Page 21 of Betrayed

He seems like the kind of guy who would have those stupid “truck nuts” hanging off the hitch of his pickup butI’mnever rude to customers.

“We certainly do,”Isay brightly. “CanIget you seated?Youcan look over the menu and see for yourself.”

“Yeah, okay.”Heshrugs and they follow me to table two, right across fromCharles.

I get them seated and hand out the menus, promising to come back with ice water in a minute.

“Nah—we don’t want water!” one of them says. “Don’tyou have any beer around here?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a liquor license,”Itell him. “Thoughwedohave kind of a boozy pie on the menu today—it’s made withKahlua.Wecall it the ‘DoMeDirtyPie’.”Iadd.

“Hmmm,Iwouldn’t mind doingyoudirty, sweet thing,” the first man says, giving me the eye. “Ilove a chick with a fat ass!”

I cast a quick look atCharlesto see if he’s going to say anything but he’s got his head down, studying his fingernails as though there’s something fascinating about them.Fine, soI’mon my own.

“I don’t appreciate personal remarks,”Isay tartly. “Pleasekeep a civil tongue in your head.I’llbe back shortly with your water.”

“I told you, we don’t want no fucking water!” the first man snaps, glaring at me. “WhatIwantis a piece of that fat ass—which iscompliment,girly!”

BeforeIcan say anything about howIdon’t appreciate “compliments” like that, he reaches out and grabs my ass in one grimy hand, no doubt leaving a mark on my powder blue uniform.Notthat it’s my uniformI’mmost concerned with at the moment.

“Hey!”Igasp and jump away from him. “That’sit—out!”Ipoint at the front door.

By this time the restaurant has fallen silent.It’sso quietIcan hear the sports radio thatCookiekeeps on in the kitchen while he cooks.Everyoneis staring at me and the rude men.Well, everyone butCharles, who’s still studying his fingernails like they hold some mysterious secret he needs to decipher.

“Out?”Theman’s lip curls in an arrogant sneer. “Idon’t think so, sweetheart—you haven’t even served us yet.”

“AndI’mnot going to!”Isnap. “Idon’t serve people who lay hands on me.Getoutnow!”

“Who’s going to make me?” he demands.

Cookie must have heard the altercation, because he comes out from the kitchen, his cook’s whites flapping.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” he demands, frowning.

“This man grabbed my butt,”Itell him, pointing at the ringleader. “SoItold him to leave.”

“That’s a mouthy little bitch you got waiting tables here, grandpa,” the man drawls atCookie, clearly not worried in the least. “Youneed to fire her, talking to paying customers like that.”

“You’re no customer of mine if you’re laying hands on my staff,”Cookiesnaps. “Getout of here—we don’t need ‘customers’ like you.”

The man and his friends just sit there.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Wecame in here for lunch and we’re not leaving hungry—this is the only place to eat for miles.”

“You should have thought of that before you harassed my waitress,”Cookiesays. “Nowget out or shouldIcall the cops?”

The man laughs.

“Call the cops?Right—like you have a police department in a little shit-stain of a town like this!We’renot going anywhere until we get some lunchandan apology.Yourgirl there was pretty rude to us.”

Now we have a stand-off andI’mnot sure what to do.Thethree men just sit there, glaring atCookiewho is glaring right back.He’sa good boss, backing me up like this, but he’s also in his late sixties.There’sno way he could win in a fight against the rude, grimy ringleader—let alone all three of them.

“You gonna serve us old man?” the ringleader demands. “OramIgonna start fucking shit up around here?”

“How about a third option—you and your friends get thefuckout of here.”

I look over and see thatKanehas appeared and is striding towards us.Heshoots me a look.

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