Page 2 of Crimson Desires

“Just stay put, and we’ll get some tables set up for you,” Kimmy told the group. She strained to smile.

Just from looking at her, I could tell that she was struggling to keep it together. Kimmy had told me earlier in her shift that she was scheduled to take an AP exam the next morning. She had asked Greg for the night off so that she could study, but he had denied her.

As Kimmy and I began to push tables together, a thought crept into my head.

“Have you rung out your tips?” I asked her.

Kimmy frowned. “I have. Why?”

“Go home,” I said.

Kimmy’s eyes widened. “What? And leave you to deal with this alone? No way.”

“You’ve got an exam tomorrow. You should get home so that you can get enough sleep. School is more important than this shithole.”

“Yes, but-,”

“Kimmy, please. Go home. Get some sleep. Crush that exam tomorrow morning.” I smiled weakly, hoping to cover up my exhaustion. “You don’t want to end up like me, waiting tables for a living. Do you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with waiting tables.”

“There is when you have the potential to be doing something else,” I said.

Thankfully, Kimmy didn’t need any more convincing. She helped me arrange the chairs, flatware, and menus. Then, she gave me a tight hug.

“I hope they give you a good tip,” she whispered into my ear.

I snorted. “Yeah. Me too.”

As Kimmy ran to the break room to grab her things and clock out, I approached the party. I did a quick visual assessment of them—trying to gauge how much of a struggle they’d be to serve. Most of the people were dressed similarly, in T-shirts and shorts. The five guys at the front of the group, however, looked completely different.

They wore leather pants, ripped jeans, and deep-cut tank tops. Tattoos embellished their muscular arms—sometimes extending down to the hands or up to the neck. They seemed to be performers of some kind. All five of them looked at me warily, as if they expected me to fall to my knees in the wake of their arrival.

Of course, I did no such thing.

I simply smiled and led them to the mega-table that Kimmy and I had constructed. As the party took their seats, I pulled a pad of paper from my apron and readied a pen. “What will we be having for drinks?”

One of the five performers—a guy with shaggy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and tattoos running from his shoulders to his knuckles—smiled at me. “What do you suggest, sweetheart?”

I tried not to gag. “Everything’s pretty good. We’ve got half-off drinks from now until we close.”

The guy smiled. His grin was a little crooked. He looked familiar somehow, but I couldn’t quite figure out where I knew him from.

“I need a drink that’ll give me enough confidence to hook up with a hot waitress, but not so strong that it’ll make it hard to perform when we get back to the tour bus after her shift.” He winked at me.

Ah, so he’s a musician. That explains it.

I hid my distaste with a laugh. “Can I suggest our Blue Twister? It’s basically a rum and Gatorade slushie. It’s my boyfriend’s favorite.”

I didn’t have a boyfriend. But ever since I’d figured out that I could cut my unwanted interactions with men in half by mentioning a boyfriend (fictitious or not), I’d started pretending to have one. I’d even thought of some details to make him more realistic.

His name was Brad. He worked in finance. His favorite sport was boxing. I’d been intentional about those two details. I wanted men to know that my fake-boyfriend was rich and that he could kick the ass of any scumbag who dared to make unwanted advances upon his girl.

Unfortunately, this guy didn’t seem to care that I was in a committed fake relationship.

“Sucks. You’ll have to ask him for a hall pass,” the guy said. “I’ll take the Blue Twister. Thanks.”

I felt my face heat up a little. Nine times out of ten, I hated being flirted with on the job. Mostly because nine times out of ten, the perpetrators were old guys with wedding rings and Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirts.

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