Page 4 of Crimson Desires

I wanted to tell him to get a hint, but I had a feeling that my rejections were only encouraging him more.

After the guys finished eating, I collected as many plates and cups as I could carry and brought them back to the kitchen. Kevin and Dean began to clean them. I’d join them soon enough—as soon as I closed out the party’s tab.

As I expected, the cost of the meal was nearly six-hundred dollars.

Jack hardly blinked as he passed me a credit card to pay the tab with. I raised a brow. Either this guy had enough money to burn, or he was paying with a stolen card. Just to be safe, I verified that the name on his card matched his ID.

After I rang out the bill, I handed him the receipt to sign and took another pile of dirty plates back to the kitchen.

“You’re splitting that tip with us,” Kevin said as I dropped the plates off next to the metal wash basin.

“Fuck right off,” I said. “You guys are getting paid overtime to be here. What’s your rate? Sixteen an hour?”

“Seventeen eighty-five,” Dean corrected.

“Exactly.”

When I returned to the seating area, the party had left. I saw them milling about the parking lot, preparing to get back into the buses. I walked over to the table, looking around for the receipt. Eventually, I found it.

Plucking it up, my eyes instantly fell to the blank at the bottom where customers were able to write in their tip amounts.

When I saw the “tip” Jack had left, I nearly screamed. Instead of a dollar amount, he’d written down a phone number with the words “call me” scribbled beneath.

Without thinking, I crumpled the receipt and marched out the bar’s front doors.

Jack was standing on the sidewalk right outside the doors, his hands tucked into his pockets. His grin was shit-eating. I wanted to adorn it with my fist.

Instead, I shoved the receipt in Jack’s face. “Is this some kind of fucking joke to you?”

Jack didn’t seem put off. “You’re welcome,” he said breezily.

“Are you kidding me?” My voice cracked with fury. “Okay, let me get this straight. You come into a bar less than two hours before closing with a party of fifteen. Without calling ahead, mind you. Then, you proceed to harass me throughout your entire meal with pick-up lines. You act like hot shit, paying off a six-hundred dollar bill like it’s nothing. And after all of that, you still refuse to fucking tip me?”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t restaurants force an automatic gratuity rate for large parties?”

“Ours doesn’t!”

“Why not?”

I threw my hands up. “Because my boss is a fucking asshole, that’s why!”

Jack’s jaw fell. At first, I thought it was because I’d finally knocked some shame into him. But then I noticed that he wasn’t looking at me—but rather at someone behind me. I turned, only to find that Greg had appeared in the front doorway of the bar. The look on his face made it obvious: he had heard everything.

“Is there a problem here, Aster?” Greg asked. He spoke through his teeth. The vein on his balding head throbbed.

Greg was a middle-aged man with a round beer gut and a lima bean-shaped mustache. He looked kind of like Super Mario—if Super Mario had endured three harrowing divorces.

Jack smiled. “No issue.”

Greg’s expression changed as he noticed Jack. His eyes flickered between Jack and the buses.

“Are you Jack Maverick?” Greg asked.

How does Greg know this guy?

Jack flashed a winning smile. “The one and only.”

“Good God, Aster. You made sure their meal was on the house, didn’t you?” Greg asked. His beady eyes bulged out of his skull. “Stupid girl! Don’t you know who this man is?”

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