. I’ll have another whiskey neat—preferably served with a side of your silence.”
“Fine.” She pours slow, deliberate, every flick of her wrist like a challenge. Then her wrist tilts.
The whiskey splashes over my face, dripping down my jaw and soaking my tie, ruining it further.
“I fucking quit.” She storms off, and employees rush from the kitchen armed with towels for me.
With the liquor still dripping from my face, I turn toward Mr. Tyler. “Give me her full name… Now.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
It’s only taken me three weeks, but I am on the verge of reaching a world record for the amount of times someone can get fired. Bartending, gardening, and fast food window service are the only ones where I managed to last for more than four days. The others all blur together in a mirage of disappointment.
“You cannot afford to mess this one up,” Joanna says to me as she pulls in front of Grey Wolf Publishing. “Keywords:Cannot afford.”
“I still don’t understand why you insisted on dropping me off for my interview.”
“To prevent you from wasting a day on the bathroom floor crying and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Okay,” I say. “You’re officiallynotmy best friend anymore.”
She laughs, handing me a canvas “I love writing” bag. “Since I’ve heard their interviews are an all-day thing, I filled it with your favorite snacks and there’s a thermos with your favorite blend of hot coffee waiting.”
“You can’t bribe your way back to my friendship.”
“I’ll be waiting in the parking garage,” she says. “Smile, say nice things, and if the ‘hey, don’t you owe us money?’ thing comes up, what are you supposed to say?”
