Page 1 of Crimson Desires

Chapter One

Aster

I was almost naïve enough to believe that I’d get to clock out on time.

Working at a sports bar is not for the faint of heart. Especially if you’re a closer. Most nights, I left the bar dragging the rubber soles of my non-slip shoes across the dark parking lot smelling like grease and beer and nursing a raging migraine.

Not exactly a glamorous gig.

But hey, it paid the bills.

One of the reasons I’d agreed to be a closer in the first place was because, at the bar I worked at, closers got paid a dollar more than openers. Plus, on average, the tips were better at night.

When you’re a waitress, tips are practically your entire income.

Still, there was a big downside to closing shifts: and that was the fact that leaving on time was a rarity.

Usually, I only needed to stay a few minutes past my shift to bus a table or ring out an order. Every so often, I’d stick around for an extra half-hour to make sure everything was nice and clean for the morning crew (even though I knew they’d find something to complain about no matter how much I scrubbed).

But tonight, I was confident that I’d be going home on time.

It was 11:00 PM. The bar closed at 12:30, and the kitchen closed at midnight. Save for the employees, the bar was empty.

Generally, an empty bar was a bad thing. No customers meant no tips.

But the bar had been slammed for the past five shifts that I’d worked, and so I was grateful for the rare moment of peace.

Looking back, I should’ve known not to get my hopes up.

The buses pulled into the parking lot at 11:15 PM. And yes, I did say buses. Plural.

I won’t lie. I was tempted to lock the doors and flip our OPEN sign to CLOSED. Unfortunately, the general manager, Greg, was supervising the bar tonight. And Greg would have no reservations about taking me out back to shoot me like a lame dog if he knew I’d cheated the bar out of potentially hundreds of dollars by denying service to two buses full of patrons.

I couldn’t get on Greg’s bad side. He already didn’t like me. Greg believed that I was allergic to hard work. Which is an ironic thing to think, since he spent most of his time at the bar in his office with the door locked.

I didn’t know what he did in there. Nobody did. The line cooks guessed that he was either smoking, watching porn, or masturbating. Possibly doing all three at once.

As people began to pour out of the buses, I headed back to the kitchen.

Our cooks—Kevin Nguyen and Dean Filmore—were listening to the radio as they went about cleaning the stoves. Tonight’s soundtrack was Spanish hip-hop. Kevin and Dean must have also been under the delusion that we’d be leaving on time. They looked happy and carefree as they scraped the charred food off the flat stovetops.

“Hey. Don’t shoot the messenger, but two buses just pulled into our parking lot,” I said.

Kevin glared at me, his brow twitching with displeasure. “You better be fucking with me, Aster.”

I put my hands up defensively, my palms facing outward. “Like I said. Don’t shoot the messenger. Put on some fries, take an Advil, and I’ll be back as soon as I can with their orders.”

As I left the kitchen, I could hear Dean ranting to Kevin. “That’s it. I’m fucking quitting. I can’t do this anymore.”

Kevin’s voice was smooth as he replied, “Yeah, yeah. You say that every week.”

I marched back to the front, where the only other waitress on shift tonight was currently at the host’s podium, speaking with the party.

The waitress’s name was Kimmy. She was a high schooler. Kimmy was a sweet girl if not a bit of a doormat. Even though I was only twenty-four myself, Kimmy liked to call me her “work mom.”

I ran a mental headcount on the party. Fifteen bodies in total.

Not great—but not nearly as bad as it could have been.

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