Page 30 of Hot Mess Express
9
ANTHONY
I grip one of the counters in the kitchen, kneading it with my fingers, as if I could break the edge of it straight off.
Permission?
What the hell was all of that about permission?
If I’d known he was gay, I wouldn’t have done it. Not because it makes me uncomfortable, but because I would’ve respected that grabbing a gay guy’s ass isn’t the same as grabbing some douche’s ass who’s been tormenting me.
Or is it?
I push away from the counter with a huff and start popping all my knuckles for no reason at all. Every nerve in my body is shot. Tingles of agitation everywhere. I want to pull something apart and shove it back together. I want to play drums loudly and smack those snares until something pops. I want to eat a Snickers bar.
I want to drop onto a bed and fall asleep for days.
I hate that hard-assed Bridger guy so much.
He sure does give a new meaning to “hard-ass”. And now that he said what he said, it changes my whole perception of that stunt outside Biggie’s Bites. I feel guilty, like I did something wrong.
And that pisses me off worse than anything.
I’m not the kind of guy he insists I am. Fuck Bridger and his“conclusion”. I’m a better man than he thinks, and he will never know it, because he’s stuck in his own stubborn mind, set in his ways, unable to open himself up to someone who’s a tad rougher around the edges than he’s used to.
Every second now is consumed with his words, his voice, his eyes in that restroom as he stared me down, standing so close to my face that he could see my boogers.
I shouldn’t care so much.
I shouldn’t want to prove him totally wrong about me.
But he’s yanking out all of my worst instincts. I want to go out there and tell him off, even if it wouldn’t change his mind about me, even if it would just confirm how much of a “gentleman” I’m not. Why should he get to be the cool one who makes the shot and leaves me standing there in the restroom like an idiot?
If he thinks he’s gotten the last word, he’s got another thing coming.Or is it think? He’s got another think coming?Fuck it. He’s got a thinganda think coming, and next time I see that prick, I’ll give him both.
Unlucky for me, the next time is right the hell now: the cook sets the last dish on the tray, taps a bell. “Order for table 8!” before disappearing back into the kitchen.
I glare at that tray.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Then suddenly I have to. Six dishes balanced on my tray, I go through the swinging door into the restaurant with my tray stand tucked under an arm. Somehow, my brain’s gone and muted the whole restaurant, the mindless chatter, laughter, and eating, gone. I count down the tables as I pass them by—12, 11, 10, 9—and by the time I reach my destination, kick open the stand, and set the tray down on it, I feel like master of the table.
More importantly: master ofgentlemanliness. “Here you are, ma’am,” I say with gusto, placing a dish in front of Ms.Davis. “And for you, my good sir.” Reverend Arnold’s dish. “Nice n’ hot, Gran’s best.” Trey’s dish. “Yours, too.” Cody’s. “Here you go, Mr. Pete.”
Then I set down the final dish in front of Bridger.
And I lean forward, using my especially charming voice. “And last but not least, your sirloin steak, Mr. Bridger, sir.”
His eyes drop to it.
What he sees is, by all means, a 10-ounce sirloin steak. But I’d describe it as less cooked medium rare and, rather, fully fucking opposite of rare. Well-done. Beyond well-done, even. What he is staring down at with his baffled little know-it-all eyes is a slab of fucking shoe leather.
Still leaning forward, I offer a smile to the table. “If everyone who ordered a steak would like to try a bite of it, I’d love to know whether they came out the way you wanted.”
“Oh, mine’s just perfect,” moans Ms. Davis at the other end of the table. “Mine, too,” says Reverend Arnold kindly. “Wow, this is onejuicypiece a’ meat,” calls Cody. “Give compliments to Gran! Well, or the cook,” he says, “whoever’s responsible for this.”
I lift my eyebrows to Bridger. “How about you … sir?”
